In no small perturbation of mind was it that Mrs. Butler passed
her threshold. That a word should be breathed against her Tony, was
something more than she could endure; that he could have deserved it,
was more than she could believe. Tony, of whom for years and years she
had listened to nothing but flatteries, how clever and ready-witted he
was, how bold and fearless, how kind-hearted, and how truthful,--ay, how
truthful! and how is it then, asked she of herself, that he has told
me nothing of all this mischance, and what share he has had in bringing
misfortune upon poor Dolly?
“Is Master Tony at home, Jenny?” said she, as she entered.
“Yes; he's reading a letter that has just come wi' the post.”
The old lady stopped, with her hand on the handle of the door, to draw a
full breath, and regain a calm look; but a merry laugh from Tony, as he
sat reading his letter, did more to rally her, though her heart smote
her to think how soon she might have to throw a shadow across his
sunshine.
“Who's your letter from, Tony?” said she, dryly.
“From Skeffy; he 'll be here to-morrow; he's to arrive at Coleraine by
six in the morning, and wants me to meet him there.”
“And what's the other sealed note in your hand?”
“This?--this is from another man,--a fellow you've never heard of; at
least, you don't know him.”
“And what may be his name, Tony?” asked she, in a still colder tone.
“He's a stranger to you, mother. Skeffy found the note at my hotel, and
forwarded it,--that's all.”
“You were n't wont to have secrets from me, Tony,” said she,
tremulously.
“Nor have I, mother; except it may be some trifling annoyance or worry
that I don't care to tease you about. If I had anything heavier on my
mind, you may trust me, I 'd very soon be out with it.”
“But I 'm not to hear who this man is?” said she, with a strange
pertinacity.
“Of course you are, if you want to hear; his name is there, on the
corner of his note,--Robt M'Gruder,--and here's the inside of it, though
I don't think you 'll be much the wiser when you 've read it.”
“It's for yourself to read your own letter, Tony,” said she, waving back
the note. “I merely asked who was your correspondent.”
Tony broke the seal, and ran his eye hastily over the lines. “I 'm as
glad as if I got a hundred pounds!” cried he. “Listen to this, mother:--
“'Dear Sir,--When I received your note on Monday--'
“But wait a bit, mother; I must tell you the whole story, or you 'll not
know why he wrote this to me. Do you remember my telling you, just at
the back of a letter, that I was carried off to a dinner at Richmond?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“Well, I wish I hadn't gone, that's all. Not that it was n't jolly, and
the fellows very pleasant and full of fun, but somehow we all of us
took too much wine, or we talked too much, or perhaps both; but we began
laying wagers about every imaginable thing, and I made a bet,--I 'll
be hanged if I could tell what it was; but it was something about Dolly
Stewart. I believe it was that she was handsomer than another girl. I
forgot all about her hair being cut off, and her changed looks. At all
events, off we set in a body, to M'Gruder's house. It was then about two
in the morning, and we all singing, or what we thought was singing, most
uproariously. Yes, you may shake your head. I 'm ashamed of it now, too,
but it was some strange wine--I think it was called Marcobrunner--that
completely upset me; and the first thing that really sobered me was
seeing that the other fellows ran away, leaving me all alone in the
garden, while a short stout man rushed out of the house with a stick to
thrash me. I tried to make him hear me, for I wanted to apologize; but
he wouldn't listen, and so I gave him a shake. I didn't strike him; but
I shook him off, roughly enough perhaps, for he fell, and then I
sprang over the gate, and cut off as fast as I could. When I awoke next
morning, I remembered it all, and heartily ashamed I was of myself; and
I thought that perhaps I ought to go out in person and beg his pardon;
but I had no time for that; I wanted to get away by that day's packet,
and so I wrote him a few civil lines. I don't remember them exactly, but
they were to say that I was very sorry for it all, and I hoped he 'd
see the thing as it was,--a stupid bit of boyish excess, of which I felt
much ashamed; and here's his answer:--
“'Dear Sir,--When I received your note on Monday morning,
I was having leeches to my eye, and could n't answer it.
Yesterday both eyes were closed, and it is only to-day that
I can see to scratch these lines. If I had had a little more
patience on the night I first met you, it would have been
better for both of us. As it is, I receive all your
explanation as frankly as it is given; and you 'll be lucky
in life if nobody bears you more ill-will than--Yours
truly,
'Robt. M'Gruder.
“'If you come up to town again, look in on me at 27 Cannon
Street, City. I do not say here, as Mrs. M'G, has not yet
forgiven the black eye.'”
“Oh, Tony! my own, dear, dear, true-hearted Tony!” cried his mother, as
she flung her arms around him, and hugged him to her heart “I knew my
own dear boy was as loyal as his own high-hearted father.”
Tony was exceedingly puzzled to what precise part of his late behavior
be owned all this enthusiastic fondness, and was curious also to know if
giving black eyes to Scotchmen had been a trait of his father's.
“And this was all of it, Tony?” asked she, eagerly.
