one of those he cared for in his humbler days. Don't you agree with me,
Alice?”
Alice made no reply, but continued to gaze at the ships through a glass.
“The danger is that he'll carry that feeling to excess,” said Skeff;
“for he will not alone hold to all these people, but he 'll make you and
me hold to them too.”
“That would be impossible, perfectly impossible,” said my Lady, with a
haughty toss of her head.
“No, no; I cannot agree to go that far,” chimed in Sir Arthur.
“It strikes me,” said Alice, quietly, “we are all of us deciding a
little too hastily as to what Tony Butler will or will not do. Probably
a very slight exercise of patience would save us some trouble.”
“Certainly not, Alice, after what Mr. Darner has said. Tony would seem
to have thrown down a sort of defiance to us all. We must accept him
with his belongings, or do without him.”
“He shall have me on his own terms,” said Skeffy. “He is a noble savage,
and I love him with all my heart.”
“And you will know his rag friend?” asked Lady Lyle.
“Ay, that will I; and an Irish creature, too, that he calls Rory,--a
fellow of six feet four, with a voice like an enraged bull and a hand as
wide as one of these flags!”
“It is Damon and Pythias over again, I declare!” said Lady Lyle. “Where
did he pick up his monster?”
“They met by chance in England, and, equally by chance, came together to
Italy, and Tony persuaded him to accompany him and join Garibaldi. The
worthy Irishman, who loved fighting, and was not very particular as to
the cause, agreed; and though he had originally come abroad to serve in
the Pope's army, some offence they had given him made him desert, and
he was well pleased not to return home without, as he said, 'batin'
somebody.' It was in this way he became a Garibaldian. The fellow, it
seems, fought like a lion; he has been five times wounded, and was left
for dead on the field; but he bears a charm which he knows will always
protect him.”
“A charm,--what is the charm?”
“A medallion of the Pope, which he wears around his neck, and always
kisses devoutly before he goes into battle.”
“The Pope's image is a strange emblem for a Garibaldian, surely,” said
Sir Arthur, laughing.
“Master Rory thinks it will dignify any cause; and as he never knew what
or for whom he was fighting, this small bit of copper saved him a world
of trouble and casuistry; and so in the name of the Holy Father he has
broken no end of Neapolitan skulls.”
“I must say Mr. Butler has surrounded himself with some choice
associates,” said Lady Lyle; “and all this time I have been encouraging
myself to believe that so very young a man would have had no
connections, no social relations, he could not throw off without
difficulty.”
“The world will do all his sifting process for him, if we only have
patience,” said Sir Arthur; and, indeed, it is but fair to say that he
spoke with knowledge, since, in his own progress through life, he had
already made the acquaintance of four distinct and separate classes in
society, and abandoned each in turn for that above it.
“Was he much elated, Mr. Damer,” asked Lady Lyle, “when he heard of his
good fortune?”
“I think he was at first; but it made so little impression on him, that
more than once he went on to speculate on his future, quite forgetting
that he had become independent; and then, when he remembered it, he
certainly did look very happy and cheerful.”
“And what sort of plans has he?” asked Bella.
“They're all about his mother; everything is for _her_. She is to keep
that cottage, and the ground about it, and he is to make a garden for
her; and it seems she likes cows,--she is to have cows. It's a lucky
chance that the old lady had n't a taste for a plesiosaurus, or he 'd be
offering a prize for one to-morrow.”
“He's a dear good fellow, as he always was,” said Bella.
“The only real change I see in him,” said Skeffy, “is that now he is
never grumpy,--he takes everything well; and if crossed for a moment, he
says, 'Give me a weed; I must smoke away that annoyance.'”
“How sensual!” said my Lady; but nobody heeded the remark.
At the moment, too, a young midshipman saluted Darner from the street,
and informed him that the first cutter was at the jetty to take the
party off to the “Talisman;” and Captain Paynter advised them not to
delay very long, as the night looked threatening. Lady Lyle needed
no stronger admonition; she declared that she would go at once; and
although the Captain's own gig, as an attention of honor, was to be in
to take her, she would not wait, but set out immediately.
“You 'll take care of me, Skeffy,” said Alice, “for I have two letters
to write, and shall not be ready before eleven o'clock.”
For a while all was bustle and confusion. Lady Lyle could not make up
her mind whether she would finally accept the frigate as a refuge or
come on shore again the next day. There were perils by land and by
water, and she weighed them and discussed them, and turned fiercely
on everybody who agreed with her, and quarrelled with all round. Sir
Arthur, too, had his scruples, as he bethought him of the effect that
would be produced by the fact that a man of his station and importance
had sought the protection of a ship of war; and he asked Skeffy if
some sort of brief protest--some explanation--should not be made in the
public papers, to show that he had taken the step in compliance with
female fears, and not from the dictates of his own male wisdom. “I
should be sorry, sincerely sorry, to affect the Funds,” said he; and
really, the remark was considerate. As for Bella, she could not bear
being separated from Skeffy; he was so daring, so impulsive, as she
said, and with all this responsibility on him now,--people coming to him
for everything, and all asking what was to be done,--he needed more than
ever support and sympathy.
And thus is it the world goes on, as unreal, as fictitious, as
visionary as anything there ever was put on the stage and illuminated
by footlights. There was a rude realism outside in the street, however,
that compensated for much of this. There, all was wildest fun and
jollity; not the commotion of a people in the throes of a revolution,
not the highly wrought passion of an excited populace mad with triumph;
it was the orgie of a people who deemed the downfall of a hated
government a sort of carnival occasion, and felt that mummery and
tomfoolery were the most appropriate expressions of delight.
Through streets crowded with this dancing, singing, laughing, embracing,
and mimicking mass, the Lyles made their way to the jetty reserved for
the use of the ships of war, and soon took their places, and were rowed
off to the frigate, Skeffy waving his adieux till darkness rendered his
gallantry unnoticed.
All his late devotion to the cares of love and friendship had made such
inroads on his time that he scarcely knew what was occurring, and had
lamentably failed to report to “the Office” the various steps by which
revolution had advanced, and was already all but installed as master of
the kingdom. Determined to write off a most telling despatch, he entered
the hotel, and, seeing Alice engaged letter-writing at one table, he
quietly installed himself at another, merely saying, “The boat will
be back by midnight, and I have just time to send off an important
despatch.”
Alice looked up from her writing, and a very faint smile curled her lip.
She did not speak, however, and after a moment continued her letter.
For upwards of half an hour the scraping sounds of the pens were the
only noises in the room, except at times a low murmur as Skeff read over
to himself some passage of unusual force and brilliancy.
“You must surely be doing something very effective, Skeff,” said Alice,
from the other end of the room, “for you rubbed your hands with delight,
and looked radiant with triumph.”
“I think I have given it to them!” cried he. “There 's not another man
in the line would send home such a despatch. Canning wouldn't have done
it in the old days, when he used to bully them. Shall I read it for
you?”
“My dear Skeff, I 'm not Bella. I never had a head for questions of
politics. I am hopelessly stupid in all such matters.”
“Ah, yes; Bella told me that Bella herself, indeed, only learned to feel
an interest in them through me; but, as I told her, the woman who would
one day be an ambassadress cannot afford to be ignorant of the great
European game in which her husband is a player.”
“Quite true; but I have no such ambitions before me; and fortunate it
is, for really I could not rise to the height of such lofty themes.”
Skeff smiled pleasantly; her humility soothed him. He turned to the last
paragraph he had penned and re-read it.
“By the way,” said Alice, carelessly, and certainly nothing was less
apropos to what they had been saying, though she commenced thus,--“by
the way, how did you find Tony looking,--improved, or the reverse?”
“Improved in one respect; fuller, browner, more manly, perhaps, but
coarser; he wants the--you know what I mean--he wants this!” and he
swayed his arm in a bold sweep, and stood fixed, with his hand extended.
“Ah, indeed!” said she, faintly.
“Don't you think so--don't you agree with me, Alice?”
“Perhaps to a certain extent I do,” said she, diffidently.
“How could it be otherwise, consorting with such a set? You 'd not
expect to find it there?”
Alice nodded assent all the more readily that she had not the vaguest
conception of what “it” might mean.
“The fact is, Alice,” said he, arising and walking the room with immense
strides, “Tony will always be Tony!”
“I suppose he will,” said she, dryly.
“Yes; but you don't follow me. You don't appreciate my meaning. I
desired to convey this opinion, that Tony being one of those men
who cannot add to their own natures the gifts and graces which a man
acquires who has his successes with your sex--”
“Come, come, Skeff, you must neither be metaphysical nor improper.
Tony is a very fine boy,--only a boy, I acknowledge, but he has noble
qualities; and every year he lives will, I feel certain, but develop
them further.”
“He won't stand the 'boy' tone any longer,” said Skeff, dryly. “I tried
it, and he was down on me at once.”
“What did he say when you told him we were here?” said she, carelessly,
while putting her papers in order.
“He was surprised.”
“Was he pleased?”
“Oh, yes, pleased, certainly; he was rather afraid of meeting your
mother, though.”
“Afraid of mamma! how could that be?”
“Some lesson or other she once gave him sticks in his throat; something
she said about presumption, I think.”
“Oh, no, no; this is quite impossible,--I can't credit it.”
“Well, it might be some fancy of his; for he has fancies, and very queer
ones too. One was about a godfather of mine. Come in,--what is it?”
cried he, as a knock came to the door.
“A soldier below stairs, sir, wishes to speak to you,” said the waiter.
“Ah! something of importance from Filangieri, I've no doubt,” said
Skeff, rising and leaving the room. Before he had gone many paces,
however, he saw a large, powerful figure in the red shirt and small cap
of the Garibaldians, standing in the corridor, and the next instant he
turned fully round,--it was Tony.
“My dear Tony, when did you arrive?”
“This moment; I am off again, however, at once, but I would n't leave
without seeing you.”
“Off, and whereto?”
“Home; I've taken a passage to Marseilles in the Messageries boat, and
she sails at two o'clock. You see I was no use here till this arm got
right, and the General thought my head would n't be the worse of a
little quiet; so I 'll go back and recruit, and if they want me they
shall have me.”
“You don't know who's there?” whispered Skeff. Tony shook his head. “And
all alone, too,” added the other, still lower. “Alice,--Alice Trafford.”
Tony grew suddenly very pale, and leaned against the wall.
“Come in; come in at once, and see her. We have been talking of you all
the evening.”
“No, no,--not now,” said Tony, faintly.
“And when, if not now? You 're going off, you said.”
