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Tony Butler

by Charles Lever · English · Gutenberg #33604 · 1,099,827 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Tony Butler

Author: Charles Lever

Illustrator: Edward J. Wheeler


        
Release date: September 1, 2010 [eBook #33604]
                Most recently updated: February 28, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33604

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TONY BUTLER ***




Produced by David Widger





TONY BUTLER.

By Charles James Lever

With Illustrations By E. J. Wheeler.

Little, Brown, and Company.

1904.

Copyright, 1896

TONY BUTLER



CHAPTER I. THE COTTAGE BESIDE “THE CAUSEWAY”

In a little cleft, not deep enough to be a gorge, between two grassy
hills, traversed by a clear stream, too small to be called a river,
too wide to be a rivulet, stood, and, I believe, still stands, a little
cottage, whose one bay-window elevates it above the condition of a
laboring-man's, and shows in its spacious large-paned proportions
pretensions to taste as well as station. From the window a coast-line
can be seen to which nothing in the kingdom can find the equal. It
takes in the bold curve of shore from the “White Rocks” to the Giant's
Causeway,--a sweep of coast broken by jutting headland and promontory,
with sandy bays nestling between gigantic walls of pillared rock, and
showing beneath the green water the tessellated pavement of those broken
shafts which our superstition calls Titanic. The desolate rock and ruin
of Dunluce, the fairy bridge of Carrig-a-Rede, are visible; and on a
commonly clear day Staffa can be seen, its outline only carrying out the
strange formation of the columnar rocks close at band.

This cottage, humble enough in itself, is not relieved in its aspect
by the culture around it A small vegetable garden, rudely fenced with a
dry-stone wall, is the only piece of vegetation; for the cutting winds
of the North Sea are unfriendly to trees, and the light sandy soil of
the hills only favors the fern and the foxglove. Of these, indeed, the
growth is luxuriant, and the path which leads down from the high-road to
the cottage is cut through what might be called a grove of these leafy
greeneries. This same path was not much traversed, and more than once
within the year was the billhook required to keep it open, so little
intercourse was maintained between the cottage and the world, whose
frontier lay about a mile off. A widow and her son, with one servant,
were the occupants. It had been a fishing-lodge of her husband's in
more prosperous days. His memory and the cheapness of life in the
neighborhood had decided her in choosing it, lonely and secluded as it
was; and here she had passed fourteen years, her whole care being the
education of her boy, a task to which she addressed herself with all the
zeal and devotion of her nature. There was, it is true, a village school
at Ballintray, about three miles off, to which he went in summer; but
when the dark short days of winter set in with swooping storms of rain
and wind, she held him, so far as she could, close prisoner, and pored
with him over tasks to the full as difficult to herself as to him.
So far as a fine, open-hearted, generous disposition, truthful and
straightforward, could make him, he repaid all the love and affection
she could bear him. He was well-grown, good-looking, and brave. There
was scarcely an exercise of which he was not master; and whether in the
saddle over a stiff country, or on the thwart of a boat in a stormy
sea, Tony Butler could hold his own against all competitors. The leap
of twenty feet four inches he had made on the level sward was one of
the show objects of the village, and the place where he had pitched a
fourteen-pound sledge to the top of a cliff was marked by a stone with
a rude attempt at an inscription. Fortunate was he if these were enough
for glory, for his gifts scarcely rose to higher things. He was not
clever, nor was he very teachable; his apprehension was not quick, and
his memory was bad. The same scatterbrained forgetfulness that he had in
little things attended him in more serious ones. Whenever his intellect
was called on for a great effort he was sure to be vanquished, and he
would sit for hours before an open book as hopeless of mastering it as
though the volume were close-clasped and locked before him. Dull men are
not generally alive to their own dulness; but Tony was,--he saw and felt
it very bitterly. He thought, it is true, that there ought to be a
way to his intellect, if it could only be discovered, but he owned to
himself he had not found it; and, with some lingering hope of it, he
would carry his books to his room and sit down to them with a resolute
heart, and ponder and puzzle and wonder, till he either fell asleep over
the pages, or felt the scalding tears blinding him with the conscious
thought that he was not equal to the task before him.

Strange enough, his mother, cheated by that love which filled every
avenue of her heart, marked little of this. She thought that Tony had no
great taste for music, nor patience enough for drawing. She fancied
he deemed history dry, and rather undervalued geography. If he hated
French, it was because he was such an intense Anglican; and as to
figures, his poor dear father had no great skill in them, and indeed his
ruined fortune came of tampering with them. Though thus, item by item,
she would have been reduced to own that Tony was not much of a scholar,
she would unhesitatingly have declared that he was a remarkably gifted
boy, and equal to any condition he could be called to fulfil. There was
this much of excuse for her credulity,--he was a universal favorite.
There was not a person of any class who had other than a good word for
him; and this, be it remarked, in a country where people fall into few
raptures, and are rarely enthusiasts. The North of Ireland is indeed as
cold a soil for the affections as it is ungenial in its vegetation. Love
finds it just as hard to thrive as the young larch-trees, nipped as they
are by cutting winds and sleety storms; and to have won favor where
it is weighed out so scrupulously, implied no petty desert. There is,
however, a rigid sense of justice which never denies to accord its due
to each. Tony had gained his reputation by an honest verdict, the award
of a jury who had seen him from his childhood and knew him well.

The great house of the county was Sir Arthur Lyle's, and there Tony
Butler almost might be said to live. His word was law in the stables,
the kennel, the plantations, and the boat-quay. All liked him. Sir
Arthur, a stern but hearty old Anglo-Indian; my lady, a fine specimen of
town pretension and exclusiveness cultivated to its last perfection by
Oriental indulgence; Isabella,--a beauty and a fortune,--about to shine
at the next drawing-room, liked him; and the widowed daughter of the
house, Mrs. Trafford, whom many deemed handsomer than her sister,
and whose tact and worldly skill made even beauty but one of her
attractions, said he was “a fine creature,” and “it was a thousand
pities he had not a good estate and a title.” Sir Arthur's sons, three
in number, were all in India; the two elder in high civil appointments,
the younger serving in a regiment of hussars. Their sisters, however,
constantly assured Tony that George, Henry, and Mark would be so fond of
him, especially Mark, who was the soldier, and who would be charmed to
meet with one so fond of all his own pursuits.