“Don't you think it was quite enough? I'm certain Dolly did; for she
knew my voice, and cried out, 'Oh, Tony, how could you?' or something
like that from the window. And that's a thing, mother, has been weighing
heavily on my mind ever since. Has this unlucky freak of mine anything
to do with Dolly's coming home?”
“We 'll find that out later on, Tony; leave that to me,” said she,
hurriedly; for with all her honesty, she could not bear to throw a cloud
over his present happiness, or dash with sorrow the delight he felt at
his friend's coming.
“I don't suspect,” continued he, thoughtfully, “that I made a very
successful impression on that Mrs. M'Grader the day I called on Dolly;
and if she only connected me with this night's exploit, of course it's
all up with me.”
“Her husband bears you no grudge for it at all, Tony.”
“That's clear enough; he's a fine fellow; but if it should turn out,
mother, that poor Dolly lost her situation,--it was no great thing, to
be sure; but she told me herself, it was hard enough to get as good; and
if, I say, it was through me she lost it--”
“You mustn't give yourself the habit of coining evil, Tony. There are
always enough of hard and solid troubles in life without our conjuring
up shadows and spectres to frighten us. As I said before, I 'll have a
talk with Dolly herself, and I 'll find out everything.”
“Do so, mother; and try and make her come often over here when I'm gone;
she'll be very lonely yonder, and you 'll be such good company for each
other, won't you?”
“I 'll do my best, for I love her dearly! She has so many ways, too,
that suit an old body like myself. She's so quiet and so gentle, and she
'll sit over her work at the window there, and lay it down on her knee
to look out over the sea, never saying a word, but smiling a little
quiet smile when our eyes meet, as though to say, 'This is very peaceful
and happy, and we have no need to tell each other about it, for we can
feel it just as deeply.'”
Oh, if she 'd only let Alice come to see her and sit with her, thought
Tony; how she _would_ love her! Alice could be all this, and would, too;
and then, what a charm she can throw around her with that winning smile!
Was there ever sunshine like it? And her voice--no music ever thrilled
through _me_ as that voice did. “I say, mother,” cried he, aloud, “don't
say No; don't refuse her if she begs to come over now and then with a
book or a few flowers; don't deny her merely because she's very rich and
much courted and flattered. I pledge you my word the flattery has not
spoiled her.”
“Poor Dolly! it's the first time I ever heard that you were either rich
or inn after! What 's the boy dreaming of, with his eyes staring in his
head?”
“I 'm thinking that I 'll go into Coleraine to-night, so as to be there
when the mail arrives at six in the morning,” said Tony, recovering
himself, though in considerable confusion. “Skeffy's room is all ready,
isn't it?”
“To be sure it is; and very nice and comfortable it looks too;” and as
she spoke, she arose and went into the little room, on which she and
Jenny had expended any amount of care and trouble. “But, Tony dear,”
she cried out, “what's become of Alice Lyle's picture? I put it over the
fireplace myself, this morning.”
“And I took it down again, mother. Skeffy never knew Alice,--never saw
her.”
“It was n't for that I put it there; it was because she was a handsome
lassie, and it's always a pleasant sight to look upon. Just bring it
back again; the room looks nothing without it.”
“No, no; leave it in your own room, in which it has always been,” said
he, almost sternly. “And now about dinner to-morrow; I suppose we'd
better make no change, but just have it at three, as we always do.”
“Your grand friend will think it's luncheon, Tony.”
“He 'll learn his mistake when it comes to tea-time; but I 'll go and
see if there 's not a salmon to be had at Carrig-a-Rede before I start;
and if I 'm lucky, I 'll bring you a brace of snipe back with me.”
“Do so, Tony; and if Mr. Gregg was to offer you a little seakale, or
even some nice fresh celery--Eh, dear, he 's off, and no minding me! He
's a fine true-hearted lad,” muttered she, as she reseated herself at
her work; “but I wonder what's become of all his high spirits, and the
merry ways that he used to have.”
Tony was not successful in his pursuit of provender. There was a heavy
sea on the shore, and the nets had been taken up; and during his whole
walk he never saw a bird He ate a hurried dinner when he came back,
and, taking one more look at Skeffy's room to see whether it looked as
comfortable as he wished it, he set out for Coleraine.
Now, though his mind was very full of his coming guest, in part
pleasurably, and in part with a painful consciousness of his inability
to receive him handsomely, his thoughts would wander off at every moment
to Dolly Stewart, and to her return home, which he felt convinced was
still more or less connected with his own freak. The evening service was
going on in the meeting-house as he passed, and he could hear the swell
of the voices in the last hymn that preceded the final prayer, and he
suddenly bethought him that he would take a turn by the Burnside and
have a few minutes' talk with Dolly before her father got back from
meeting.
“She is such a true-hearted, honest girl,” said he to himself, “she 'll
not be able to hide the fact from me; and I will ask her flatly, Is this
so? was it not on my account you left the place?”
