It was late at night, verging indeed on morning, when Maitland finished
his letter. All was silent around, and in the great house the lights
were extinguished, and apparently all retired to rest. Lighting his
cigar, he strolled out into the garden. The air was perfectly still; and
although there was no moon, the sky was spangled over with stars, whose
size seemed greater seen through the thin frosty atmosphere. It was
pre-eminently the bright clear elastic night of a northern latitude, and
the man of pleasure in a thousand shapes, the voluptuary, the _viveur_,
was still able to taste the exquisite enjoyment of such an hour,
as though his appetite for pleasure bad not been palled by all the
artifices of a life of luxury. He strolled about at random from alley to
alley, now stopping to inhale the rich odor of some half-sleeping plant,
now loitering at some old fountain, and bathing his temples with the
ice-cold water. He was one of those men--it is not so small a category
as it might seem--who fancy that the same gifts which win success
socially, would be just as sure to triumph if employed in the wider
sphere of the great ambitions of life. He could count the men he had
passed, and easily passed, in the race of social intercourse,--men who
at a dinner-table or in a drawing-room had not a tithe of his quickness,
his versatility, his wit, or his geniality, and yet, plodding onwards
and upwards, had attained station, eminence, and fortune; while
he--he, well read, accomplished, formed by travel and polished by
cultivation--there he was! just as he had begun the world, the only
difference being those signs of time that tell as fatally on temperament
as on vigor; for the same law that makes the hair gray and the
cheek wrinkled, renders wit sarcastic and humor malevolent Maitland
believed--honestly believed--he was a better man than this one here who
held a high command in India, and that other who wrote himself Secretary
of State. He knew how little effort it had cost him, long ago, to leave
“scores of such fellows” behind at school and at the university; but he,
unhappily, forgot that in the greater battle of life he had made no
such efforts, and laid no tax on either his industry or his ability.
He tried--he did his very best--to undervalue, to his own mind, their
successes, and even asked himself aloud, “Which of them all do I envy?”
but conscience is stronger than casuistry, however crafty it be, and the
answer came not so readily as he wished.
While he thus mused, he heard his name uttered, so close to him, too,
that he started, and, on looking up, saw that Mrs. Trafford's rooms were
lighted, and one of the windows which “gave” upon a terrace was open.
Voices came from the room within, and soon two figures passed out on the
terrace, which he speedily recognized to be Alice and Mark Lyle.
“You mistake altogether, Mark,” said she, eagerly. “It is no question
whatever, whether your friend Mr. Maitland goes away disgusted with
Ireland, and sick of us all. It is a much graver matter here. What if
he were to shoot this old man? I suppose a fine gentleman as he is would
deem it a very suitable punishment to any one who even passingly angered
him.”
“But why should there be anything of the kind? It is to me Maitland
would come at once if there were such a matter in hand.”
“I'm not so sure of that; and I am sure that Raikes overheard
provocation pass between them, and that the Commodore left this half an
hour ago, merely telling Sally that he had forgotten some lease or law
paper that he ought to have sent off by post.”
“If that be the case, there's nothing to be done.”
“How do you mean nothing to be done?”
“I mean, that as Maitland has not consulted me, I have no pretence to
know anything about it.”
“But if you do know it, and if I tell it to you?”
“All that would not amount to such knowledge as I could avail myself of.
Maitland is not a man with whom any one can take liberties, Alice.”
“What?” said she, haughtily, and as though she had but partly heard his
speech.
“I said that no man takes liberties with Maitland.”
A very insolent laugh from Alice was the answer.
“Come, come,” cried Mark, angrily. “All these scornful airs are not in
keeping with what you yourself wrote about Maitland to Bella just two
days ago.”
“And had Bella--did she show you my letters?”
“I don't believe she intended me to see the turned-down bit at the end;
but I did see it, and I read a very smart sketch of Norman Maitland, but
not done by an unfriendly hand.”
“It's not too late to revoke my opinion,” said she, passionately. “But
this is all quite beside what I'm thinking of. Will you go down and see
Mr. Maitland?”
“He's in bed and asleep an hour ago.”
“He is not. I can see the light on the gravel from his windows; and if
he were asleep, he could be awakened, I suppose.”
“I have not the slightest pretext to intrude upon him, Alice.”
