It was a rare thing for Tony Butler to lie awake at night, and yet he
did so for full an hour or more after that conversation with Skeffy.
It was such a strange blunder for one of Skeffy's shrewdness to have
made,--so inexplicable.
To imagine that he, Tony, had ever been in love with Dolly! Dolly, his
playfellow since the time when the “twa had paidled i' the burn;” Dolly,
to whom he went with every little care that crossed him, never shrinking
for an instant from those avowals of doubt or difficulty that no one
makes to his sweetheart. So, at least, thought Tony. And the same Dolly
to whom he had revealed once, in deepest secrecy, that he was in love
with Alice! To be sure, it was a boyish confession, made years ago; and
since that Alice had grown up to be a woman, and was married, so that
the story of the love was like a fairy tale.
“In love with Dolly!” muttered he. “If he had but ever seen us together,
he would have known that could not be.” Poor Tony! he knew of love in
its moods of worship and devotion, and in its aspect of a life-giving
impulse,--a soul-filling, engrossing sentiment,--inspiring timidity
when near, and the desire for boldness when away. With such alternating
influence Dolly had never racked his heart. He sought her with a quiet
conscience, untroubled by a fear.
“How could Skeffy make such a mistake! That it is a mistake, who would
recognize more quickly than Dolly herself; and with what humorous
drollery--a drollery all her own--would she not treat it! A rare
punishment for your blunder, Master Skeffy, would it be to tell Dolly
of it all in your presence;” and at last, wearied out with thinking, he
fell asleep.
The day broke with one of those bright breezy mornings which, though
“trying” to the nerves of the weak and delicate, are glorious stimulants
to the strong. The sea plashed merrily over the rocks, and the white
streaky clouds flew over the land with a speed that said it blew hard
at sea. “Glorious day for a sail, Skeffy; we can beat out, and come back
with a stern-wind whenever we like.”
“I 'll anticipate the wish by staying on shore, Tony.”
“I can't offer you a mount, Skeffy, for I am not the owner of even a
donkey.”
“Who wants one? Who wants anything better than to go down where we were
yesterday evening, under that big black rock, with the sea before us,
and the whole wide world behind us, and talk? When a fellow lives as
I do, cooped up within four walls, the range of his view some tiers of
pigeon-holes, mere freedom and a sea-breeze are the grandest luxuries in
creation;” and off they set, armed with an ample supply of tobacco,
the life-buoy of those stragglers in the sea of thought who only ask to
float, but not to reach the shore.
How delightfully did the hours pass over! At least, so Tony felt, for
what a wonderful fellow was Skeffy! What had he not seen or heard or
read? What theme was new, what subject unknown to him? But, above all,
what a marvellous insight had he into the world,--the actual world
of men and women! Great people were not to _his_ eyes mighty gods and
goddesses, seated loftily on a West-End Olympus, but fallible mortals,
with chagrins about the court and grievances about invitations to
Windsor. Ministers, too, whose nods shook empires, were humanities, very
irritable under the gout, and much given to colchicum. Skeffy “knew the
whole thing,”--_he_ was not one of the mere audience. He lived in the
green-room or in the “flats.” He knew all the secrets of state, from the
splendid armaments that existed on paper, to the mock thunders that were
manufactured and patented by F. O.
These things Skeffy told like confidences,--secrete he would not have
breathed to any one he held less near his heart than Tony. But somehow
commonplaces told by the lips of authority will assume an immense
authority, and carry with them a stupendous weight; and Tony listened to
the precious words of wisdom as he might have listened to the voice of
Solomon.
But even more interesting still did he become as he sketched forth,
very vaguely indeed,--a sort of Turner in his later style of cloud and
vapor,--his own great future. Not very clear and distinct the steps by
which he was fated to rise, but palpable enough the great elevation he
was ultimately to occupy.
“Don't imagine, old fellow,” said he, laying his hand on Tony's
shoulders, “that I am going to forget you when that time comes. I'm not
going to leave you a Queen's messenger.”
“What could you make of me?” said Tony, despondently.
“Fifty things,” said the other, with a confidence that seemed to say,
“I, Skeffy, am equal to more than this; fifty things. You, of course,
cannot be expected to know it, but I can tell you, it's far harder
to get a small place than a big one,--harder to be a corporal than a
lieutenant-general.”
“How do you explain that?” asked Tony, with an eager curiosity.
“You can't understand it without knowing life. I cannot convey to you
how to win a trick where you don't know the game.” And Skeffy showed, by
the impatient way he tried to light a fresh cigar, that he was not fully
satisfied with the force or clearness of his own explanation; and he
went on: “You see, old fellow, when you have climbed up some rungs of
the ladder with a certain amount of assurance, many will think you are
determined to get to the top.”