“I'm in no trim to pay visits; besides, I don't wish it. I 'll tell you
more some other time.”
“Nonsense; you look right well in your brigand costume, and with an old
friend, not to say--Well, well, don't look sulky;” and as he got thus
far--he had been gradually edging closer and closer to the door--he
flung it wide open, and called out, “Mr. Tony Butler!” Pushing Tony
inside, and then closing the door behind, he retreated, laughing
heartily to himself over his practical joke.
CHAPTER LIX. AN AWKWARD MOMENT
Alice started as she heard the name Tony Butler, and for a moment
neither spoke. There was confusion and awkwardness on either side; all
the greater that each saw it in the other. She, however, was the first
to rally; and, with a semblance of old friendship, held out her hand,
and said, “I am so glad to see you, Tony, and to see you safe.”
“I 'd not have dared to present myself in such a dress,” stammered he
out; “but that scamp Skeffy gave me no choice: he opened the door and
pushed me in.”
“Your dress is quite good enough to visit an old friend in. Won't you
sit down?--sit here.” As she spoke, she seated herself on an ottoman,
and pointed to a place at her side. “I am longing to hear something
about your campaigns. Skeff was so provoking; he only told us about what
he saw at Cava, and his own adventures on the road.”
“I have very little to tell, and less time to tell it I must embark in
about half an hour.”
“And where for?”
“For home.”
“So that if it had not been for Skeff's indiscretion I should not have
seen you?” said she, coldly.
“Not at this moment,--not in this guise.”
“Indeed!” And there was another pause.
“I hope Bella is better. Has she quite recovered?” asked he.
“She is quite well again; she 'll be sorry to have missed you, Tony. She
wanted, besides, to tell you how happy it made her to hear of all your
good fortune.”
“My good fortune! Oh, yes--to be sure. It was so unlooked for,” added
he, with a faint smile, “that I have hardly been able to realize it yet;
that is, I find myself planning half-a-dozen ways to earn my bread, when
I suddenly remember that I shall not need them.”
“And I hope it makes you happy, Tony?”
“Of course it does. It enables me to make my mother happy, and to secure
that we shall not be separated. As for myself alone, my habits are
simple enough, and my tastes also. My difficulty will be, I suppose, to
acquire more expensive ones.”
“It is not a very hard task, I believe,” said she, smiling.
“Not for others, perhaps; but I was reared in narrow fortune, Alice,
trained to submit to many a privation, and told too--I 'm not sure very
wisely--that such hardships are all the more easily borne by a man of
good blood and lineage. Perhaps I did not read my lesson right. At all
events, I thought a deal more of my good blood than other people were
willing to accord it; and the result was, it misled me.”
“Misled you! and how--in what way?”
“Is it you who ask me this--you, Alice, who have read me such wise
lessons on self-dependence, while Lady Lyle tried to finish my education
by showing the evils of over-presumption; and you were both right,
though I did n't see it at the time.”
“I declare I do not understand you, Tony!” said she.
“Well, I 'll try to be clearer,” said he, with more animation. “From the
first day I knew you, Alice, I loved you. I need not say that all the
difference in station between us never affected my love. You were too
far above me in every gift and grace to make rank, mere rank, ever
occur to my mind, though others were good enough to jog my memory on the
subject.”
“Others! of whom are you speaking?”
“Your brother Mark, for one; but I don't want to think of these things.
I loved you, I say; and to that degree that every change of your manner
towards me made the joy or the misery of my life. This was when I was an
idle youth, lounging about in that condition of half dependence that,
as I look back on, I blush to think I ever could have endured. My only
excuse is, however, that I knew no better.”
“There was nothing unbecoming in what you did.”
“Yes, there was, though. There was this: I was satisfied to hold an
ambiguous position,--to be a something, neither master nor servant, in
another man's house, all because it gave me the daily happiness to be
near you, and to see you, and to hear your voice. That was unbecoming,
and the best proof of it was, that with all my love and all my devotion,
you could not care for me.”
“Oh, Tony! do not say that.”
“When I say care, you could not do more than care; you couldn't love
me.”
“Were you not always as a dear brother to me?”
“I wanted to be more than brother, and when I found that this could not
be, I grew very careless, almost reckless, of my life; not but that it
took a long time to teach me the full lesson. I had to think over, not
only all that separated us in station, but all that estranged us in tone
of mind; and I saw that your superiority to me chafed me, and that if
you should ever come to feel for me, it would be through some sense of
pity.”
“Oh, Tony!”
“Yes, Alice, you know it better than I can say it; and so I set my pride
to fight against my love, with no great success at first. But as I lay
wounded in the orchard at Melazzo, and thought of my poor mother, and
her sorrow if she were to hear of my death, and compared her grief with
what yours would be, I saw what was real in love, and what was mere
interest; and I remember I took out my two relics,--the dearest objects
I had in the world,--a lock of my mother's hair and a certain glove,--a
white glove you may have seen once on a time; and it was over the little
braid of brown hair I let fall the last tears I thought ever to shed in
life; and here is the glove--I give it back to you. Will you have it?”
She took it with a trembling hand; and in a voice of weak but steady
utterance said, “I told you that this time would come.”
“You did so,” said he, gloomily.
Alice rose and walked out upon the balcony; and after a moment Tony
followed her. They leaned on the balustrade side by side, but neither
spoke.
“But we shall always be dear friends, Tony, sha'n't we?” said she, while
she laid her hand gently over his.
“Oh, Alice,” said he, plaintively, “do not--do not, I beseech you--lead
me back again into that land of delusion I have just tried to escape
from. If you knew how I loved you--if you knew what it costs me to tear
that love out of my heart--you'd never wish to make the agony greater to
me.”
“Dear Tony, it was a mere boyish passion. Remember for a moment how
it began. I was older than you--much older as regards life and the
world--and even older by more than a year. You were so proud to attach
yourself to a grown woman,--you a mere lad; and then your love--for
I will grant it was love--dignified you to yourself. It made you more
daring where there was danger, and it taught you to be gentler and
kinder, and more considerate to every one. All your good and great
qualities grew the faster that they had those little vicissitudes of
joy and sorrow, the sun and rain of our daily lives; but all that is not
love.”
“You mean there is no love where there is no return of love?”
She was silent
“If so, I deny it. The faintest flicker of a hope was enough for me; the
merest shadow, a smile, a passing word, your mere 'Thank you, Tony,' as
I held your stirrup, the little word of recognition you would give when
I had done something that pleased you,--these--any of them--would send
me home happy,--happier, perhaps, than I ever shall be again.”
“No, Tony, do not believe that,” said she, calmly; “not,” added she,
hastily, “that I can acquit myself of all wrong to you. No; I was in
fault,--gravely in fault I ought to have seen what would have come of
all our intimacy; I ought to have known that I could not develop all
that was best in your nature without making you turn in gratitude--well,
in love--to myself; but shall I tell you the truth? I over-estimated my
power over you. I not only thought I could make you love, but unlove me;
and I never thought what pain that lesson might cost--each of us.”
“It would have been fairer to have cast me adrift at first,” said he,
fiercely.
“And yet, Tony, you will be generous enough one of these days to think
differently!”
“I certainly feel no touch of that generosity now.”
“Because you are angry with me, Tony,--because you will not be just to
me; but when you have learned to think of me as your sister, and
can come and say, Dear Alice, counsel me as to this, advise me as to
that,--then there will be no ill-will towards me for all I have done to
teach you the great stores that were in your own nature.”
“Such a day as that is distant,” said he, gloomily.
“Who knows? The changes which work within us are not to be measured by
time; a day of sorrow will do the work of years.”
“There! that lantern at the peak is the signal for me to be off. The
skipper promised to give me notice; but if you will say 'Stay!' be it
so. No, no, Alice, do not lay your hand on my arm if you would not have
me again deceive myself.”
“You will write to me, Tony?”
He shook his head to imply the negative.
“Well, to Bella, at least?”
“I think not. I will not promise. Why should I? Is it to try and knot
together the cords we have just torn, that you may break them again at
your pleasure?”
“How ungenerous you are!”
“You reminded me awhile ago it was my devotion to you that civilized me;
is it not natural that I should go back to savagery, as my allegiance
was rejected?”
“You want to be Garibaldian in love as in war,” said she, smiling.
The deep boom of a gun floated over the bay, and Tony started.
“That's the last signal,--good-bye.” He held out his hand.
“Good-bye, dear Tony,” said she. She held her cheek towards him. He
hesitated, blushed till his face was in a dame, then stooped and kissed
her. Skeff's voice was heard at the instant at the door; and Tony rushed
past him and down the stairs, and then, with mad speed, dashed along to
the jetty, leaped into the boat, and, covering his face with his hands,
never raised his head till they were alongside.
“You were within an inch of being late, Tony,” cried M'Gruder, as he
came up the side. “What detained you?”
“I 'll tell you all another time,--let me go below now;” and he
disappeared down the ladder. The heavy paddles flapped slowly, then
faster; and the great mass moved on, and made for the open sea.
CHAPTER LX. A DECK WALK
The steamer was well ont to sea when Tony appeared on deck. It was
a calm, starlight night,--fresh, but not cold. The few passengers,
however, had sought their berths below, and the only one who lingered on
deck was M'Grader and one other, who, wrapped in a large boat-cloak, lay
fast asleep beside the binnacle.
“I was thinking you had turned in,” said M'Grader to Tony, “as you had
not come up.”
“Give me a light; I want a smoke badly. I felt that something was wrong
with me, though I did n't know what it was. Is this Rory here?”
“Yes, sound asleep, poor fellow.”
“I 'll wager a trifle he has a lighter heart than either of us, Sam.”
“It might easily be lighter than mine,” sighed M'Grader, heavily.
Tony sighed too, but said nothing, and they walked along side by side,
with that short jerking stride men pace a deck with, feeling some sort
of companionship, although no words were exchanged between them.
“You were nigh being late,” said M'Grader, at last “What detained you on
shore?”
“I saw her!” said Tony, in a low muffled voice.
“You saw her! Why, you told me you were determined not to see her.”
“So I was, and so I intended. It came about by mere accident That
strange fellow, Skeffy, you've heard me speak of,--he pushed me plump
into the room where she was, and there was nothing to be done but to
speak to her.”
“Well?”