“What nonsense all this is! Who is he,--what is he, that he must be
treated with all this deference?”
“It 's somewhat too late in the day to ask who and what the man is of
whom every society in Europe contests the possession.”
“My dear Mark, be reasonable. What have we to do just now with all the
courtly flatteries that have been extended to your distinguished friend,
or the thousand and one princesses he might have married? What I want
is that he should n't, first of all, make a great scandal; and secondly,
shoot a very worthy old neighbor, whose worst sin is being very
tiresome.”
“And what I want is, first, that Maitland should n't carry away from
this county such an impression that he'd never endure the thought of
revisiting it; and secondly, I want to go to bed, and so good-night.”
“Mark, one word,--only one,” cried she; but he was gone. The bang of a
heavy door resounded, and then a deep silence showed she was alone.
Maitland watched her as she paced the terrace from end to end with
impatient steps. There was a secret pleasure in his heart as he marked
all the agitation that moved her, and thought what a share he himself
had in it all. At last she withdrew within the room, but the opening and
shutting of a door followed, and he surmised that she had passed out.
While he was disputing with himself whether she might have followed Mark
to his room, he heard a footstep on the gravel, and saw that she was
standing and tapping with her finger on the window of his chamber.
Maitland hurried eagerly back. “Is it possible that I see you here, Mrs.
Trafford,” cried he, “at this hour?”
She started, and for a moment seemed too much overcome to answer, when
she said: “You may believe that it is no light cause brings me; and even
now I tremble at what I am doing: but I have begun and I 'll go on. Let
us walk this way, for I want to speak with you.”
“Will you take my arm?” said Maitland, but without anything of gallantry
in his tone.
“No,--yes, I will,” said she, hurriedly; and now for some paces they
moved along side by side in silence.
“Mr. Maitland,” said she at last, “a silly speech I made to-day at
dinner has led to a most serious result, and Commodore Graham and you
have quarrelled.”
“Forgive me if I interrupt you. Nothing that fell from you has
occasioned any rupture between Commodore Graham and myself; for that I
can pledge you my word of honor.”
“But you have quarrelled. Don't deny it.”
“We had a very stupid discussion, and a difference; and I believe, if
the Commodore would have vouchsafed me a patient hearing, he would have
seen that he had really nothing to complain of on my part. I am quite
ready to make the same explanation to any friend he will depute to
receive it.”
“It was, however, what I said about your driving over with Miss Rebecca
Graham to the Burnside that led to all this.”
“Nothing of the kind, I assure you.”
“Well, I don't care for the reason,” said she, impatiently; “but you
have had a quarrel, and are about to settle it by a duel. I have no
doubt,” continued she, more rapidly, “that you, Mr. Maitland, can treat
this sort of thing very lightly. I suppose it is part of your code
as man of the world to do so; but this old man is a father; his life,
however little you may think of it, is of very great consequence to his
family; he is an old friend and neighbor whom we all care for, and any
mishap that might befall him would be a calamity to us all.”
“Pray continue,” said he, softly; “I am giving you all my attention.
Having given the sketch of one of so much value to his friends, I am
waiting now to hear of the other whom nobody is interested for.”
“This is no time for sarcasm, however witty, Mr. Maitland; and I am sure
your better feeling will tell you that I could not have come here to
listen to it. Do not be offended with me for my bluntness, nor refuse
what I have asked you.”
“You have not asked anything from me,” said he, smiling.
“Well, I will now,” said she, with more courage in her tone; “I will
ask you not to go any further in this affair,--to pledge your word to me
that it shall stop here.”
“Remember I am but one; any promise I may make you can only take effect
with the concurrence of another.”
“I know nothing--I want to know nothing--of these subtleties; tell me
flatly you'll not give this old man a meeting.”
“I will, if you 'll only say how I am to avoid it. No, no; do not be
angry with me,” said he, slightly touching the hand that rested on his
arm. “I'd do far more than this to win one, even the faintest smile that
ever said, 'I thank you;' but there is a difficulty here. You don't know
with what he charges me.”
“Perhaps I suspect it.”
“It is that after paying most marked attention to his daughter, I have
suddenly ceased to follow up my suit, and declared that I meant nothing
by it.”