All was still and quiet at the minister's cottage, and Tony raised the
latch and walked through the little passage into the parlor unseen. The
parlor, too, was empty. A large old Bible lay open on the table, and
beside it a handkerchief--a white one--that he knew to be Dolly's. As
he looked at it, he bethought him of one Alice had given him once as a
keepsake; he had it still. How different that fragment of gossamer with
the frill of rich lace from this homely kerchief! Were they not almost
emblems of their owners? and if so, did not his own fortunes rather
link him with the humbler than with the higher? With one there might be
companionship; with the other, what could it be but dependence?
While he was standing thus thinking, two ice-cold hands were laid over
his eyes, and he cried out. “Ay, Dolly, those frozen fingers are yours;”
and as he removed her hands, he threw one arm round her waist, and,
pressing her closely to him, he kissed her.
“Tony, Tony!” said she, reproachfully, while her eyes swam in two heavy
tears, and she turned away.
“Come here and sit beside me, Dolly. I want to ask you a question, and
we have n't much time, for the doctor will be here presently, and I am
so fretted and worried thinking over it that I have nothing left but to
come straight to yourself and ask it.”
“Well, what is it?” said she, calmly.
“But you will be frank with me, Dolly,--frank and honest, as you always
were,--won't you?”
“Yes, I think so,” said she, slowly.
“Ay, but you must be sure to be frank, Dolly, for it touches me very
closely; and to show you that you may, I will tell you a secret, to
begin with. Your father has had a letter from that Mrs. M'Gruder, where
you lived.”
“From her?” said Dolly, growing so suddenly pale that she seemed about
to faint; “are you sure of this?”
“My mother saw it; she read part of it, and here 's what it
implies,--that it was all my fault--at least, the fault of knowing
me--that cost you your place. She tells, not very unfairly, all things
considered, about that unlucky night when I came under the windows and
had that row with her husband; and then she hints at something, and I'll
be hanged if I can make out at what; and if my mother knows, which I
suspect she does not, she has not told me; but whatever it be, it is in
some way mixed up with your going away; and knowing, my dear Dolly, that
you and I can talk to one another as few people can in this world,--is
it not so? Are you ill, dear,--are you faint?”
“No; those are weak turns that come and go.”
“Put your head down here on my shoulder, my poor Dolly. How pale you
are! and your hands so cold. What is it you say, darling? I can't hear.”
Her lips moved, but without a sound, and her eyelids fell lazily over
her eyes, as, pale and scarcely seeming to breathe, she leaned heavily
towards him, and fell at last in his arms. There stood against the
opposite wall of the room a little horse-hair sofa, a hard and narrow
bench, to which he carried her, and, with her head supported by his arm,
he knelt down beside her, helpless a nurse as ever gazed on sickness.
“There, you are getting better, my dear, dear Dolly,” he said, as a long
heavy sigh escaped her. “You will be all right presently, my poor dear.”
“Fetch me a little water,” said she, faintly.
Tony soon found some, and held it to her lips, wondering the while how
it was he had never before thought Dolly beautiful, so regular were
the features, so calm the brow, so finely traced the mouth, and the
well-rounded chin beneath it. How strange it seemed that the bright
eye and the rich color of health should have served to hide rather than
heighten these traits!
“I think I must have fainted, Tony,” said she, weakly.
“I believe you did, darling,” said he.
“And how was it? Of what were we talking, Tony? Tell me what I was
saying to you.”
Tony was afraid to refer to what he feared might have had some share in
her late seizure; he dreaded to recur to it.
“I think I remember it,” said she, slowly, and as if struggling with
the difficulty of a mental effort. “But stay; is not that the wicket I
heard? Father is coming, Tony;” and as she spoke, the heavy foot of the
minister was heard on the passage.
“Eh, Tony man, ye here? I'd rather hae seen ye at the evening lecture;
but ye 're no fond of our form of worship, I believe. The Colonel, your
father, I have heard, was a strong Episcopalian.”
“I was on my way to Coleraine, doctor, and I turned off at the mill to
see Dolly, and ask her how she was.”
“Ye winna stay to supper, then?” said the old man, who, hospitable
enough on ordinary occasions, had no wish to see the Sabbath evening's
meal invaded by the presence of a guest, even of one so well known as
Tony.
Tony muttered some not very connected excuses, while his eyes turned
to Dolly, who, still pale and sickly-looking, gave him one little brief
nod, as though to say it were better he should go; and the old minister
himself stood erect in the middle of the floor, calmly and almost coldly
waiting the words “Good-bye.”
“Am I to tell mother you 'll come to us to-morrow, doctor,--you and
Dolly?” asked Tony, with his band on the door.
“It's no on the Sabbath evening we should turn our thoughts to feastin',
Master Tony; and none know that better than your worthy mother. I wish
you a good-evening and a pleasant walk.”
“Good-night,” said Tony, shutting the door sharply; “and,” muttered he
to himself, “if you catch _me_ crossing your threshold again, Sabbath or
week-day--” He stopped, heaved a deep sigh, and, drawing his hand across
his eyes, said, “My poor dear Dolly, hasn't my precious temper done you
mischief enough already, that I must let it follow you to your own quiet
fireside?”
And he went his way, with many a vow of self-amendment, and many a kind
wish, that was almost a prayer, for the minister and his daughter.