It was with sincere pride Mrs. Butler saw her son in such favor at the
great house,--that princely place to which the company came from remote
parts of the kingdom, and to mix with which the neighboring gentry were
only admitted sparingly and at rare intervals; for Sir Arthur's wealth
was to society a sort of crushing power, a kind of social Nasmyth
hammer, that smashed and ground down whatever came beneath it. No small
distinction was it, therefore, for the widow's son to be there; not
merely admitted and on sufferance, but encouraged, liked, and made much
of. Sir Arthur had known Tony's father in India, long long years ago;
indeed, it was when Sir Arthur was a very small civil servant, and
Captain Butler was a gorgeous aide-de-camp on the Governor-General's
staff; and strange it was, the respect with which the brilliant soldier
then inspired him had survived through all the changes and advancements
of a successful life, and the likeness the youth bore to his father
assisted to strengthen this sentiment. He would have noticed the widow,
too, if she had been disposed to accept his attentions; but she refused
all invitations to leave her home, and save at the little meeting-house
on a Sunday, where her friend Dr. Stewart held forth, was never seen
beyond the paling of her garden.

What career Tony was to follow, what he was to do, was an oft-debated
question between her and Dr. Stewart, her worthy adviser in spirituals;
and though it was the ever-recurring subject as they sat of an evening
in the porch, the solution seemed just as remote as ever,--Mrs. Butler
averring that there was nothing that with a little practice he could n't
do, and the minister sighingly protesting that the world was very full
just now, and there was just barely enough for those who were in it.

“What does he incline to himself, madam?” asked the worthy man, as he
saw that his speech had rather a discouraging effect.

“He'd like to follow his father's career, and be a soldier.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed out the minister; “a man must be rich enough to do
without a livelihood that takes to that one. What would you say to the
sea?”

“He's too old for the navy. Tony will be twenty in August.”

The minister would have liked to hint that other ships went down into
the “great waters” as well as those that carried her Majesty's bunting,
but he was faint-hearted and silent.

“I take it,” said he, after a pause, “that he has no great mind for the
learned professions, as they call them?”

“No inclination whatever, and I cannot say I 'm sorry for it. My poor
boy would be lost in that great ocean of world-liness and self-seeking.
I don't mean if he were to go into the Church,” said she, blushing
crimson at the awkwardness of her speech, “but you know he has
no vocation for holy orders, and such a choice would be therefore
impossible.”

“I'm thinking it would not be his line, neither,” said the old man,
dryly. “What o' the mercantile pursuits? You shake your head. Well,
there's farming?”

“Farming, my dear Dr. Stewart,--farming means at least some thousand
pounds' capital, backed by considerable experience, and, I fear me, my
poor Tony is about as wanting in one as in the other.”

“Well, ma'am, if the lad can neither be a soldier, nor a sailor, nor a
merchant, nor a farmer, nor will be a lawyer, a doctor, or a preacher o'
the Word, I 'm sore pushed to say what there's open to him, except some
light business in the way of a shop, or an agency like, which maybe you
'd think beneath you.”

“I'm certain my son would, sir; and no great shame either that Colonel
Walter Butler's son should think so,--a C. B. and a Guelph of Hanover,
though he never wore the decoration. It is not so easy for _us_ to
forget these things as it is for our friends.”

This was rather cruel, particularly to one who had been doing his best
to pilot himself through the crooked channels of difficulties, and was
just beginning to hope he was in deep water.

“Would n't the Colonel's friends be likely to give him a helping hand?”
 said the minister, timidly, and like one not quite sure of his ground.

“I have not asked them, nor is it likely that I will,” said
she, sternly; then, seeing in the old man's face the dismay and
discouragement her speech had produced, she added, “My husband's only
brother, Sir Omerod Butler, was not on speaking terms with him for
years,--indeed, from the time of our marriage. Eleanor Mackay, the
Presbyterian minister's daughter, was thought a _mesalliance_; and maybe
it was,--I won't deny it, doctor. It was deemed a great rise in the
world to me, though I never felt it exactly in that way myself. It was
_my_ pride to think my husband a far greater man than any of his family,
and it was _his_ to say I had helped him to become so.”

“I've heard o' that too,” was the cautious rejoinder of the old
minister.

The memories thus suddenly brought up were too much for the poor widow's
composure, and she had to turn away and wipe the tears from her eyes.
“Yes, sir,” said she at last, “my noble-hearted husband was made to feel
through his whole life the scorn of those who would not know his wife,
and it is not from such as these my poor boy is to crave assistance. As
for Tony himself,” said she, with more energy of voice and manner, “he'd
never forgive me if I took such a step.”

The good minister would fain have rebuked the indulgence of sentiments
like these, which had little of forgiveness in their nature. He felt
sorely tempted to make the occasion profitable by a word in season;
but his sagacity tempered his zeal, and he simply said, “Let byganes
be byganes, Mrs. Butler, or, at all events, let them not come back like
troubled spirits to disturb the future.”

“I will do my best, doctor,” said she, calmly, “and, to do so, I will
talk of something else. Can you tell me if there is a Mr. Elphinstone
in the Ministry now,--in the Cabinet, I mean,” said she, correcting
herself, for she remembered what the word signifies to Presbyterian
ears.

“There is a Sir Harry Elphinstone, Secretary of State for the Colonies,
ma'am.”

“That must be the same, then; my husband always called him Harry; they
were like brothers at the Cape long, long ago. Could n't he do something
for Tony, think you?”

“The very man who could; and maybe, too, in the very sort of career
would suit the lad best of all. He's strong of limb and stout of heart,
and has brave health,--he's just the man to meet the life and enjoy the
very accidents of a new world.”

“If he could leave me,--that is, if I could bear to part with _him_,
doctor,” said she, with a thick utterance.

“These are not days, my dear madam, when a mother can tie a son to her
apron. The young birds will leave the nest, make it ever so warm and
snug for them; and it was a wise Providence that so decreed it.”

“Would there be any impropriety in my writing to Mr.--Sir Harry
Elphinstone?” asked she.

“I can see none whatever. It is more than likely that he 'll thank you
heartily for the chance of serving his old friend's son. Such a great
man gives away every day more places than would provide for three
generations of either of us; and it must be a rare pleasure when he can
serve the Queen and gladden his own heart together.”

“You 'd maybe help me with the letter, doctor,” asked she, half
diffidently.

“Not a doubt of it, Mrs. Butler; my poor aid is quite at your service:
but had n't we best, first of all, speir a bit, and see what the
lad thinks of it? Let us find out that it's the life he 'd take to
willingly. It's no by way of reproach to him I say it; but we all know
that when a young fellow gets accustomed to ride a blood horse with a
groom after him, and eat his soup with a damask napkin over his knees,
it's a sore change to mount a mustang and digest raw buffalo.”