“Well?” said she, quietly.
“Well,” repeated he. “Surely no one knows better than you that there was
no foundation for this.”
“I! how should I know it?”
“At all events,” replied he, with some irritation of manner, “you could
n't believe it.”
“I declare I don't know,” said she, hesitatingly, for the spirit of
drollery had got the better even of the deep interest of the moment,--“I
declare I don't know, Mr. Maitland. There is a charm in the manner of an
unsophisticated country girl which men of the world are often the very
first to acknowledge.”
“Charming unsophistication!” muttered he, half aloud.
“At all events, Mr. Maitland, it is no reason that because you don't
admire a young lady, you are to shoot her papa.”
“How delightfully illogical you are!” said he; and, strangely enough,
there was an honest admiration in the way he said it.
“I don't want to convince, sir; I want to be obeyed. What I insist upon
is, that this matter shall end here. Do you mind, Mr. Maitland, that it
end here?”
“Only show me how, and I obey you.”
“Do you mean to say that with all your tact and cleverness, you cannot
find a means of showing that you have been misapprehended, that you are
deeply mortified at being misunderstood, that by an expression of great
humility--Do you know how to be humble?”
“I can be abject,” said he, with a peculiar smile.
“I should really like to see you abject!” said she, laughingly.
“Do so then,” cried he, dropping on his knee before her, while he still
held her hand, but with a very different tone of voice,--a voice now
tremulous with earnest feeling,--continued: “There can be no humility
deeper than that with which I ask your forgiveness for one word I spoke
to you this evening. If you but knew all the misery it has caused me!”
“Mr. Maitland, this mockery is a just rebuke for my presence here. If I
had not stooped to such a step, you would never have dared this.”
“It is no mockery to say what my heart is full of, and what you will not
deny you have read there. No, Alice, you may reject my love; you cannot
pretend to ignore it.”
Though she started as he called her Alice, she said nothing, but
only withdrew her hand. At last she said: “I don't think this is very
generous of you. I came to ask a great favor at your hands, and you
would place me in a position not to accept it.”
“So far from that,” said he, rising, “I distinctly tell you that I place
all, even my honor, at your feet, and without one shadow of a condition.
You say you came here to ask me a favor, and my answer is that I accord
whatever you ask, and make no favor of it. Now, what is it you wish me
to do?”
“It's very hard not to believe you sincere when you speak in this way,”
said she, in a low voice.
“Don't try,” said he, in the same low tone.
“You promise me, then, that nothing shall come of this?”
“I do,” said he, seriously.
“And that you will make any amends the Commodore's friend may suggest?
Come, come,” said she, laughing, “I never meant that you were to marry
the young lady.”
“I really don't know how far you were going to put my devotion to the
test.”
The pleasantness with which he spoke this so amused her that she broke
again into laughter, and laughed heartily too. “Confess,” said she at
last,--“confess it's the only scrape you did not see your way out of!”
“I am ready to confess it's the only occasion in my life in which I had
to place my honor in the hands of a lady.”
“Well, let us see if a lady cannot be as adroit as a gentleman in such
an affair; and now, as you are in my hands, Mr. Maitland,--completely
in _my_ hands,--I am peremptory, and my first orders are that you keep
close arrest. Raikes will see that you are duly fed, and that you have
your letters and the newspapers; but mind, on any account, no visitors
without my express leave: do you hear me, sir?”
“I do; and all I would say is this, that if the tables should ever turn,
and it would be my place to impose conditions, take my word for it, I
'll be just as absolute. Do you hear me, madam?”
“I do; and I don't understand, and I don't want to understand you,” said
she, in some confusion. “Now, good-bye. It is almost day. I declare that
gray streak there is daybreak!”
“On, Alice, if you would let me say one word--only one--before we part.”
“I will not, Mr. Maitland, and for this reason, that I intend we should
meet again.”
“Be it so,” said he, sadly, and turned away. After he had walked a few
paces, he stopped and turned round; but she was already gone, how and in
what direction he knew not. He hurried first one way, then another, but
without success. If she had passed into the house,--and, of course, she
had,--with what speed she must have gone! Thoughtful, but not unhappy,
he returned to his room, if not fully assured that he had done what was
wisest, well disposed to hope favorably for the future.