“Well! I spoke,” said he, half gruffly; and then, as if correcting the
roughness of his tone, added, “It was just as I said it would be; just
as I told you. She liked me well enough as a brother, but never thought
of me as anything else. All the interest she had taken in me was out of
friendship. She didn't say this haughtily, not a bit; she felt herself
much older than me, she said; that she felt herself better was like
enough, but she never hinted it, but she let me feel pretty plainly that
we were not made for each other; and though the lesson wasn't much to my
liking, I began to see it was true.”
“Did you really?”
“I did,” said he, with a deep sigh. “I saw that all the love I had borne
her was only paid back in a sort of feeling half compassionately, half
kindly; that her interest in me was out of some desire to make
something out of me; I mean, to force me to exert myself and do
something,--anything besides living a hanger-on at a great house. I have
a notion, too,--Heaven knows if there 's anything in it,--but I 've a
notion, Sam, if she had never known me till now,--if she had never
seen me idling and lounging about in that ambiguous position I
held,--something between gamekeeper and reduced gentleman,--that I might
have had a better chance.”
M'Gruder nodded a half-assent, and Tony continued: “I'll tell you why
I think so. Whenever she asked me about the campaign and the way I was
wounded, and what I had seen, there was quite a change in her voice, and
she listened to what I said very differently from the way she heard me
when I talked to her of my affection for her.”
“There 's no knowing them! there's no knowing them!” said M'Gruder,
drearily; “and how did it end?”
“It ended that way.”
“What way?”
“Just as I told you. She said she'd always be the same as a sister to
me, and that when I grew older and wiser I 'd see that there should
never have been any closer tie between us. I can't repeat the words she
used, but it was something to this purport,--that when a woman has been
lecturing a man about his line of life, and trying to make something out
of him, against the grain of his own indolence, she can't turn suddenly
round and fall in love, even though _he_ was in love with _her_.”
“She has a good head on her shoulders, she has,” muttered M'Gruder.
“I'd rather she had a little more heart,” said Tony, peevishly.
“That may be; but she's right, after all.”
“And why is she right? why should n't she see me as I am now, and not
persist in looking at me as I used to be?”
“Just because it's not her humor, I suppose; at least, I don't know any
better reason.”
Tony wheeled suddenly away from his companion, and took two or three
turns alone. At last he said, “She never told me so, but I suppose the
truth was, all this time she _did_ think me very presumptuous; and that
what her mother did not scruple to say to me in words, Alice had often
said to her own heart.”
“You are rich enough now to make you her equal.”
“And I 'd rather be as poor as I used to be and have the hopes that have
left me.”
M'Gruder gave a heavy sigh, and, turning away, leaned on the bulwark and
hid his face. “I'm a bad comforter, Tony,” said he at last, and speaking
with difficulty. “I did n't mean to have told you, for you have cares
enough of your own, but I may as well tell you,--read that.” As he
spoke, he drew out a letter and handed it to him; and Tony, stooping
down beside the binnacle light, read it over twice.
“This is clear and clean beyond me,” exclaimed he, as he stood up. “From
any other girl I could understand it; but Dolly,--Dolly Stewart, who
never broke her word in her life,--I never knew her tell a lie as a
little child. What can she mean by it?”
“Just what she says--there--she thought she could marry me, and she
finds she cannot.”
“But why?”
“Ah! that's more than she likes to tell me,--more, mayhap, than she 'd
tell any one.”
“Have you any clew to it?”
“None,--not the slightest.”
“Is your sister-in-law in it? Has she said or written anything that
Dolly could resent?”
“No; don't you mark what she says at the end? 'You must not try to
lighten any blame you would lay on me by thinking that any one has
influenced me. The fault is all my own. It is I myself have to ask your
forgiveness.'”
“Was there any coldness in your late letters? Was there anything that
she could construe into change of affection?”
“Nothing,--nothing.”
“What will her father say to it?” said Tony, after a pause.
“She's afraid of that herself. You mind the words?--'If I meet
forgiveness from you, I shall not from others, and my fault will bear
its heavy punishment on a heart that is not too happy.' Poor thing! I
do forgive her,--forgive her with all my heart; but it's a great blow,
Tony.”
“If she was a capricious girl, I could understand it, but that's what
she never was.”
“No, no; she was true and honest in all things.”
“It may be something about her father; he's an old man, and failing. She
cannot bear to leave him, perhaps, and it's just possible she could n't
bring herself to say it. Don't you think it might be that?”
“Don't give me a hope, Tony. Don't let me see a glimpse of light, my
dear friend, if there 's to be no fulfilment after.”
The tone of emotion he spoke in made Tony unable to reply for some
minutes. “I have no right to say this, it is true,” said he, kindly;
“but it's the nearest guess I can make: I know, for she told me so
herself, she 'd not go and be a governess again if she could help it.”
“Oh, if you were to be right, Tony! Oh, if it was to be as you suspect;
for we could make him come out and live with us here! We've plenty of
room, and it would be a pleasure to see him happy, and at rest, after
his long life of labor. Let us read the letter over together, Tony, and
see how it agrees with that thought;” and now they both crouched down
beside the light, and read it over from end to end. Here and there were
passages that they pondered over seriously, and some they read twice
and even thrice, and although they brought to this task the desire to
confirm a speculation, there was that in the tone of the letter that
gave little ground for their hope. It was so self-accusing throughout,
that it was plain she herself laid no comfort to her own heart in the
thought of a high duty fulfilled.
“Are you of the same mind still?” asked M'Gruder, sadly, and with little
of hopefulness in his voice; and Tony was silent.
“I see you are not. I see that you cannot give me such a hope.”
“Have you answered this yet?”
“Yes, I have written it; but it's not sent off. I kept it by me to read
over, and see that there was nothing harsh or cruel,--nothing I would
not say in cold blood; for oh, Tony! I will avow it was hard to forgive
her; no, I don't mean that, but it was hard to bring myself to believe
I had lost her forever. For a while I thought the best thing I could do
was to comfort myself by thinking how false she was, and I took out all
her letters, to convince me of her duplicity; but what do you think I
found? They all showed me, what I never saw till then, that she was only
going to be my wife out of a sort of resignation; that the grief and
fretting of her poor father at leaving her penniless in the world was
more than she could bear; and that to give him the comfort of his
last few days in peace, she 'd make any sacrifice; and through all
the letters, though I never saw it before, she laid stress on what she
called doing her best to make me happy, but there was no word of being
happy herself.”
Perhaps Tony did not lay the same stress on this that his friend did;
perhaps no explanation of it came readily to his mind; at all events, he
made no attempt at comment, and only said,--
“And what will your answer be?”
“What can it be?--to release her, of course.”
“Ay, but how will you say it?”
“Here's what I have written; it is the fourth attempt, and I don't much
like it yet, but I can't do it better.”
And once more they turned to the light while M'Gruder read out his
letter. It was a kind and feeling letter; it contained not one word of
reproach, but it said that, into the home he had taken, and where he
meant to be so happy, he 'd never put foot again. “You ought to have
seen it, Tony,” said he, with a quiver in his voice. “It was all so neat
and comfortable; and the little room I meant to be Dolly's own was
hung round with prints, and there was a little terrace, with some
orange-trees and myrtles, that would grow there all through the
winter,--for it was a sheltered spot under the Monte Nero; but it's all
over now.”
“Don't send off that letter. I mean, let me see her and speak to her
before you write. I shall be at home, I hope, by Wednesday, and I'll go
over to the Burnside,--or, better still, I 'll make my mother ask Dolly
to come over to us. Dolly loves her as if she were her own mother, and
if any one can influence her she will be that one.”
“But I'd not wish her to come round by persuasion, Tony. Dolly's a girl
to have a will of her own, and she's never made op her mind to write me
that letter without thinking well over it.”
“Perhaps she'll tell my mother her reasons. Perhaps she'll say why she
draws back from her promise.”
“I don't even know that I'd like to drive her to that; it mightn't be
quite fair.”
Tony flung away his cigar with impatience; he was irritated, for he
bethought him of his own case, and how it was quite possible that no
such scruples of delicacy would have interfered with him if he could
only have managed to find out what was passing in Alice's mind.
“I 'm sure,” said M'Gruder, “you agree with me, Tony; and if she says,
'Don't hold me to my pledge,' I have no right to ask why.”
A short shrug of the shoulders was all Tony's answer.
“Not that I 'd object to your saying a word for me, Tony, if there was
to be any hope from it,--saying what a warm friend could say of one he
thought well of. You 've been living under the same roof with me, and
you know more of my nature, and my ways and my temper, than most men,
and mayhap what you could tell her might have its weight.”
“That I know and believe.”
“But don't think only of me, Tony. _She's_ more to be considered than
I am; and if this bargain was to be unhappy for her, it would only be
misery for both of us. You'd not marry your own sweetheart against her
own will?”
Tony neither agreed to nor dissented from this remark. The chances were
that it was a proposition not so readily solved, and that he 'd like to
have thought over it.
“No; I know you better than that,” said M'Gruder, once more.
“Perhaps not,” remarked Tony; but the tone certainly gave no positive
assurance of a settled determination. “At all events, I 'll see what I
can do for you.”
“If it was that she cares for somebody else that she could n't
marry,--that her father disliked, or that he was too poor,--I 'd never
say one word; because who can tell what changes may come in life, and
the man that could n't support a wife now, in a year or two may be well
off and thriving? And if it was that she really liked another,--you
don't think that likely? Well, neither do I; but I say it here because I
want to take in every consideration of the question; but I repeat, if
it were so, I 'd never utter one word against it. Your mother, Tony, is
more likely to find _that_ out than any of us; and if she says Dolly's
heart is given away already, that will be enough. I 'll not trouble nor
torment her more.”
Tony grasped his friend's hand and shook it warmly, some vague suspicion
darting through him at the time that this rag-merchant was more generous
in his dealing with the woman he loved than he, Tony, would have been.
Was it that he loved less, or was it that his love was more? Tony could
n't tell; nor was it so very easy to resolve it either way.
As day broke, the steamer ran into Leghorn to land some passengers and
take in others; and M'Gruder, while he took leave of Tony, pointed to
a red-tiled roof rising amongst some olive-trees,--the quaint little
pigeon-house on top surmounted with a weather-vane fashioned into an
enormous letter S.
“There it is,” said he, with a shake in his voice; “that was to have
been her home. I 'll not go near it till I hear from you, and you may
tell her so. Tell her you saw it, Tony, and that it was a sweet little
spot, where one might look for happiness if they could only bring a
quiet heart to it. And above all, Tony, write to me frankly and openly,
and don't give me any hopes if your own conscience tells you I have no
right to them.”