“If you mean by that, Dr. Stewart, that Tony has been spoiled by a life
of luxury and indolence, you do him great wrong. The poor dear boy is
half heart-broken at-times at his purposeless, unprofitable existence.
There are days he is so overcome that he can scarcely lift up his head
for it. This very morning was one of them; and it was only when Sir
Arthur sent over a third time to say, 'You must come; I' ll take no
excuse,' that I could persuade him to set off. They are expecting young
Captain Lyle to-day, and making all sorts of festive preparations to
receive him. Tony has charge of the fireworks; and as Sir Arthur says,
'If you leave your chemicals to other hands, the chances are we shall
all be blown up together. '”

“I remember the Captain when he was just so high,” said the doctor,
holding his hand about three feet from the ground,--“he used to come to
me every Saturday for a lesson in Scripture; smart enough he was, but a
proud sort of boy, that kept his class-fellows at a distance, and when
the lesson was over would not speak to one of them. He was the baronet's
son, and they were the sons of his father's tradespeople. I remember I
made a complaint against him once, I forget for what, but be never came
to my house after.”

Mrs. Butler seemed not to follow the doctor's speech; indeed, her whole
heart was so set on one object and one theme that it was only by an
effort she could address herself to any other. The humblest piece in
which Tony played was a drama full of interest. Without _him_ the
stage had no attraction, and she cared not who were the performers. The
doctor, therefore, was some time before he perceived that his edifying
reflections on the sins of pride and self-conceit were unheeded. Long
experience had taught him tolerance in such matters; he had known even
elders to nod; and so he took his hat and said farewell with a good
grace, and a promise to help her with a letter to the Secretary of State
whenever the time came to write it.

Late on the night of that day in which this conversation occurred,
Mrs. Butler sat at her writing-desk, essaying for the tenth time how to
address that great man whose favor she would propitiate. Letter-writing
had never been her gift, and she distrusted her powers even unfairly in
this respect. The present was, besides, a case of some difficulty. She
knew nothing of the sort of person she was addressing beyond the fact
that he and her husband, when very young men, lived on terms of close
intimacy and friendship. It might be that the great Minister had
forgotten all about that long ago, or might not care to be reminded of
it. It might be that her husband in his sanguine and warm-hearted way,
calculated rather on the affection he bestowed than that he should
receive, and so deemed the friendship between them a closer and stronger
tie than it was. It might be, too,--she had heard of such things,--that
men in power are so besieged by those who assume to have claims upon
them, that they lose temper and patience, and indiscriminately class
all such applicants as mere hungry place-hunters, presuming upon some
accidental meeting,--some hap-hazard acquaintance of a few minutes. “And
so,” said she, “if he has not heard of my husband for thirty-odd years,
he may come to look coldly on this letter of mine, and even ask, 'Who is
Eleanor Butler, and of whom is she the widow?' I will simply say to him:
The son of the late Colonel Walter Butler, with whose name his widow
believes you are not unacquainted, solicits some assistance on your
part, towards--towards--shall I say at once an appointment in one of our
colonies, or merely what may forward his pursuits in a new world? I wish
I could hit upon something that will not sound like the every-day tune
that must ring in his ears; but how can I, when what I seek is the
selfsame thing?”

She leaned her head on her hand in thought, and, as she pondered, it
occurred to her what her husband would have thought of such a step as
she was taking. Would Walter have sanctioned it? He was a proud man on
such points. He had never asked for anything in his life, and it was one
of his sayings,--“There was no station that was not too dearly bought at
the price of asking for it” She canvassed and debated the question with
herself, balancing all that she owed to her husband's memory against all
that she ought to attempt for her boy's welfare. It was a matter of no
easy solution; but an accident decided for her what all her reasoning
failed in; for, as she sat thinking, a hurried step was heard on the
gravel, and then the well-known sound of Tony's latch-key followed, and
he entered the room, flushed and heated. He was still in dinner-dress,
but his cravat was partly awry, and his look excited and angry.

“Why, my dear Tony,” said she, rising, and parting his hair tenderly on
his forehead, “I did n't look for you here to-night; how came it that
you left the Abbey at this hour?”

“Wasn't it a very good hour to come home?” answered he, curtly. “We
dined at eight; I left at half-past eleven. Nothing very unusual in all
that.”

“But you always slept there; you had that nice room you told me of.”

“Well, I preferred coming home. I suppose that was reason enough.”

“What has happened, Tony darling? Tell me frankly and fearlessly what
it is that has ruffled you. Who has such a right to know it, or, if need
be, to sympathize with you, as your own dear mother?”

“How you run on, mother, and all about nothing! I dine out, and I come
back a little earlier than my wont, and immediately you find out that
some one has outraged or insulted me.”

“Oh, no, no. I never dreamed of that, my dear boy!” said she, coloring
deeply.

“Well, there's enough about it,” said he, pacing the room with hasty
strides. “What is that you were saying the other day about a Mr.
Elphinstone,--that he was an old friend of my father's, and that they
had chummed together long ago?”

“All these scrawls that you see there,” said she, pointing to the table,
“have been attempts to write to him, Tony. I was trying to ask him to
give you some sort of place somewhere.”

“The very thing I want, mother,” said he, with a half-bitter
laugh,--“some sort of place somewhere.”

“And,” continued she, “I was pondering whether it might not be as well
to see if Sir Arthur Lyle would n't write to some of his friends in
power--”

“Why should we ask him? What has he to do with it?” broke he in,
hastily. “I 'm not the son of an old steward or family coachman, that
I want to go about with a black pocket-book stuffed with recommendatory
letters. Write simply and fearlessly to this great man,--I don't know
his rank,--and say whose son I am. Leave me to tell him the rest.”

“My dear Tony, you little know how such people are overwhelmed with
such-like applications, and what slight chance there is that you will be
distinguished from the rest.”

“At all events, I shall not have the humiliation of a patron. If he will
do anything for me, it will be for the sake of my father's memory, and I
need not be ashamed of that.”

“What shall I write, then?” And she took up her pen.

“Sir--I suppose he is 'Sir;' or is he 'My Lord'?”

“No. His name is Sir Harry Elphinstone.”

     “Sir,--The young man who bears this note is the only son
     of the late Colonel Walter Butler, C.B. He has no fortune,
     no profession, no friends, and very little ability. Can you
     place him in any position where he may acquire some of the
     three first and can dispense with the last?

     “Your humble servant,

     “Eleanor Butler.”