“Well, but if a man's ladder has only one rung, as I imagine is the case
with mine!” broke in Tony.
Skeffy looked at his companion for a moment, half surprised that he
should have carried out the figure, and then laughed heartily, as he
said, “Splice it to mine, my boy; it will bear us both.”
It was no use that Tony shook his head and looked despondingly;
there was a hopeful warmth about Skeffy not to be extinguished by any
discouragement. In fact, if a shade of dissatisfaction seemed ever to
cloud the brightness of his visions, it was the fear lest, even in his
success, some other career might be neglected wherein the rewards were
greater and the prizes more splendid. He knew, and he did not scruple to
declare that he knew, if he had been a soldier he 'd have risen to the
highest command. If he 'd have gone to the bar, he'd have ended on the
woolsack. Had he “taken that Indian appointment,” he 'd have been high
up by this time on the Council, with his eye on Government House for a
finish. “That's what depresses me about diplomacy, Tony. The higher you
go, the less sure you are. They--I mean your own party--give you Paris
or St. Petersburg, we 'll say; and if they go out, so must you.”
“Why must you?” asked Tony.
“For the reason that the well-bred dog went downstairs when he saw
certain preparations that betokened kicking him down.
“After all, I think a new colony and the gold-fields the real
thing,--the glorious independence of it; you live how you like, and
with whom you like. No Mrs. Grundy to say, 'Do you know who dined with
Skeffington Darner yesterday?' 'Did you remark the young woman who sat
beside him in his carriage?' and such-like.”
“But you cannot be always sure of your nuggets,” muttered Tony. “I 've
seen fellows come back poorer than they went.”
“Of course you have; it's not every horse wins the Derby, old boy. And
I'll tell you another thing, too; the feeling, the instinct, the inner
consciousness that you carry success in your nature, is a rarer and a
higher gift than the very power to succeed. You meet with clever fellows
every day in the week who have no gauge of their own cleverness. To give
an illustration; you write a book, we'll say.”
“No, I don't,” blurted out Tony.
“Well, but you might; it is at least possible.”
“It is not.”
“Well, let us take something else. You are about to try something that
has a great reward attached to it, if successful; you want, we
'll suppose, to marry a woman of high rank and large fortune, very
beautiful,--in fact, one to whom, according to every-day notions, you
have not the slightest pretensions. Is n't that a strong case, eh?”
“Worse than the book. Perhaps I 'd better try authorship,” said Tony,
growing very red; “but make the case your own, and I 'll listen just as
attentively.”
“Well, here goes; I have only to draw on memory,” said he, with a sigh;
“I suppose you don't remember seeing in the papers, about a year and a
half ago, that the Prince of Cobourg Cohari--not one of our Cobourgs,
but an Austrian branch--came over to visit the Queen. He brought
his daughter Olga with him; she was called Olga after the Empress
of Russia's sister. And such a girl! She was nearly as tall as you,
Tony,--I'll swear she was,--with enormous blue eyes, and masses of fair
hair that she wore in some Russian fashion that seemed as if it had
fallen loose over her neck and shoulders. And were n't they shoulders!
I do like a large woman! a regular Cleopatra,--indolent, voluptuous,
dreamy. I like the majestic languor of their walk; and there is a
massive grandeur in their slightest gesture that is very imposing.”
“Go on,” muttered Tony, as the other seemed to pause for a sentiment of
concurrence.
“I was in the Household in those days, and I was sent down with old
Dollington to Dover to meet them; but somehow they arrived before we
got down, and were comfortably installed at the 'Lord Warden' when
we arrived. It did not matter much; for old Cohari was seized with an
attack of gout, and could not stir; and there I was, running back and
forward to the telegraph office all day, reporting how he was, and
whether he would or would not have Sir James This or Sir John That down
to see him! Dollington and he were old friends, fortunately, and had a
deal to say to each other, so that I was constantly with Olga. At first
she was supremely haughty and distant, as you may imagine; a regular
Austrian Serene Highness grafted on a beauty,--fancy that! but it never
deterred _me_; and I contrived that she should see mine was the homage
of a heart she had captivated, not of a courtier that was bound to obey
her. She saw it, sir,--saw it at once; saw it with that instinct that
whispers to the female heart, 'He loves me,' ere the man has ever said
it to himself. She not only saw, but she did not discourage, my passion.
Twenty little incidents of our daily life showed this, as we rambled
across the downs together, or strolled along the shore to watch the
setting sun and the arrival of the mail-boat from Calais.