With a strong grasp of the hand, and a long full look at each other
in silence, M'Grader went over the side to his boat, and the steamer
ploughed on her way to Marseilles.
CHAPTER LXI. TONY AT HOME AGAIN
Though Tony was eager to persuade Rory to accompany him home, the poor
fellow longed so ardently to see his friends and relations, to tell all
that he had done and suffered for “the cause,” and to show the rank he
had won, that Tony yielded at last, and only bound him by a promise
to come and pass his Christmas at the Causeway; and now he hastened on
night and day, feverishly impatient to see his mother, and yearning for
that affection which his heart had never before so thirsted after.
There were times when he felt that, without Alice, all his good fortune
in life was valueless; and it was a matter of utter indifference whether
he was to see himself surrounded with every means of enjoyment, or rise
each morning to meet some call of labor. And then there were times when
he thought of the great space that separated them,--not in condition,
but in tastes and habits and requirements. She was of that gay and
fashionable world that she adorned,--made for it, and made to like it;
its admiration and its homage were things she looked for. What would
he have done if obliged to live in such a society? His delight was the
freedom of an out-of-door existence,--the hard work of field-sports,
dashed with a certain danger that gave them their zest. In these he
admitted no man to be his superior; and in this very conscious strength
lay the pride that sustained him. Compel him, however, to live in
another fashion, surround him with the responsibilities of station, and
the demands of certain ceremonies, and he would be wretched. “Perhaps
she saw all that,” muttered he to himself. “With that marvellous
quickness of hers, who knows if she might not have foreseen how unsuited
I was to all habits but my own wayward careless ones? And though I hope
I shall always be a gentleman, in truth there are some forms of the
condition that puzzle me sorely.
“And, after all, have I not my dear mother to look after and make happy?
and what a charm it will give to life to see her surrounded with the
little objects she loved and cared for! What a garden she shall have!”
Climate and soil, to be sure, were stiff adversaries to conquer,
but money and skill could fight them; and that school for the little
girls--the fishermen's daughters--that she was always planning, and
always wondering Sir Arthur Lyle had never thought of, she should have
it now, and a pretty building, too, it should be. He knew the very spot
to suit it, and how beautiful he would make their own little cottage,
if his mother should still desire to live there. Not that he thought of
this positively with perfect calm and indifference. To live so near
the Lyles, and live estranged from them, would be a great source of
unpleasantness, and yet how could he possibly renew his relations there,
now that all was over between Alice and himself? “Ah,” thought he, at
last, “the world would stand still if it had to wait for stupid fellows
like me to solve its difficulties. I must just let events happen, and do
the best I can when they confront me;” and then mother would be there,
mother would counsel and advise him; mother would warn him of this, and
reconcile him to that; and so he was of good cheer as to the future,
though there were things in the present that pressed him sorely.
It was about an hour after dark of a starry, sharp October evening, that
the jaunting-car on which he travelled drove up to the spot where the
little pathway turned off to the cottage, and Jeanie was there with her
lantern waiting for him.
“You've no a' that luggage, Maister Tony?” cried she, as the man
deposited the fourth trunk on the road.
“How's my mother?” asked he, impatiently,--“is she well?”
“Why wouldn't she be weel, and hearty too?” said the girl, who rather
felt the question as savoring of ingratitude, seeing what blessings of
fortune had been showered upon them.
As he walked hurriedly along, Jeanie trotted at his side, telling him,
in broken and disjointed sentences, the events of the place,--the joy of
the whole neighborhood on hearing of his new wealth; their hopes that
he might not leave that part of the country; what Mrs. Blackie of Craigs
Mills said at Mrs. Dumphy's christening, when she gave the name of Tony
to the baby, and wouldn't say Anthony; and how Dr. M'Candlish improved
the occasion for “twa good hours, wi' mair text o' Scripture than wad
make a Sabbath-day's discourse; and ech, Maister Tony, it's a glad heart
I'll hae o' it all, if I could only think that you 'll no be going to
keep a man creature,--a sort of a butler like; there 's no such wastefu'
bodies in the world as they, and wanting mair ceremonies than the best
gentleman in the land.”
Before Tony had finished assuring her that no change in the household
should displace herself, they had reached the little wicket; his mother,
as she stood at the door, caught the sound of his voice, rushed out to
meet him, and was soon clasped in his arms.
“It's more happiness than I hoped for,--more, far more,” was all she
could say, as she clung to him. Her next words were uttered in a cry of
joy, when the light fell full upon him in the doorway,--“you 're just
your father, Tony; it's your own father's self I see standing before me,
if you had not so much hair over your face.”
“I 'll soon get rid of that, mother, if you dislike it.”
“Let it be, Master Tony,--let it be,” cried Jeanie; “though it
frightened me a bit at first, it 's no so bad when one gets used to it.”
Though Mrs. Butler had determined to make Tony relate every event that
took place from the day he left her, in regular narrative order, nothing
could be less connected, nothing less consecutive, than the incidents he
recounted. Now it would be some reminiscence of his messenger
days,--of his meeting with that glorious Sir Joseph, who treated him so
handsomely; then of that villain who stole his despatches; of his
life as a rag-merchant, or his days with Garibaldi. Rory, too, was
remembered; and he related to his mother the pious fraud by which he had
transferred to his humble follower the promotion Garibaldi had bestowed
upon himself.
“He well deserved it, and more; he carried me, when I was wounded,
through the orchard at Melazzo on his back, and though struck with a
bullet himself, never owned he was hit till he fell on the grass beside
me,--a grand fellow that, mother, though he never learned to read.” And
there was a something of irony in his voice as he said this, that showed
how the pains of learning still rankled in his mind.
“And you never met the Lyles? How strange!” exclaimed she.
“Yes, I met Alice; at least,” said he, stooping down to settle the log
on the fire, “I saw her the last evening I was at Naples.”
“Tell me all about it”
“There 's no all. I met her, we talked together for half an hour or so,
and we parted; there's the whole of it.”
“She had heard, I suppose, of your good fortune?”
“Yes, Skeff had told them the story and, I take it, made the most of our
wealth; not that rich people like the Lyles would be much impressed by
our fortune.”
“That may be true, Tony, but rich folk have a sympathy with other
rich folk, and they 're not very wrong in liking those whose condition
resembles their own. What did Alice say? Did she give you some good
advice as to your mode of life?”
“Yes, plenty of that; she rather likes advice-giving.”
“She was always a good friend of yours, Tony. I mind well when she used
to come here to hear your letters read to her. She ever made the same
remark: 'Tony is a fine true-hearted boy; and when he's moulded and
shaped a bit by the pressure of the world, he 'll grow to be a fine
true-hearted man.'”
“It was very gracious of her, no doubt,” said he, with a sharp, short
tone; “and she was good enough to contribute a little to that self-same
'pressure' she hoped so much from.”
His mother looked at him to explain his words, but he turned his head
away and was silent.
“Tell me something about home, mother. How are the Stewarts? Where is
Dolly?”
“They are well, and Dolly is here; and a dear good girl she is.
Ah, Tony! if you knew all the comfort she has been to me in your
absence,--coming here through sleet and snow and storm, and nursing me
like a daughter.”
“I liked her better till I learned how she had treated that good-hearted
fellow Sam M'Gruder. Do you know how she has behaved to him?”
“I know it all. I read her letters, every one of them.”
“And can you mean that you defend her conduct?'”
“I mean that if she were to marry a man she did not love, and were
dishonest enough not to tell him so, I 'd not attempt to defend her.
There's what I mean, Tony.”
“Why promise him, then,--why accept him?”
“She never did.”
“Ah!” exclaimed he, holding up both his hands.
“I know what I say, Tony. It was the doctor answered the letter in which
Mr. M'Gruder proposed for Dolly. He said that he could not, would not,
use any influence over his daughter; but that, from all he had learned
of Mr. M'Gruder's character, he would give his free consent to the
match.”
“Well, then, Dolly said--”
“Wait a bit, I am coming to Dolly. She wrote back that she was sorry he
had not first written to herself, and she would frankly have declared
that she did not wish to marry; but now, as he had addressed her
father,--an old man in failing health, anxious above all things about
what was to become of her when he was removed,--the case was a more
difficult one, since to refuse his offer was to place herself in
opposition to her father's will,--a thing that in all her life had never
happened. 'You will see from this,' said she, 'that I could not bring
to you that love and affection which would be your right, were I only
to marry you to spare my father's anxieties. You ought to have more than
this in your wife, and I cannot give you more; therefore do not persist
in this suit, or, at all events, do not press it.'”
“But I remember your writing me word that Dolly was only waiting till I
left M'Gruder's house, or quitted the neighborhood, to name the day she
would be married. How do you explain that?”
“It was her father forced her to write that letter: his health was
failing, and his irritability had increased to that degree that at times
we were almost afraid of his reason, Tony; and I mind well the night
Dolly came over to show me what she had written. She read it in that
chair where you are sitting now, and when she finished she fell on her
knees, and, hiding her face in my lap, she sobbed as if her poor heart
was breaking.”
“So, in fact, she was always averse to this match?”
“Always. She never got a letter from abroad that I could n't have told
it by her red eyes and swelled eyelids, poor lassie!”
“I say, 'poor fellow!' mother; for I declare that the man who marries a
woman against her will has the worst of it.”
“No, no, Tony; all sorrows fall heaviest on the helpless. When at last
the time came that she could bear no more, she rallied her courage
and told her father that if she were to marry M'Gruder it would be the
misery of her whole life. He took it very ill at first; he said some
very cruel things to her; and, indeed, it was only after seeing how
I took the lassie's side, and approved of all she had done, that he
yielded and gave way. But he isn't what he used to be, Tony. Old age,
they say, makes people sometimes sterner and harder. A grievous thing
to think of, that we 'd be more worldly just when the world was slipping
away beneath us; and so what do you think he does? The same day
that Dolly writes that letter to M'Gruder, he makes her write to Dr.
M'Candlish to say that she 'd take a situation as a governess with
a family going to India which the doctor mentioned was open to any
well-qualified young person like herself. 'Ye canna say that your “heart
will be broke wi' treachery” here, lassie,' said her father, jeering at
what she said in her tears about the marriage.”
“You oughtn't to suffer this, mother; you ought to offer Dolly a home
here with yourself.”
“It was what I was thinking of. Tony; but I did n't like to take any
step in it till I saw you and spoke to you.”
“Do it, by all means,--do it to-morrow.”
“Not to-morrow, Tony, nor even the next day; for Dolly and the doctor
left this to pass a few days with the M'Candlishes at Articlave, and
they 'll not be back before Saturday; but I am so glad that you like the
plan,--so glad that it came from yourself too.”