“Oh, Tony! you don't think we could send such a letter as this?” said
she, with a half-sad smile.

“I am certain I could deliver it, mother,” said he, gravely, “and I 'm
sure that it would answer its purpose just as well as a more finished
composition.”

“Let me at least make a good copy of it,” said she, as he folded it up
and placed it in an envelope.

“No, no,” said he; “just write his name, and all the fine things that
he is sure to be, before and after it, and, as I said before, leave the
issue to me.”

“And when would you think of going, Tony?”

“To-morrow morning, by the steamer that will pass this on the way to
Liverpool. I know the Captain, and he will give me a passage; he's
always teasing me to take a trip with him.”

“To-morrow! but how could you get ready by to-morrow? I 'll have to look
over all your clothes, Tony.”

“My dear little mother,” said he, passing his arm round her, and kissing
her affectionately, “how easy it is to hold a review where there 's only
a corporal's guard for inspection! All my efficient movables will
fit into a very small portmanteau, and I 'll pack it in less than ten
minutes.”

“I see no necessity for all this haste, particularly where we have so
much to consider and talk over. We ought to consult the doctor, too;
he's a warm friend, Tony, and bears you a sincere affection.”

“He's a good fellow; I like him anywhere but in the pulpit,” muttered
he, below his breath. “And he 'd like to write to his daughter; she's
a governess in some family near Putney, I think. I 'll go and see her;
Dolly and I are old playfellows. I don't know,” added he, with a laugh,
“whether hockey and football are part of a polite female education; but
if they be, the pupils that have got Dolly Stewart for their governess
are in rare luck.”

“But why must there be all this hurry?”

“Because it's a whim of mine, dear little mother. Because--but don't ask
me for reasons, after having spoiled me for twenty years, and given me
my own way in everything. I 've got it into my wise head--and you know
what a wise head it is--that I 'm going to do something very brilliant.
You 'll puzzle me awfully if you ask me where or how; so just be
generous and don't push me to the wall.”

“At all events, you 'll not go without seeing the doctor?”

“That I will. I have some experience of him as a questioner in the
Scripture-school of a Saturday, and I 'll not stand a cross-examination
in profane matters from so skilled a hand. Tell him from me that I had
one of my flighty fits on me, and that I knew I 'd make such a sorry
defence if we were to meet, that, in the words of his own song, 'I ran
awa' in the morning.'”

She shook her head in silence, and seemed far from satisfied.

“Tell him, however, that I 'll go and see Dolly the first day I'm free,
and bring him back a full account of her, how she looks, and what she
says of herself.”

The thought of his return flashed across the poor mother's heart like
sunshine over a landscape, spreading light and gladness everywhere. “And
when will that be, Tony?” cried she, looking up into his eyes.

“Let me see. To-morrow will be Wednesday.”

“No, Tony,--Thursday.”

“To be sure, Thursday,--Thursday, the ninth; Friday, Liverpool;
Saturday, London! Sunday will do for a visit to Dolly; I suppose there
will be no impropriety in calling on her of a Sunday?”

“The M'Graders are a Scotch family, I don't know if they 'd like it.”

“That shall be thought of. Let me see; Monday for the great man, Tuesday
and Wednesday to see a little bit of London, and back here by the end of
the week.”

“Oh! if I thought that, Tony--”

“Well, do think it; believe it, rely upon it. If you like, I'll give up
the Tuesday and Wednesday, though I have some very gorgeous speculations
about Westminster Abbey and the Tower, and the monkeys in the Zoological
Gardens, with the pantomime for a finish in the evening. But you 've
only to say the word, and I 'll start half an hour after I see the Don
in Downing Street.”

“No, of course not, darling. I 'm not so selfish as that; and if you
find that London amuses you and is not too expensive,--for you know,
Tony, what a slender purse we have,--stay a week,--two weeks, Tony, if
you like it.”

“What a good little woman it is!” said he, pressing her towards him; and
the big tears trembled in his eyes and rolled heavily along his cheeks.
“Now for the ugly part,--the money, I mean.”

“I have eleven pounds in the house, Tony, if that will do to take with
you.”

“Do, mother! Of course it will. I don't mean to spend near so much; but
how can you spare such a sum? that's the question.”

“I just had it by, Tony, for a rainy day, as they call it; or I meant
to have made you a smart present on the fourth of next month, for your
birthday.--I forget, indeed, what I intended it for,” said she, wiping
her eyes, “for this sudden notion of yours has driven everything clean
out of my head; and all I can think of is if there be buttons on your
shirts, and how many pairs of socks you have.”

“I'm sure everything is right; it always is. And now go to bed like a
dear little woman, and I 'll come in and say good-bye before I start in
the morning.”

“No, no, Tony; I 'll be up and make you a cup of tea.”

“That you shall not. What a fuss to make of a trip to London; as if I
was going to Auckland or the Fijee Islands? By the way, mother, would
n't you come out to me if the great man gave me something very fine and
lucrative?--for I can't persuade myself that he won't make me a governor
somewhere.”

She could not trust herself to speak, and merely clutched his hand in
both her own and held it fast.

“There's another thing,” said he, after a short struggle with himself;
“there may possibly be notes or messages of one sort or another from
Lyle Abbey; and just hint that I 've been obliged to leave home for
a day or two. You need n't say for where nor how long; but that I was
called away suddenly,--too hurriedly to go up and pay my respects, and
the rest of it I 'm not quite sure you 'll be troubled in this way; but
if you should, say what I have told you.”

“The doctor will be sorry not to have said good-bye, Tony.”

“I may be back again before he need hear of my having gone. And now,
good-night, dear mother; I 'll come and see you before I start.”