“At last the Prince recovered sufficiently to continue his journey, and
I went down to order a special train to take us up to town the following
morning. By some stupid arrangement, however, of the directors, an
earlier announcement should have been given, and all they could do was
to let us have one of the royal carriages attached to the express. I was
vexed at this, and so was Dollington, but the Prince did not care, in
the least; and when I went to speak of it to Olga, she hung down her
head for an instant, and then, in a voice and with an accent I shall
never forget, she said, 'Ah, Monsieur Darner, it would appear to be your
destiny to be always too late!' She left me as she spoke, and we never
met after; for on that same evening I learned from Dollington she was
betrothed to the Duke Max of Hohenhammelsbraten, and to be married in
a month. That was the meaning of her emotion,--that was the source of a
sorrow that all but overcame her; for she loved me, Tony,--she loved me!
not with that headlong devotion that belongs to the wanner races, but
with a Teutonic love; and when she said, 'I was too late,' it was the
declaration of a heart whose valves worked under a moderate pressure,
and never risked an explosion.”
“But how do you know that she was not alluding to the train, and to your
being late to receive them on the landing?” asked Tony.
“Ain't you prosaic, Tony,--ain't you six-and-eight-pence! with your dull
and commonplace interpretation! I tell you, sir, that she meant, 'I love
you, but it is in vain,--I love you, but another is before you,--I love
you, but you come too late!'”
“And what did you do?” asked Tony, anxious to relieve himself from a
position of some awkwardness.
“I acted with dignity, sir. I resigned in the Household, and got
appointed to the Colonial.”
“And what does it all prove, except it be something against your own
theory, that a man should think there is nothing too high for his
reach?”
“Verily, Tony, I have much to teach you,” said Skeffy, gravely, but
good-naturedly. “This little incident shows by what slight casualties
our fortunes are swayed: had it not been for Max of Hammelsbraten,
where might not I have been to-day? It is by the flaw in the metal the
strength of the gun is measured,--so it is by a man's failures in life
you can estimate his value. Another would not have dared to raise his
eyes so high!”
“That I can well believe,” said Tony, dryly.
“You, for instance, would no more have permitted yourself to fall in
love with her, than you'd have thought of tossing for half-crowns with
the Prince her father.”
“Pretty much the same,” muttered Tony.
“That 's it,--that is exactly what establishes the difference between
men in life. It is by the elevation given to the cannon that the ball is
thrown so far. It is by the high purpose of a man that you measure his
genius.”
“All the genius in the world won't make you able to take a horse over
seven feet of a stone wall,” said Tony; “and whatever is impossible has
no interest for me.”
“You never can say what is impossible,” broke in Skeffy. “I 'll tell you
experiences of mine, and you 'll exclaim at every step, 'How could that
be?'” Skeffy had now thoroughly warmed to his theme,--the theme he loved
best in the world,--himself; for he was one of those who “take out” all
their egotism in talk. Let him only speak of himself, and he was ready
to act heartily and energetically in the cause of his friends. All
that he possessed was at their service,--his time, his talents, his
ingenuity, his influence, and his purse. He could give them everything
but one; he could not make them heroes in his stories. No, his romance
was his own realm, and he could share it with none.
Listen to him, and there never was a man so traded on,--so robbed and
pilfered from. A Chancellor of the Exchequer had caught up that notion
of his about the tax on domestic cats. It was on the railroad he had
dropped that hint about a supply of cordials in all fire-escapes. That
clever suggestion of a web livery that would fit footmen of all sizes
was his; he remembered the day he made it, and the fellow that stole it,
too, on the chain-pier at Brighton. What leaders in the “Times,”
what smart things in the “Saturday,” what sketches in “Punch” were
constructed out of his dinner-talk!
Poor Tony listened to all these with astonishment, and even confusion,
for one-half, at least, of the topics were totally strange and new to
him. “Tell me,” said he at last, with a bold effort to come back to a
land of solid reality, “what of that poor fellow whose bundle I carried
away with me? Your letter said something mysterious about him, which I
could make nothing of.”
“Ah, yes,--a dangerous dog,--a friend of Mazzini's, and a member of I
can't say how many secret societies. The Inspector, hearing that I had
asked after him at the hotel, came up to F. O. t' other morning to learn
what I knew of him, and each of us tried for full half an hour to pump
the other.”
“I 'll not believe one word against him,” said Tony, sturdily; “an
honester, franker face I never looked at.”
“No doubt! Who would wish to see a better-looking fellow than Orsini?”
“And what has become of him,--of Quin, I mean?”
“Got away, clean away, and no one knows how or where. I 'll tell _you_,
Tony,” said he, “what I would not tell another,--that they stole that
idea of the explosive bombs from _me_.”
“You don't mean to say--”
“Of course not, old fellow. I 'm not a man to counsel assassination;
but in the loose way I talk, throwing out notions for this and hints for
that, they caught up this idea just as Blakeney did that plan of mine
for rifling large guns.”
Tony fixed his eyes on him for a moment or two in silence, and then said
gravely, “I think it must be near dinnertime; let us saunter towards
home.”