“It's the first bit of pleasure our new wealth has given us, mother; may
it be a good augury!”
“That's a heathenish word, Tony, and most unsuited to be used in
thankfulness for God's blessings.”
Tony took the rebuke in good part, and, to change the topic, laughingly
asked if she thought Garibaldians never were hungry, for she had said
nothing of supper since he came.
“Jeanie has been in three times to tell you it was ready, and the last
time she said she 'd come no more; but come, and we'll see what there's
for us.”
CHAPTER LXII. SKEFF DAMER'S LAST “PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL”
After some four or five days passed almost like a dream--for while he
stood in the midst of old familiar objects, all Tony's thoughts as to
the future were new and strange--there came a long letter from Skeff
Darner, announcing his approaching marriage with Bella,--the “dear old
woman of Tilney” having behaved “beautifully.” “Short as the time has
been since you left this, my brave Tony, great events have occurred. The
King has lost his throne, and Skeff Darner has gained an estate. I would
have saved him, for I really like the Queen; but that his obstinacy is
such, the rescue would have only been a reprieve, not a pardon. Sicily I
meant for us,--I mean for England,--myself to be the Viceroy. The silver
mines at Stromboli have never been worked since the time of Tiberius;
they contain untold wealth: and as to coral fishery, I have obtained
statistics will make your teeth water. I can show you my calculations
in hard figures, that in eight years and four months I should be
the richest man in Europe,--able to purchase the soil of the island
out-and-out, if the British Government were stupid enough not to see
that they ought to establish me and my dynasty there. These are now but
visions,--grand and glorious visions, it is true,--and dearest Bella
sheds tears when I allude to them.
“I have had a row with 'the Office;' they blame me for the downfall of
the monarchy, but they never told me to save it. To you I may make the
confession, it was the two days I passed at Cava cost this Bourbon his
crown. Not that I regret, my dear Tony, this tribute to friendship.
During that interval, as Caraffa expresses it, they were paralyzed.
'Where is Damer?' 'Who has seen Skeff?' 'What has become of him?' 'With
whom is he negotiating?' were the questions on every side; and in the
very midst of the excitement, back comes the fellow M'Caskey, the
little fiery-faced individual you insisted in your raving on calling my
'godfather,' and declares that I am in the camp of the Garibaldians, and
making terms and stipulations with the General himself. The Queen-Mother
went off in strong hysterics when she heard it; the King never uttered a
word,--has never spoken since,--and the dear Queen merely said, 'Darner
will never betray us.'
“These particulars I learned from Francardi. Meanwhile Garibaldi, seeing
the immense importance of my presence at his head-quarters, pushes
on for the capital, and enters Naples, as he gives out, with the
concurrence and approval of England! You will, I have no doubt, hear
another version of this event. You will be told bushels of lies about
heroic daring and frantic popular enthusiasm. To your friendly breast
I commit the truth, never to be revealed, however, except to a remote
posterity.
“One other confession, and I have done,--done with politics forever.
You will hear of Garibaldi as a brave, straightforward, simple-minded,
unsuspectful man, hating intrigues of all kinds. This is totally wrong.
With all his courage, it is as nothing to his craft He is the deepest
politician, and the most subtle statesman in Europe, and, to my
thinking,--mind, it is _my_ estimate I give you,--more of Machiavelli
than any man of his day. Bear this in mind, and keep your eye on him in
future. We had not been five minutes together till each of us had read
the other. We were the two 'Augurs' of the Latin satirist, and if we did
n't laugh, we exchanged a recognition just as significant. I ought to
tell you that he is quite frantic at my giving up political life, and
he says that my retirement will make Cavour's fortune, for there is no
other man left fit to meet him. There was not a temptation, not a bribe,
he did not throw out to induce me to withhold my resignation; and when
he found that personal advantages had no weight with me, he said, 'Mind
my words, Monsieur Darner; the day will come when you will regret this
retirement. When you will see the great continent of Europe convulsed
from one end to the other, and yourself no longer in the position to
influence the course of events, and guide the popular will, you will
bitterly regret this step.' But I know myself better. What could the
Peerage, what could the Garter, what could a seat in the Cabinet do for
me? I have been too long and too much behind the scenes to be dazzled by
the blaze of the 'spectacle.' I want repose, a home, the charms of
that domestic life which are denied to the mere man of ambition. Bella,
indeed, has her misgivings, that to live without greatness--greatness
in action, and greatness to come--will be a sore trial to me; but I tell
her, as I tell you, my dear friend, that it is exactly the men who,
like myself, have moved events, and given the spring to the greatest
casualties, who are readiest to accept tranquillity and peace as the
first of blessings. Under the shade of my old elms at Tilney--I may call
them mine already, as Reeves and Tucker are drawing out the deeds--I
will write my memoirs,--one of the most interesting contributions, when
it appears, that history has received for the last century. I can afford
to be fearless, and I will be; and if certain noble lords go down to
posterity with tarnished honor and diminished fame, they can date the
discovery to the day when they disparaged a Darner.
“Now for a minor key. We led a very jolly life on board the 'Talisman;'
only needing yourself to make it perfect. My Lady L. was 'out of
herself' at your not coming; indeed, since your accession to fortune,
she has discovered some very amiable and some especially attractive
qualities in your nature, and that if you fall amongst the right
people--I hope you appreciate the sort of accident intended--you will
become a very superior article. Bella is, as always, a sincere friend;
and though Alice says, nothing, she does not look ungrateful to him
who speaks well of you. Bella has told me in confidence--mind, in
confidence--that all is broken off between Alice and you, and says it
is all the better for both; that you were a pair of intractable tempers,
and that the only chance for either of you is to be allied to somebody
or something that would consent to think you perfection, and yet manage
you as if you were not what is called 'absolute wisdom.'
“Bella also said, 'Tony might have had some chance with Alice had he
remained poor; the opposition of her family would have had its weight
in influencing her in his favor; but now that he is a prize in the
matrimonial lottery, she is quite ready to see any defects he may have,
and set them against all that would be said in his behalf. Last of all,
she likes her independence as a widow. I half suspected that Maitland
had been before you in her favor; but Bella says not. By the way, it
was the fortune that has fallen to you Maitland had always expected;
Sir Omerod having married, or, as some say, not married, his mother, and
adopted Maitland, who contrived to spend about eighty thousand of the
old man's savings in ten or eleven years. He is a strange fellow, and
mysterious to the last. Since the overthrow of the Government, we have
been reduced to ask protection to the city from the secret society
called the Camorra, a set of Neapolitan Thugs, who cut throats in
reciprocity; and it was by a guard of these wretches that we were
escorted to the ship's boats when we embarked. Bella swears that the
chief of the gang was no other than Maitland, greatly disguised, of
course; but she says that she recognized him by his teeth as he smiled
accidentally. It would be, of course, at the risk of his life he was
there, since anything that pertained to the Court would, if discovered,
be torn to fragments by the people. My 'godfather' had a narrow escape
on Tuesday last. He rode through the Toledo in full uniform, amidst all
the people, who were satisfied with hissing him instead of treating him
to a stiletto, and the rascal grinned an insolent defiance as he went,
and said, as he gained the Piazza, 'You 're not such bad _canaille_,
after all; I have seen worse in Mexico.' He went on board a
despatch-boat in the bay, and ordered the commander to take him to
Gaeta; and the oddest of all is, the officer complied, overpowered,
as better men have been, by the scoundrels impertinence. Oh, Tony,
to you,--to yourself, to your heart's most secret closet, fast to be
locked, when you have my secret inside of it,--to _you_, I own, that
the night I passed in that wretch's company is the darkest page of my
existence. He overwhelmed me with insult, and I had to bear it, just as
I should have to bear the buffeting of the waves if I had been thrown
into the sea. I 'd have strangled him then and there if I was able, but
the brute would have torn me limb from limb if I attempted it. Time may
diminish the acuteness of this suffering, but I confess to you, up to
this, when I think of what I went through, my humiliation overpowers me.
I hope fervently you may meet him one of these days. You have a little
score of your own, I suspect, to settle with him; at all events, if
the day of reckoning comes, include my balance, and trust to my eternal
gratitude.
“Here have come Alice and Bella to make me read out what I have written
to you; of course I have objected. This is a 'strictly private and
confidential.' What we do for the blue-books, Master Tony, we do in
a different fashion. Alice, perhaps, suspects the reasons of my
reserve,--'appreciates my reticence,' as we say in the 'Line.'
“At all events, she tells me to make you write to her. 'When Tony,' said
she, 'has found out that he was only in love with me because I made him
better known to his own heart, and induced him to develop some of his
own fine qualities, he 'll begin to see that we may and ought to be
excellent friends; and some day or other, when there shall be a
Mrs. Tony, if she be a sensible woman, she 'll not object to their
friendship.' She said this so measuredly and calmly that I can almost
trust myself to say I have reported her word for word. It reads to me
like a very polite _congé_. What do you say to it?
“The Lyles are going back at the end of the month, but Alice says
she 'll winter at Cairo. There is an insolent independence about these
widows, Tony, that adds one more terror to death. I protest I 'd like
to haunt the woman that could employ her freedom of action in this
arbitrary manner.
“Dearest Bella insists on your coming to our wedding; it will come off
at Tilney, strictly private. None but our nearest relatives, not even
the Duke of Dullchester, nor any of the Howards. They will feel it; but
it can't be helped, I suppose. Cincinnatus had to cut his connections,
too, when he took to horticulture. You, however, must not desert me; and
if you cannot travel without Rory, bring him with you.
“I am impatient to get away from this, and seek the safety of some
obscure retreat; for I know the persecution I shall be exposed to to
withdraw my resignation and remain. To this I will never consent. I give
it to you under my hand, Tony, and I give it the more formally, as
I desire it may be historic. I know well the whining tone they will
assume,--just as well as if I saw it before me in a despatch. 'What are
we to tell the Queen?' will be the cry. My dignified answer will be,
'Tell her that you made it impossible for one of the ablest of her
servants to hold his office with dignity. Tell her, too, that Skeff
Darner has done enough for honor; he now seeks to do something for
happiness.' Back to office again I will not go. Five years and two
months of unpaid services have I given to my country, and England is
not ashamed to accept the unrewarded labors of her gifted sons! My very
'extraordinaries' have been cavilled at. I give you my word of honor,
they have asked me for vouchers for the champagne and lobsters
with which I have treated some of the most dangerous regicides of
Europe,--men whose language would make your hair stand on end, and whose
sentiments actually curdled the blood as one listened to them.