When Tony Butler found himself alone in his room, he opened his
writing-desk and prepared to write,--a task, for him, of no common
magnitude and of the very rarest occurrence. What it exacted in the way
of strain and effort may be imagined from the swelling of the veins in
his forehead, and the crimson patches that formed on his cheeks. “What
would I give now,” muttered he, “for just ten minutes of ready tact, to
express myself suitably,--to keep down my own temper, and at the same
time make _his_ boil over! If I have ten years of life before me, I 'd
give five of them to be able to do this; but I cannot,--I cannot! To say
all that I want, and not be a braggart or something worse, requires mind
and judgment and tact, and twenty other gifts that I have not got; and I
have only to picture him going about with my letter in his hand, showing
it to every one, with a sheer at my mode of expression,--possibly of my
spelling! Here goes; my very writing shames me:--

     “Sir,--The manner I left your father's house last night
     would require an apology [I wonder if there are two p's in
     'apology'] from me, if I had not a graver one to ask from
     you. [He read this over fully a dozen times, varying the
     emphasis, and trying if the meaning it bore, or that he
     meant it to bear, could be changed by the reading. 'All
     right,' said he, 'no mistake there.'] There is, however, so
     much of excuse for your conduct that you did not know how I
     was treated by your family,--regarded as a friend, and not
     the Cad you wanted to make me! ['Cad' reads wrong--vulgar;
     I suppose it is vulgar, but it means what I intend, and so
     let it go.] I cannot _make_ a quarrel with your father's
     son. [I 'll dash _make_, to show that I could accept one of
     another's making.] But to avoid the risk, I must avoid the
     society where I shall meet you [no; that's not right;
     'father's son' ought to have _him_ after it]--avoid the
     society where I shall meet him. From this day, therefore, I
     will not return to the Abbey without I receive that
     reparation from you which is the right of

     “Your faithful servant,

     “T. Butler.

“I could not write myself 'Anthony,' if I got five pounds for it”

Ten miles across a stiff country, straight as the crow flies would not
have “taken as much out” of poor Tony as the composition of this elegant
epistle; and though he felt a sincere satisfaction at its completion,
he was not by any means satisfied that he had achieved a success. “No,”
 muttered he, as he sealed it, “my pen will not be my livelihood; that's
certain. If it wasn't for the dear mother's sake, I would see what a
musket could do, I'd enlist, to a certainty. It is the best thing for
fellows like me.” Thus musing and “mooning,” he lay down, dressed as he
was, and fell asleep. And as he lay, there came a noiseless step to his
door, and the handle turned, and his mother drew nigh his bed, and bent
over him. “Poor Tony!” muttered she, as her tears gushed out. “Poor
Tony!” what a story in two words was there!--what tender love, what
compassionate sorrow! It was the outburst of a mother's grief for one
who was sure to get the worst at the hands of the world,--a cry of
anguish for all the sorrows his own warm heart and guileless nature
would expose him to,--the deceptions, the wrongs, the treacheries that
were before him; and yet, in all the selfishness of her love, she would
not have had him other than he was! She never wished him to be crafty
or worldly-wise. Ten thousand times was he dearer, in all his weakness,
than if he had the cunning of the craftiest that ever outschemed their
neighbors. “My poor boy,” said she, “what hard lessons there are before
you! It is well that you have a brave, big heart, as well as a tender
one.”

He was so like his father, too, as he lay there,--no great guarantee for
success in life was that!--and her tears fell faster as she looked at
him; and fearing that her sobs might awake him, she stole silently away
and left the room.

“There's the steam-whistle, mother; I can just see the smoke over the
cliff. I 'm off,” said he, as she had dropped off asleep.

“But your breakfast, Tony; I 'll make you a cup of tea.”

“Not for the world; I 'm late enough as it is. God bless you, little
woman. I 'll be back before you know that I 'm gone. Good-bye.”

She could hardly trace the black speck as the boat shot out in the deep
gloom of daybreak, and watched it till it rounded the little promontory,
when she lost it; and then her sorrow--sorrow that recalled her
great desolation--burst forth, and she cried as they only cry who are
forsaken. But this was not for long. It was the passion of grief, and
her reason soon vanquished it; and as she dried her tears, she said,
“Have I not much to be grateful for? What a noble boy he is, and what a
brave good man he may be!”



CHAPTER II. A COUNTRY-HOUSE IN IRELAND

The country-house life of Ireland had--and I would say has, if I were
not unhappily drawing on my memory--this advantage over that of England,
that it was passed in that season when the country offered all that it
had of beauty and attraction; when the grove was leafy, and the blossomy
fruit-trees vied in gorgeous color with the flowery beds beneath them;
when the blackbird's mellow song rang through the thicket, and the heavy
plash of the trout rose above the ripple of the river; when the deep
grass waved like a sea under a summer wind, and the cattle, grouped
picturesquely, tempered the noonday heat beneath the spreading elms, or
stood contemplatively in the stream, happy in their luxurious indolence.

What a wealth of enjoyment does such a season offer! How imperceptibly
does the lovely aspect of nature blend itself day by day with every
incident of our lives, stealing its peaceful influence over our troubled
hearts, blunting the pangs of our disappointments, calming down the
anxieties of our ambitions! How pleasant is the companionship of our
book, and doubly, trebly delightful the converse of our friend! How
gratefully, too, do we imbibe the health that comes with every charm
of color and sound and form and odor, repeating at every step, “How
beautiful the world is, and how enjoyable!”

I am not going to disparage--far be it from me--the fox-cover or the
grouse-mountain; but, after all, these are the accidents, not the
elements, of country life, which certainly ought to be passed when
the woods are choral with the thrush, and the air scented with the
apple-blossom; when it is sweet to lie under the weeping-willow beside
the stream, or stroll at sunset through the grove, to gain that crested
ridge where the red horizon can be seen, and watch the great sun as it
sinks in splendor.

Lyle Abbey had not many pretensions to beauty of architecture in itself,
or to scenery in its neighborhood. Nor was it easy to say why a great,
bulky, incongruous building, disfigured by painted windows to make it
Gothic, should have ever been called an Abbey. It was, however,
both roomy and convenient within. There were fine, lofty, spacious
reception-rooms, well lighted and ventilated. Wide corridors led to rows
of comfortable chambers, where numbers of guests could be accommodated,
and in every detail of fitting and furniture, ease and comfort had been
studied with a success that attained perfection.

The grounds,--a space of several hundred acres,--enclosed within a
massive wall, had not more pretensions to beauty than the mansion. There
were, it is true, grand points of view,--noble stretches of shore
and sea-coast to be had from certain eminences, and abundant
undulations,--some of these wild and picturesque enough; but the great
element of all was wanting,--there was no foliage, or next to none.

Trees will not grow in this inhospitable climate, or only grow in the
clefts and valleys; and even there their stunted growth and scathed
branches show that the northwest wind has found them out, twisting their
boughs uncouthly towards the eastward, and giving them a semblance to
some scared and hooded traveller scudding away before a storm.

Vegetation thrives no better. The grass, of sickly yellow, is only fit
for sheep, and there are no traces of those vast tracts of verdure which
represent culture in the South of Ireland. Wealth had fought out the
battle bravely, however, and artificial soils and trees and ornamental
shrubs, replaced and replaced by others as they died off, combated the
ungrateful influences, and won at last a sort of victory. That is to
say, the stranger felt, as he passed the gate, that he was entering what
seemed an oasis, so wild and dreary and desolate was the region which
stretched away for miles on every side.

Some drives and walks had been designed--what will not landscape
gardening do?--with occasional shelter and cover. The majority, however,
led over wild, bleak crests,--breezy and bracing on fine days, but
storm-lashed whenever the wind came, as it will for ten months out of
twelve, over the great rolling waters of the Atlantic.

The most striking and picturesque of these walks led along the cliffs
over the sea, and, indeed, so close as to be fenced off by a parapet
from the edge of the precipice. It was a costly labor, and never fully
carried out,--the two miles which had been accomplished figuring for a
sum that Sir Arthur declared would have bought the fee-simple of a small
estate. It was along this pathway that Captain Lyle sauntered with his
two sisters on the morning after his arrival. It was the show spot of
the whole demesne; and certainly, as regards grand effects of sea-view
and coastline, not to be surpassed in the kingdom. They had plotted
together in the morning how they would lead Mark in this direction, and,
suddenly placing him in one of the most striking spots, enjoy all his
wonderment and admiration; for Mark Lyle had seldom been at home since
his “Harrow” days, and the Abbey and its grounds were almost strange to
him.

“What are the rocks yonder, Bella?” said he, listlessly, as he puffed
his cigar and pointed seaward.

“The Skerries, Mark; see how the waves beat over that crag. They tried
to build a lighthouse there, but the foundations were soon swept away.”

“And what is that? It looks like a dismantled house.”

“That is the ruined castle of Dunluce. It belonged to the Antrim
family.”

“Good heavens! what a dreary region it all is!” cried he, interrupting.
“I declare to you, South Africa is a garden compared to this.”

“Oh, Mark, for shame!” said his elder sister. “The kingdom has nothing
grander than this coast-line from Portrush to Fairhead.”

“I 'm no judge of its grandeur, but I tell you one thing,--I 'd not live
here,--no, nor would I contract to live six months in a year here,--to
have the whole estate. This is a fine day, I take it.”

“It is a glorious day,” said Bella.

“Well, it's just as much as we can do to keep our legs here; and
certainly your flattened bonnets and dishevelled hair are no allies to
your good looks.”

“Our looks are not in question,” said the elder, tartly. “We were
talking of the scenery; and I defy you to tell me where, in all your
travels, you have seen its equal.”

“I 'll tell you one thing, Alice, it's deuced dear at the price we are
looking at it; I mean, at the cost of this precious bit of road we stand
on. Where did the governor get his engineer?”

“It was Tony planned this,--every yard of it,” said Bella, proudly.

“And who is Tony, pray?” said he, superciliously.

“You met him last night,--young Butler. He dined here, and sat next
Alice.”

“You mean that great hulking fellow, with the attempt at a straw-colored
moustache, who directed the fireworks.”

“I mean that very good-looking young man who coolly removed the
powder-flask that you had incautiously forgotten next the rocket-train,”
 said Mrs. Trafford.

“And that was Tony!” said he, with a faint sneer.

“Yes, Mark, that was Tony; and if you want to disparage him, let it be
to some other than Bella and myself; for he is an old playmate that we
both esteem highly, and wish well to.”

“I am not surprised at it,” said he, languidly. “I never saw a snob yet
that could n't find a woman to defend him; and this fellow, it would
seem, has got two.”

“Tony a snob!”

“Tony Butler a snob! Just the very thing he is not. Poor boy, there
never was one to whom the charge was less applicable.”

“Don't be angry, Alice, because I don't admire your rustic friend. In my
ignorance I fancied he was a pretentious sort of bumpkin, who talked of
things a little out of his reach,--such as yachting,--steeple-chasing,
and the like. Is n't he the son of some poor dependant of the
governor's?”

“Nothing of the kind; his mother is a widow, with very narrow means, I
believe; but his father was a colonel, and a distinguished one. As to
dependence, there is no such relation between us.”

“I am glad of that, for I rather set him down last night”

“Set him down! What do you mean?”

“He was talking somewhat big of 'cross-country riding, and I asked him
about his stable, and if his cattle ran more on bone than blood.”

“Oh, Mark, you did not do that?” cried Bella, anxiously.

“Yes; and when I saw his confusion, I said, 'You must let me walk over
some morning, and have a look at your nags; for I know from the way you
speak of horseflesh I shall see something spicy.'”

“And what answer did he make?” asked Bella, with an eager look.

“He got very red, crimson, indeed, and stammered out, 'You may spare
yourself the walk, sir; for the only quadruped I have is a spaniel, and
she is blind from age, and stupid.'”

“Who was the snob there, Mark?” said Mrs. Trafford, angrily.

“Alice!” said he, raising his eyebrows, and looking at her with a cold
astonishment.

“I beg pardon in all humility, Mark,” said she, hastily. “I am very
sorry to have offended you; but I forgot myself. I fancied you had been
unjust to one we all value very highly, and my tongue outran me.”

“These sort of fellows,” continued he, as if unheeding her excuses,
“only get a footing in houses where there are no men, or at least none
of their own age; and thus they are deemed Admirable Crichtons because
they can row, or swim, or kill a salmon. Now, when a gentleman does
these things, and fifty more of the same sort, nobody knows it. You'll
see in a day or two here a friend of mine, a certain Norman Maitland,
that will beat your young savage at everything,--ride, row, walk, shoot
or single-stick him for whatever he pleases; and yet I 'll wager you 'll
never know from Maitland's manner or conversation that he ever took the
lock of a canal in a leap, or shot a jaguar single-handed.”

“Is your phoenix really coming here?” asked Mrs. Trafford, only too glad
to get another channel for the conversation.

“Yes; here is what he writes;” and he took a note from his pocket.
“'I forget, my dear Lyle, whether your château be beside the lakes of
Killarney, the groves of Blarney, or what other picturesque celebrity
your island claims; but I have vowed you a visit of two days,--three, if
you insist,--but not another if you die for it.' Is n't he droll?”

“He is insufferably impudent. There is 'a snob' if there ever was one,”
 cried Alice, exultingly.

“Norman Maitland, Norman Maitland a snob! Why, my dear sister, what will
you say next? Ask the world its opinion of Norman Maitland, for he is
just as well known in St. Petersburg as Piccadilly, and the ring of his
rifle is as familiar on the Himalayas as on a Scotch mountain. There is
not a gathering for pleasure, nor a country-house party in the kingdom,
would not deem themselves thrice fortunate to secure a passing visit
from him, and he is going to give us three days.”