“The elegant hospitalities which I dispensed, in the hope--vain
hope!--of inducing them to believe that the social amenities of life had
extended to our insular position,--these the Office declares they have
nothing to do with; and insolently asks me, 'Are there any other items
of my pleasure whose cost I should wish to submit to Parliament?'
“Ask Talleyrand, ask Metternich, ask any of our own people,--B., or S.,
or H.--since when have cookery and the ballet ceased to be the lawful
weapons of diplomacy?
“The day of reckoning for all this, my dear Tony, is coming. At first
I thought of making some of my friends in the House move for the
corrrespondence between F. O. and myself,--the Damer papers they would
be called, in the language of the public journals,--and thus bring on
a smashing debate. Reconsideration, however, showed me that my memoirs,
'Five Years of a Diplomatist on Service,' would be the more fitting
place; and in the pages of those volumes you will find revelations more
astounding, official knaveries more nefarious, and political intrigues
more Machiavellian, than the wildest imagination for wickedness has
ever conceived. What would they not have given rather than see such an
exposure? I almost think I will call my book '“Extraordinaries” of a
Diplomatist.' Sensational and taking both, that title! You mustn't
be provoked if, in one of the lighter chapters--there must be light
chapters--I stick in that little adventure of your own with my
godfather.”
“Confound the fellow!” muttered Tony, and with such a hearty indignation
that his mother heard him from the adjoining room, and hastened in
to ask who or what had provoked him. Tony blundered out some sort of
evasive reply, and then said, “Was it Dr. Stewart's voice I heard there
a few minutes ago?”
“Yes, Tony; he called in as he was passing to Coleraine on important
business. The poor man is much agitated by an offer that has just been
made him to go far away over the seas, and finish his days, one may call
it, at the end of the world. Some of this country folk, it seems, who
settled in New Zealand, at a place they call Wellington Gap, had invited
him to go out there and minister among them; and though he 's not minded
to make the change at his advanced time of life, nor disposed to lay his
bones in a far-away land, yet for Dolly's sake--poor Dolly, who will be
left friendless and homeless when he is taken away--he thinks, maybe,
it's his duty to accept the offer; and so he's gone into the town to
consult Dr. M'Candlish and the elder Mr. Mc Elwain, and a few other
sensible men.”
“Why won't Dolly marry the man she ought to marry,--a good true-hearted
fellow, who will treat her well and be kind to her? Tell me that,
mother.”
“It mauna be,--it mauna be,” said the old lady, who, when much moved,
frequently employed the Scotch dialect unconsciously.
“Is there a reason for her conduct?”
“There is a reason,” said she, firmly.
“And do you know it? Has she told you what it is?”
“I'm not at liberty to talk over this matter with you, Tony. Whatever I
know, I know as a thing confided to me in honor.”
“I only asked, Was the reason one that you yourself were satisfied
with?”
“It was, and is,” replied she, gravely.
“Do you think, from what you know, that Dolly would listen to any
representations I might make her? for I know M'Grader thoroughly, and
can speak of him as a friend likes to speak.”
“No, no, Tony; don't do it! don't do it!” cried she, with a degree of
emotion that perfectly amazed him, for the tears swam in her eyes, and
her lips trembled as she spoke. He stared fixedly at her; but she turned
away her head, and for some minutes neither spoke.
“Come, mother,” said Tony, at last, and in his kindliest voice, “you
have a good head of your own; think of some way to prevent the poor old
doctor from going off into exile.”
“How could we help him that he would not object to?”
“What if you were to hit upon some plan of adopting Dolly? You have long
loved her as if she were your own daughter, and she has returned your
affections.”
“That she has,” muttered the old lady, as she wiped her eyes.
“What use is this new wealth of ours if it benefit none but ourselves,
mother? Just get the doctor to talk it all over with you, and say to
him, 'Have no fears as to Dolly; she shall never be forced to marry
against her inclinations,--merely for support; her home shall be here
with us, and she shall be no dependant, neither.' I'll take care of
that.”
“How like your father you said these words, Tony!” cried she, looking at
him with a gaze of love and pride together; “it was his very voice too.”
“I meant to have spoken to her on poor M'Grader's behalf,--I promised
him I would; but if you tell me it is of no use--”
“I tell you more, Tony,--I tell you it would be cruel; it would be worse
than cruel,” cried she, eagerly.
“Then I 'll not do it, and I 'll write to him to-day, and say so,
though, Heaven knows, I 'll be sorely puzzled to explain myself; but
as he is a true man, he 'll feel that I have done all for the best, and
that if I have not served his cause it has not been for any lack of the
will!”
“If you wish it, Tony, I could write to Mr. M'Gruder myself. A letter
from an old body like me is sometimes a better means to break a
misfortune than one from a younger hand. Age deals more naturally with
sorrow, perhaps.”
“You will be doing a kind thing, my dear mother,” said he, as he drew
her towards him, “and to a good fellow who deserves well of us.”
“I want to thank him, besides, for his kindness and care of you, Tony;
so just write his address for me there on that envelope, and I 'll do it
at once.”
“I'm off for a ramble, mother, till dinner-time,” said Tony, taking his
hat.
“Are you going up to the Abbey, Tony?”
“No,” said he, blushing slightly.
“Because, if you had, I'd have asked you to fetch me some fresh flowers.
Dolly is coming to dine with us, and she is so fond of seeing flowers on
the centre of the table.”
“No; I have nothing to do at the Abbey. I 'm off towards Portrash.”
“Why not go over to the Burnside and fetch Dolly?” said she, carelessly.
“Perhaps I may,--that is, if I should find myself in that quarter; but
I'm first of all bent on a profound piece of thoughtfulness or a good
smoke,--pretty much the same thing with me, I believe. So good-bye for a
while.”
His mother looked after him with loving eyes till the tears dulled them;
but there are tears which fall on the affections as the dew falls on
flowers, and these were of that number.
“His own father,--his own father!” muttered she, as she followed the
stalwart figure till it was lost in the distance.
CHAPTER LXIII. AT THE COTTAGE BESIDE THE CAUSEWAY
I must use more discretion as to Mrs. Butler's correspondence than I
have employed respecting Skeff Damer's. What she wrote on that morning
is not to be recorded here. It will be enough if I say that her letter
was not alone a kind one, but that it thoroughly convinced him who read
it that her view was wise and true, and that it would be as useless as
ungenerous to press Dolly further, or ask for that love which was not
hers to give.
It was a rare event with her to have to write a letter. It was not,
either, a very easy task; but if she had not the gift of facile
expression, she had another still better for her purpose,--an honest
nature steadfastly determined to perform a duty. She knew her subject,
too, and treated it with candor, while with delicacy.
While she wrote, Tony strolled along, puffing his cigar or re-lighting
it, for it was always going out, and dreaming away in his own misty
fashion over things past, present, and future, till really the actual
and the ideal became so thoroughly commingled he could not well
distinguish one from the other. He thought--he knew, indeed, he ought to
be very happy. All his anxieties as to a career and a livelihood ended,
he felt that a very enjoyable existence might lie before him; but
somehow,--he hoped he was not ungrateful,--but somehow he was not so
perfectly happy as he supposed his good fortune should have made him.
“Perhaps it will come later on; perhaps when I am active and employed;
perhaps when I shall have learned to interest myself in the things money
brings around a man; perhaps, too, when I can forget,--ay, that was
the lesson was hardest of all.” All these passing thoughts, a good
deal dashed through each other, scarcely contributed to enlighten his
faculties; and he rambled on over rocks and yellow strand, up hillsides,
and through fern-clad valleys, not in the least mindful of whither he
was going.
At last he suddenly halted, and saw he was in the shrubberies of Lyle
Abbey, his steps having out of old habit taken the one same path they
had followed for many a year. The place was just as he had seen it last.
Trees make no marvellous progress in the north of Ireland, and a longer
absence than Tony's would leave them just as they were before. All
was neat, orderly, and well kept; and the heaps of dried leaves and
brushwood ready to be wheeled away, stood there as he saw them when he
last walked that way with Alice. He was poor then, without a career,
or almost a hope of one; and yet it was possible, could it be possible,
that he was happier then than he now felt? Was it that love sufficed for
all, and that the heart so filled had no room for other thoughts
than those of her it worshipped? He certainly had loved her greatly.
She,--she alone made up that world in which he had lived. Her smile, her
step, her laugh, her voice,--ay, there they were, all before him. What a
dream it was! Only a dream, after all; for she never cared for him.
She had led him on to love her, half in caprice, half in a sort of
compassionate interest for a poor boy,--boy she called him,--to whom a
passion for one above him was certain to elevate and exalt him in his
own esteem. “Very kind, doubtless,” muttered he, “but very cruel too.
She might have remembered that this same dream was to have a very rough
awaking. I had built nearly every hope upon one, and that one, she well
knew, was never to be realized. It might not have been the most gracious
way to do it, but I declare it would have been the most merciful, to
have treated me as her mother did, who snubbed my pretensions at once.
It was all right that I should recognize her superiority over me in a
hundred ways; but perhaps she should not have kept it so continually in
mind, as a sort of barrier against a warmer feeling for me. I suppose
this is the fine-lady view of the matter. This is the theory that young
fellows are to be civilized, as they call it, by a passion for a woman
who is to amuse herself by their extravagances, and then ask their
gratitude for having deceived them.
“I 'll be shot if I _am_ grateful,” said he, as he threw his cigar into
the pond. “I 'm astonished--amazed--now that it's all over” (here his
voice shook a little), “that my stupid vanity could ever have led me
to think of her, or that I ever mistook that patronizing way she had
towards me for more than good-nature. But, I take it, there are scores
of fellows who have had the selfsame experiences. Here's the seat I
made for her,” muttered he, as he came in front of a rustic bench. For
a moment a savage thought crossed him that he would break it in pieces,
and throw the fragments into the lake,--a sort of jealous anger lest
some day or other she might sit there with “another;” but he restrained
himself, and said, “Better not; better let her see that her civilizing
process has done something, and that though I have lost my game I can
bear my defeat becomingly.”
He began to wish that she were there at that moment. Not that he might
renew his vows of love, or repledge his affection; but to show her how
calm and reasonable--ay, reasonable was her favorite word--he could be,
how collectedly he could listen to her, and how composedly reply. He
strolled up to the entrance door. It was open. The servants were busy in
preparing for the arrival of their masters, who were expected within the
week. All were delighted to see Master Tony again, and the words
somehow rather grated on his ears. It was another reminder of that same
“boyhood” he bore such a grudge against “I am going to have a look
out of the small drawing-room window, Mrs. Hayles,” said he to the
housekeeper, cutting short her congratulations, and hurrying upstairs.