“Has he been long in your regiment, Mark?” asked Mrs. Trafford.

“Maitland has never served with us; he joined us in Simla as a member of
our mess, and we call him 'of ours' because he never would dine with the
9th or the 50th. Maitland would n't take the command of a division to
have the bore and worry of soldiering,--and why should he?”

It was not without astonishment Mark's sisters saw their brother,
usually cold and apathetic in his tone, so warmly enthusiastic about his
friend Maitland, of whom he continued to talk with rapture, recalling
innumerable traits of character and temper, but which unhappily only
testified to the success with which he had practised towards the world
an amount of impertinence and presumption that seemed scarcely credible.

“If he only be like your portrait, I call him downright detestable,”
 said Mrs. Trafford.

“Yes, but you are dying to see him all the same, and so is Bella.”

“Let me answer for myself, Mark,” said Isabella, “and assure you that,
so far from curiosity, I feel an actual repugnance to the thought of
meeting him. I don't really know whether the condescending politeness of
such a man, or his cool impertinence, is the greater insult.”

“Poor Maitland, how will you encounter what is prepared for you?” said
be, mockingly; “but courage, girls, I think he 'll survive it,--only
I beg no unnecessary cruelty,--no harshness beyond what his own
transgressions may call down upon him; and don't condemn him merely, and
for no other reason, than because he is the friend of your brother.” And
with this speech he turned short round and ascended a steep path at his
side, and was lost to their view in a minute.

“Isn't he changed, Alice? Did you ever see any one so altered?”

“Not a bit changed, Bella; he is exactly what he was at the
grammar-school, at Harrow, and at Sandhurst,--very intolerant to the
whole world, as a compensation for the tyranny some one, boy or man as
it may be, exercises over him. All his good qualities lie under this
veil, and so it was ever with him.”

“I wish his friend was not coming.”

“And I wish that he had not sent away _ours_, for I 'm sure Tony would
have been up here before this if something unusual had not occurred.”

“Here's a strange piece of news for you, girls,” said Sir Arthur,
coming towards them. “Tony Butler left for Liverpool in the packet this
morning. Barnes, who was seeing his brother off, saw him mount the side
of the steamer with his portmanteau in his hand. Is it not singular he
should have said nothing about this last night?”

The sisters looked with a certain secret intelligence at each other, but
did not speak. “Except, perhaps, he may have told you girls.” added he
quickly, and catching the glance that passed between them.

“No, papa,” said Alice, “he said nothing of his intention to us; indeed,
he was to have ridden over with me this morning to Mount-Leslie, and ask
about those private theatricals that have been concerted there for the
last two years, but of which all the performers either marry or die off
during the rehearsals.”

“Perhaps this all-accomplished friend of Mark's who comes here by the
end of the week, will give the project his assistance. If the half of
what Mark says of him be true, we shall have for our guest one of the
wonders of Europe.”

“I wish the Leslies would take me on a visit till he goes,” said Alice.

“And I,” said Bella, “have serious thoughts of a sore throat that
will confine me to my room. Brummelism--and I hate it--it is just
Brummelism--is somewhat out of vogue at this time of day. It wants
the prestige of originality, and it wants the high patronage that once
covered it; but there is no sacrifice of self-respect in being amused
by it, so let us at least enjoy a hearty laugh, which is more than the
adorers of the great Beau himself ever acquired at his expense.”

“At all events, girls, don't desert the field and leave me alone with
the enemy; for this man is just coming when we shall have no one here,
as ill-luck would have it.”

“Don't say ill-luck, papa,” interposed Bella; “for if he be like what we
suspect, he would outrage and affront every one of our acquaintance.”

“Three days are not an eternity,” said he, half gayly, “and we must make
the best of it.”



CHAPTER III. A VERY “FINE GENTLEMAN”

One word about Mr. Norman Maitland, of whom this history will have
something more to say hereafter. He was one of those men, too few
in number to form a class, but of which nearly every nation on the
Continent has some examples,--men with good manners and good means, met
with always in the great world,--at home in the most exclusive circles,
much thought of, much caressed; but of whom, as to family, friends, or
belongings, no one can tell anything. They who can recall the society of
Paris some forty years back, will remember such a man in Montrond. Rich,
accomplished, handsome, and with the most fascinating address, Montrond
won his way into circles the barriers to which extended even to royalty;
and yet all the world were asking, “Who is he?--who knows him?” Maitland
was another of these. Men constantly canvassed him, agreed that he was
not of these “Maitlands” or of those--that nobody was at school with
him,--none remembered him at Eton or at Rugby. He first burst upon life
at Cambridge, where he rode boldly, was a first-rate cricketer, gave
splendid wine-parties, wrote a prize poem, and disappeared none ever
knew whence or wherefore. He was elected for a borough, but only was
seen twice or thrice in the House. He entered the army, but left without
joining his regiment. He was to be heard of in every city of Europe,
living sumptuously, playing high,--more often a loser than a winner. His
horses, his carriages, his liveries, were models; and wherever he went
his track could be marked in the host of imitators he left behind him.
For some four or five years back all that was known of him was in some
vague paragraph appearing from time to time that some tourist had met
him in the Rocky Mountains, or that he had been seen in Circassia. An
Archduke on his travels had partaken of his hospitality in the extreme
north of India; and one of our naval commanders spoke of dining on board
his yacht in the Southern Pacific. Those who were curious about him
learned that he was beginning to show some slight touches of years,--how
he had grown fatter, some said more serious and grave,--and a few
censoriously hinted that his beard and moustaches were a shade darker
than they used to be. Maitland, in short, was just beginning to drop out
of people's minds, when he reappeared once more in England, looking
in reality very little altered, save that his dark complexion seemed a
little darker from travel, and he was slightly, very slightly, bald on
the top of the head.

It was remarked, however, that his old pursuits, which were purely those
of pleasure or dissipation, had not, to all appearance, the same hold
on him as before. “He never goes down to Tattersall's,” “I don't think
I have seen him once at the opera,” “He has given up play altogether,”
 were the rumors one heard on all sides; and so it was that the young
generation, who had only heard of but never seen him, were sorely
disappointed in meeting the somewhat quiet, reserved-looking, haughty
man, whose wild feats and eccentricities had so often amused them,
but who now gave no evidence of being other than a cold, well-bred
gentleman.