It was true he went up for a view; but not of the coastline to Fairhead,
fine as it was. It was of a full-length portrait of Alice, life-size,
by Grant. She was standing beside her horse,--the Arab Tony trained for
her. A braid of her hair had fallen, and she was in the act of arranging
it, while one hand held up her drooping riding-dress. There was that in
the air and attitude that bespoke a certain embarrassment with a sense
of humorous enjoyment of the dilemma. A sketch from life, in fact,
had given the idea of the picture, and the reality of the incident was
unquestionable.
Tony blushed a deep crimson as he looked, and muttered, “The very smile
she had on when she said good-bye. I wonder I never knew her till now.”
A favorite myrtle of hers stood in the window; he broke off a sprig of
it, and placed it in his button-hole, and then slowly passed down the
stairs and out into the lawn. With very sombre thoughts and slow steps
he retraced his way to the cottage. He went over to himself much of his
past life, and saw it, as very young men will often in such retrospects,
far less favorably as regarded himself than it really was. He ought to
have done--Heaven knows what. He ought to have been--scores of things
which he never was, perhaps never could be. At all events, there was one
thing he never should have imagined, that Alice Lyle--she was Alice
Lyle always to him--in her treatment of him was ever more closely drawn
towards him than the others of her family. “It was simply the mingled
kindness and caprice of her nature that made, the difference; and if I
had n't been a vain fool, I 'd have seen it. I see it now, though; I
can read it in the very smile she has in her picture. To be sure I have
learned a good deal since I was here last; I have outgrown a good many
illusions. I once imagined this dwarfed and stinted scrub to be a wood.
I fancied the Abbey to be like a royal palace; and in Sicily a whole
battalion of us have bivouacked in a hall that led to suites of rooms
without number. If a mere glimpse of the world could reveal such
astounding truths, what might not come of a more lengthened experience?”
“How tired and weary you look, Tony!” said his mother, as he threw
himself into a chair; “have you overwalked yourself?”
“I suppose so,” said he, with a half smile. “In my poorer days I thought
nothing of going to the Abbey and back twice--I have done it even
thrice--in one day; but perhaps this weight of gold I carry now is too
heavy for me.”
“I 'd like to see you look more grateful for your good for time, Tony,”
said she, gravely.
“I'm not ungrateful, mother; but up to this I have not thought much of
the matter. I suspect, however, I was never designed for a life of ease
and enjoyment Do you remember what Dr. Stewart said one day?--'You may
put a weed in a garden, and dig round it and water it, and it will only
grow to be a big weed after all.'”
“I hope better from Tony,--far better,” said she, sharply. “Have you
answered M'Carthy's letter? Have you arranged where you are to meet the
lawyers?”
“I have said in Dublin. They couldn't come here, mother; we have no room
for them in this crib.”
“You must not call it a 'crib' for all that. It sheltered your father
once, and he carried a very high head, Tony.”
“And for that very reason, dear mother, I'm going to make it our
own home henceforth,--without you 'd rather go and live in that old
manor-house on the Nore; they tell me it is beautiful.”
“It was there your father was born, and I long to see it,” said she,
with emotion. “Who 's that coming in at the gate, Tony?”
“It is Dolly,” said he, rising, and going to the door to meet her.
“My dear Dolly,” cried he, as he embraced her, and kissed her on either
cheek; “this brings me back to old times at once.”
If it was nothing else, the total change in Tony's appearance abashed
her; the bronzed and bearded man, looking many years older than he was,
seemed little like the Tony she had seen last; and so she half shrank
back from his embrace, and, with a flushed cheek and almost constrained
manner, muttered some words of recognition.
“How well you are looking,” said he, staring at her, as she took off her
bonnet, “and the nice glossy hair has all grown again, and I vow it is
brighter and silkier than ever.”
“What's all this flattery about bright een and silky locks I'm listening
to?” said the old lady, coming out laughing into the ball.
“It's Master Tony displaying his foreign graces at my expense, ma'am,”
said Dolly, with a smile.
“Would you have known him again, Dolly? Would you have thought that
great hairy creature there was our Tony?”
“I think he is changed,--a good deal changed,” said Dolly, without
looking at him.
“I did n't quite like it at first; but I'm partly getting used to it
now; and though the Colonel never wore a beard on his upper lip, Tony's
more like him now than ever.” The old lady continued to ramble on about
the points of resemblance between the father and son, and where certain
traits of manner and voice were held in common; and though neither Tony
nor Dolly gave much heed to her words, they were equally grateful to her
for talking.
“And where 's the doctor, Dolly? Are we not to see him at dinner?”
“Not to-day, ma'am; he's gone over to M'Laidlaw's to make some
arrangements about this scheme of ours,--the banishment, he calls it.”
“And is it possible, Dolly, that he can seriously contemplate such a
step?” asked Tony, gravely.
“Yes; and very seriously too.”
“And you, Dolly; what do you say to it?”
“I say to it what I have often said to a difficulty, what the old Scotch
adage says of 'the stout heart to the stey brae.'”
“And you might have found more comforting words, lassie,--how the
winds can be tempered to the shorn lamb,” said the old lady, almost
rebukefully; and Dolly drooped her head in silence.
“I think it's a bad scheme,” said Tony, boldly, and as though not
hearing his mother's remark. “For a man at the doctor's age to go to the
other end of the globe, to live in a new land, and make new friendships
at his time of life, is, I 'm sure, a mistake.”
“That supposes that we have a choice; but my father thinks we have no
choice.”
“I cannot see that. I cannot see that what a man has borne for
five-and-thirty or forty years--he has been that long at the Burnside--I
believe he can endure still longer. I must have a talk with him myself
over it.” And unconsciously--quite unconsciously--Tony uttered the last
words with a high-sounding importance, so certain is it that in a
man's worldly wealth there is a store of self-confidence that no mere
qualities of head or heart can ever supply; and Dolly almost smiled at
the assured tone and the confident manner of her former playfellow.
“My father will be glad to see you, Tony,--he wants to hear all about
your campaigns; he was trying two nights ago to follow you on the map,
but it was such a bad one he had to give up the attempt.”
“I'll give you mine,” cried the old lady,--“the map Tony brought over to
myself. I 'll no just give it, but I 'll lend it to you; and there's
a cross wherever there was a battle, and a red cross wherever Tony was
wounded.”
“Pooh, pooh, mother! don't worry Dolly about these things; she 'd rather
hear of pleasanter themes than battles and battle-fields. And here is
one already,--Jeanie says, 'dinner'.”
“Where did you find your sprig of myrtle at this time?” asked Dolly, as
Tony led her in to dinner.
“I got it at the Abbey. I strolled up there to-day,” said he, in a
half-confusion. “Will you have it?”
“No,” said she, curtly.
“Neither will I, then,” cried he, tearing it out of his button-hole and
throwing it away.
What a long journey in life can be taken in the few steps from the
drawing-room to the dinner-table!
CHAPTER LXIV. THE END
As Dr. Stewart had many friends to consult and many visits to
make,--some of them, as he imagined, farewell ones,--Dolly was
persuaded, but not without difficulty, to take up her residence at the
cottage till she should be able to return home. And a very pleasant week
it was. To the old lady it was almost perfect happiness. She had her
dear Tony back with her after all his dangers and escapes, safe and
sound, and in such spirits as she had never seen him before. Not
a cloud, not a shadow, now ever darkened his bright face; all was
good-humor, and thoughtful kindness for herself and for Dolly.
And poor Dolly, too, with some anxious cares at her heart,--a load that
would have crushed many,--bore up so well that she looked as cheery as
the others, and entered into all the plans that Tony formed about his
future house, and his gardens and stables, as though many a hundred
leagues of ocean were not soon to roll between her and the spots she
traced so eagerly on the paper. One evening they sat even later than
usual. Tony had induced Dolly, who was very clever with her pencil,
to make him a sketch for a little ornamental cottage,--one of those
uninhabitable little homesteads, which are immensely suggestive of all
the comforts they would utterly fail to realize; and he leaned over her
as she drew, and his arm was on the back of her chair, and his face
so close at times that it almost touched the braids of the silky hair
beside him.
“You must make a porch there, Dolly; it would be so nice to sit there
with that noble view down the glen at one's feet, and three distinct
reaches of the Nore visible.”
“Yes, I'll make a porch; I'll even make you yourself lounging in it See,
it shall be perfect bliss!”
“What does that mean?”
“That means smoke, sir; you are enjoying the heavenly luxury of tobacco,
not the less intensely that it obscures the view.”
“No, Dolly, I'll not have that. If you put me there, don't have me
smoking; make me sitting beside you as we are now,--you drawing, and I
looking over you.”
“But I want to be a prophet as well as a painter, Tony. I desire to
predict something that will be sure to happen, if you should ever build
this cottage.”
“I swear I will,--I 'm resolved on it.”
“Well, then, so sure as you do, and so sure as you sit in that little
honeysuckle-covered porch, you 'll smoke.”
“And why not do as I say? Why not make you sketching--”
“Because I shall not be sketching; because, by the time your cottage is
finished, I shall probably be sketching a Maori chief, or a war-party
bivouacking on the Raki-Raki.”
Tony drew away his arm and leaned back in his chair, a sense almost of
faintish sickness creeping over him.
“Here are the dogs too,” continued she. “Here is Lance with his great
majestic face, and here Gertrude with her fine pointed nose and piercing
eyes, and here's little Spicer as saucy and pert as I can make him
without color; for one ought to have a little carmine for the corner of
his eye, and a slight tinge to accent the tip of his nose. Shall I
add all your 'emblems,' as they call them, and put in the fishing-rods
against the wall, and the landing-net, and the guns and pouches?”
She went on sketching with inconceivable rapidity, the drawing keeping
pace almost with her words.
But Tony no longer took the interest he had done before in the picture,
but seemed lost in some deep and difficult reflection.
“Shall we have a bridge--a mere plank will do--over the river here,
Tony? and then this zigzag pathway will be a short way up to the
cottage.”
He never heard her words, but arose and left the room. He passed out
into the little garden in front of the house, and, leaning on the gate,
looked out into the dark still night.
Poor Tony! impenetrable as that darkness was, it was not more difficult
to peer through than the thick mist that gathered around his thoughts.
“Is that Tony?” cried his mother from the doorway.
“Yes,” said he, moodily, for he wanted to be left to his own thoughts.
“Come here, Tony, and see what a fine manly letter your friend Mr.
M'Gruder writes in answer to mine.”
Tony was at her side in an instant, and almost tore the letter in his
eagerness to read it. It was very brief, but well deserved all she
had said of it. With a delicacy which perhaps might scarcely have been
looked for in a man so educated and brought up, he seemed to appreciate
the existence of a secret he had no right to question; and bitterly
as the resolve cost him, he declared that he had no longer a claim on
Dolly's affection.
“I scarcely understand him, mother; do you?” asked Tony.
“It 's not very hard to understand, Tony,” said she, gravely. “Mr.
M'Gruder sees that Dolly Stewart could not have given him her love and
affection as a man's wife ought to give, and he would be ashamed to take
her without it.”
“But why could n't she? Sam seems to have a sort of suspicion as to the
reason, and I cannot guess it.”
“If he does suspect, he has the nice feeling of a man of honor, and sees
that it is not for one placed as he is to question it.”
“If any man were to say to me, 'Read that letter, and tell me what does
it infer,' I'd say the writer thought that the girl he wanted to marry
liked some else.”
“Well, there's one point placed beyond an inference, Tony; the
engagement is ended, and she is free.”
“I suppose she is very happy at it.”
“Poor Dolly has little heart for happiness just now. It was a little
before dinner a note came from the doctor to say that all the friends
he had consulted advised him to go out, and were ready and willing to
assist him in every way to make the journey. As January is the stormy
month in these seas, they all recommended his sailing as soon as he
possibly could; and the poor man says very feelingly, 'To-morrow,
mayhap, will be my farewell sermon to those who have sat under me
eight-and-forty years.'”
“Why did you not make some proposal like what I spoke of, mother?” asked
he, almost peevishly.
“I tried to do it, Tony, but he would n't hear of it. He has a pride
of his own that is very dangerous to wound, and he stopped me at once,
saying, 'I hope I mistake your meaning; but lest I should not, say no
more of this for the sake of our old friendship.'”
“I call such pride downright want of feeling. It is neither more nor
less than consummate selfishness.”
“Don't tell him so, Tony, or maybe you 'd fare worse in the argument. He
has a wise, deep head, the doctor.”
“I wish he had a little heart with it,” said Tony, sulkily, and turned
again into the garden.
Twice did Jeanie summon him to tea, but he paid no attention to the
call; so engrossed, indeed, was he by his thoughts, that he even forgot
to smoke, and not impossibly the want of his accustomed weed added to
his other embarrassments.
“Miss Dolly's for ganging hame, Master Tony,” said the maid at last,
“and the mistress wants you to go wi' her.”
As Tony entered the hall, Dolly was preparing for the road. Coquetry was
certainly the least of her accomplishments, and yet there was something
that almost verged on it in the hood she wore, instead of a bonnet,
lined with some plushy material of a rich cherry color, and forming
a frame around her face that set off all her features to the greatest
advantage. Never did her eyes look bluer or deeper,--never did the
gentle beauty of her face light up with more of brilliancy. Tony never
knew with what rapture he was gazing on her till he saw that she was
blushing under his fixed stare.
The leave-taking between Mrs. Butler and Dolly was more than usually
affectionate; and even after they had separated, the old lady called her
back and kissed her again.
“I don't know how mother will bear up after you leave her,” muttered
Tony, as he walked along at Dolly's side; “she is fonder of you than
ever.”
Dolly murmured something, but inaudibly.
“For my own part,” continued Tony, “I can't believe this step necessary
at all. It would be an ineffable disgrace to the whole neighborhood to
let one we love and revere as we do him, go away in his old age, one may
say, to seek his fortune. He belongs to us, and we to him. We have
been linked together for years, and I can't bear the thought of our
separating.”
This was a very long speech for Tony, and he felt almost fatigued when
it was finished; but Dolly was silent, and there was no means by which
he could guess the effect it had produced upon her.
“As to my mother,” continued he, “she'd not care to live here any
longer,--I know it. I don't speak of myself, because it's the habit to
think I don't care for any one or anything,--that's the estimate people
form of me, and I must bear it as I can.”
“It's less than just, Tony,” said Dolly, gravely.
“Oh, if I am to ask for justice, Dolly, I shall get the worst of it,”
said he, laughing, but not merrily.
For a while they walked on without a word on either side.
“What a calm night!” said Dolly, “and how large the stars look! They
tell me that in southern latitudes they seem immense.”
“You are not sorry to leave this, Dolly?” murmured he, gloomily; “are
you?”
A very faint sigh was all her answer.
“I 'm sure no one could blame you,” he continued. “There is not much to
attach any one to the place, except, perhaps, a half-savage like myself,
who finds its ruggedness congenial.”
“But you will scarcely remain here, now, Tony; you'll be more likely to
settle at Butler Hall, won't you?”
“Wherever I settle it sha'n't be here, after you have left it,” said he,
with energy.
“Sir Arthur Lyle and his family are all coming back in a few days, I
hear.”
“So they may; it matters little to me, Dolly. Shall I tell you a secret?
Take my arm, Dolly,--the path is rough here,--you may as well lean on
me. We are not likely to have many more walks together. Oh dear! if you
were as sorry as I am, what a sad stroll this would be!”
“What's your secret, Tony?” asked she, in a faint voice
“Ah! my secret, my secret,” said he, ponderingly: “I don't know why I
called it a secret,--but here is what I meant. You remember, Dolly, how
I used to live up there at the Abbey formerly. It was just like my
home. I ordered all the people about just as if they had been my own
servants,--and, indeed, they minded my orders more than their master's.
The habit grew so strong upon me, of being obeyed and followed, that I
suppose I must have forgot my own real condition. I take it I must have
lost sight of who and what I actually was, till one of the sons--a young
fellow in the service in India--came back and contrived to let me make
the discovery, that, though I never knew it, I was really living the
life of a dependant. I 'll not tell you how this stung me, but it did
sting me--all the more that I believed, I fancied, myself--don't laugh
at me--but I really imagined I was in love with one of the girls--Alice.
She was Alice Trafford then.”
“I had heard of that,” said Dolly, in a faint voice.
“Well, she too undeceived me--not exactly as unfeelingly nor as
offensively as her brother, but just as explicitly--you know what I
mean?”
“No; tell me more clearly,” said she, eagerly.
“I don't know how to tell you. It's a long story,--that is to say, I was
a long while under a delusion, and she was a long while indulging it.
Fine ladies, I 'm told, do this sort of thing when they take a caprice
into their heads to civilize young barbarians of my stamp.”
“That's not the generous way to look at it, Tony.”
“I don't want to be generous,--the adage says one ought to begin by
being just. Skeffy--you know whom I mean, Skeff Darner--saw it clearly
enough--he warned me about it. And what a clever fellow he is! Would you
believe it, Dolly? he actually knew all the time that I was not really
in love when I thought I was. He knew that it was a something made up
of romance and ambition and boyish vanity, and that my heart, my real
heart, was never in it.”
Dolly shook her head, but whether in dissent or in sorrow it was not
easy to say.
“Shall I tell you more?” cried Tony, as he drew her arm closer to him,
and took her hand in his; “shall I tell you more, Dolly? Skeff read me
as I could not read myself. He said to me, 'Tony, this is no case
of love, it is the flattered vanity of a very young fellow to be
distinguished not alone by the prettiest, but the most petted woman of
society. _You_,' said he, 'are receiving all the homage paid to her at
second-hand.' But more than all this, Dolly; he not merely saw that I
was not in love with Alice Trafford, but he saw with whom my heart was
bound up, for many and many a year.”
“Her sister, her sister Bella,” whispered Dolly.
“No, but with yourself, my own own Dolly,” cried he; and turning, and
before she could prevent it, he clasped her in his arms, and kissed her
passionately.
“Oh, Tony!” said she, sobbing, “you that I trusted, you that I confided
in, to treat me thus.”
“It is that my heart is bursting, Dolly, with this long pent-up love,
for I now know I have loved you all my life long. Don't be angry with
me, my darling Dolly; I'd rather die at your feet than hear an angry
word from you. Tell me if you can care for me; oh, tell me, if I strive
to be all you could like and love, that you will not refuse to be my
own.”
She tried to disengage herself from his arm; she trembled, heaved a deep
sigh, and fell with her head on his shoulder.
“And you are my own,” said he, again kissing her; “and now the wide
world has not so happy a heart as mine.”
Of those characters of my story who met happiness, it is as well to say
no more. A more cunning craftsman than myself has told us that the
less we track human life the more cheerily we shall speak of it. Let
us presume, and it is no unfair presumption, that, as Tony's life was
surrounded with a liberal share of those gifts which make existence
pleasurable, he was neither ungrateful nor unmindful of them. Of Dolly
I hope there need be no doubt. “The guid dochter is the best warrant for
the guid wife:” so said her father, and he said truly.
In the diary of a Spanish guerilla chief, there is mention of a “nobile
Inglese,” who met him at Malta, to confer over the possibility of a
landing in Calabria, and the chances of a successful rising there. The
Spaniard speaks of this man as a person of rank, education, and talents,
high in the confidence of the Court, and evidently warmly interested in
the cause. He was taken prisoner by the Piedmontese troops on the
third day after they landed, and, though repeatedly offered life under
conditions it would have been no dishonor to accept, was tried by
court-martial, and shot.
There is reason to believe that the “nobile Inglese” was Maitland.
From the window where I write, I can see the promenade on the Pincian
Hill; and if my eyes do not deceive me, I can perceive that at times
the groups are broken, and the loungers fall back, to permit some one to
pass. I have called the waiter to explain the curious circumstance, and
asked if it be royalty that is so deferentially acknowledged. He smiles,
and says: “No. It is the major domo of the palace exacts the respect you
see. He can do what he likes at Rome. Antonelli himself is not greater
than the Count M'Caskey.”
As some unlettered guide leads the traveller to the verge of a cliff,
from which the glorious landscape beneath is visible, and winding river
and embowered homestead, and swelling plain and far-off mountain, are
all spread out beneath for the eye to revel over, so do I place you,
my valued reader, on that spot from which the future can be seen, and
modestly retire that you may gaze in peace, weaving your own fancies
at will, and investing the scene before you with such images and such
interests as best befit it.
_My_ part is done: if I have suggested something for _yours_, it will
not be all in vain that I have written “Tony Butler.”