It was when hastily passing through London, on his return from India,
that Mark Lyle had met him, and Maitland had given him a half-careless
promise to come and see him. “I want to go across to Ireland,” said he,
“and whenever town gets hot, I'll run over.” Mark would have heard the
same words from a royal duke with less pride, for he had been brought up
in his Sandhurst days with great traditions of Maitland; and the favor
the great man had extended to him in India, riding his horses, and once
sharing his bungalow, had so redounded to his credit in the regiment
that even a tyrannical major had grown bland and gentle to him.

Mark was, however, far from confident that he could rely on his promise.
It seemed too bright a prospect to be possible. Maitland, who had never
been in Ireland,--whom one could, as Mark thought, no more fancy in
Ireland than he could imagine a London fine lady passing her mornings in
a poorhouse, or inspecting the coarse labors of a sewing-school,--_he_
coming over to see him! What a triumph, were it only to be true! and
now the post told him it was true, and that Maitland would arrive at the
Abbey on Saturday. Now, when Mark had turned away so hastily and left
his sisters, he began to regret that he had announced the approaching
arrival of his friend with such a flourish of trumpets. “I ought to have
said nothing whatever about him. I ought simply to have announced him
as a man very well off, and much asked out, and have left the rest to
fortune. All I have done by my ill-judged praise has been to awaken
prejudice against him, and make them eager to detect flaws, if they can,
in his manner,--at all events in his temper.” The longer he thought over
these things the more they distressed him; and, at last, so far from
being overjoyed, as he expected, at the visit of his distinguished
friend, he saw the day of his coming dawn with dismay and misgiving.
Indeed, had such a thing as putting him off been possible, it is likely
he would have done it.

The long-looked-for and somewhat feared Saturday came at last, and with
it came a note of a few lines from Maitland. They were dated from a
little village in Wicklow, and ran thus:--

     “Dear L.,--I have come down here with a Yankee, whom I
     chanced upon as a travelling companion, to look at the
     mines,--gold, they call them; and if I am not seduced into
     a search after nuggets, I shall be with you some time--I
     cannot define the day--next week. The country is prettier
     and the people less barbarous than I expected; but I hear
     your neighborhood will compensate me for both
     disappointments.

     “Yours,

     “N. M.”

“Well! are we to send the carriage into Coleraine for him, Mark?” asked
Sir Arthur, as his son continued to read the letter, without lifting his
eyes.

“No,” said Mark, in some confusion. “This is a sort of put-off. He
cannot be here for several days. Some friend or acquaintance has dragged
him off in another direction;” and he crushed the note in his hand,
afraid of being asked to read or to show it.

“The house will be full after Tuesday, Mark,” said Lady Lyle. “The Gores
and the Masseys and the M'Clintocks will all be here, and Gambier Graham
threatens us with himself and his two daughters.”

“If they come,” broke in Mark, “you'll have my rooms at your disposal.”

“I delight in them,” said Mrs. Trafford; “and if your elegantly
fastidious friend should really come, I count upon them to be perfect
antidotes to all his impertinence. Sally Graham and the younger one,
whom her father calls 'Dick,' are downright treasures when one is in
want of a forlorn hope to storm town-bred pretension.”

“If Maitland is to be baited, Alice, I 'd rather the bullring was
somewhere else,” said her brother, angrily.

“The real question is, shall we have room for all these people and their
followers?” said Lady Lyle.

“I repeat,” said Mark, “that if the Graham girls are to be here, I 'm
off. They are the most insufferably obtrusive and aggressive women I
ever met; and I 'd rather take boat and pass a month at the Hebrides
than stop a week in the house with them.”

“I think Sally thrashed you when you came home once for the holidays,”
 said Mrs. Trafford, laughing.

“No, Alice, it was Beck,” broke in her sister. “She has a wonderful
story of what she calls a left-hander, that she planted under his eye.
She tells it still with great gusto, but owns that Mark fought on very
bravely for two rounds after.”

“And are these the people you expect me to show Maitland?” said Mark,
rising from the table; “I'd rather, fifty times rather, write and say,
'We cannot receive you; our house is full, and will be for a month to
come.'”

“Yes, dear Mark, that is the really sensible way to look at it. Nobody
nowadays has any scruple in such matters. One is invited from Monday to
Thursday, but on no possible pretext can he stay to Friday.” And so Mrs.
Trafford ran away, heaping, by apparent consolations, coals of fire on
his angry head.

“I think you had better get Alice to write the letter herself,” said
Bella; “I'm sure she will do it with great tact and discretion.”

“Pray do,” added she. “Entrust me with the despatch, and I promise you
the negotiation will be completed then and there.”

“It is quite bad enough to shut the door in a man's face, without
jeering at him out of the window,” said Mark; and he dashed out of the
room in a rage.

“I wish he had shown us his friend's note,” said Alice. “I'm quite
certain that his anger has far, more to do with that epistle than with
any of our comments upon it.”

“I'm very sorry Mark should be annoyed,” said Bella; “but I'm selfish
enough to own that, if we escape Mr. Maitland's visit, I shall deem the
bargain a good one.”

“I suspect Mr. Maitland does not intend to honor us by his company, and
that we may spare ourselves all the embarrassment of preparing for it,”
 said Lady Lyle. And now the three ladies set themselves to consider in
committee that oft-vexed problem of how to make a country-house
hold more people than it had room for, and how to persuade the less
distinguished of the guests that they are “taking out” in cordiality
all that their reception wants in convenience. One difficulty presented
itself at every step, and in a variety of shapes. Never before had the
Abbey been full of visitors without Tony Butler being there to assist in
their amusement,--Tony, equally at home on land and on sea, the cavalier
of young ladies, the safe coachman of mammas, the guide to all that was
noteworthy, the fisherman, the yachtsman whom no weather disconcerted,
no misadventure could provoke,--so good-tempered and so safe; ay, so
safe! for Tony never wanted to flirt with the young heiress, nor teach
her schoolboy brother to smoke a short pipe. He had neither the ambition
to push his fortune unfairly, nor to attach his junior to him by
unworthy means. And the sisters ran over his merits, and grew very
enthusiastic about traits in him which, by inference, they implied were
not the gifts of others nearer home.

“I wish, papa, you would ride over and see Mrs. Butler, and ask when
Tony is expected back again.”

“Or if,” added Mrs. Trafford--“or if we could get him back by writing,
and saying how much we want him.”

“I know I 'll never venture on Soliman till Tony has had a hand on him.”

“And those chestnuts mamma wants for the low phaeton,--who is to break
them now?” cried Bella.

“I only heard yesterday,” said Sir Arthur, “that the 'Mermaid's' sails
were all cut up. Tony was going to make a schooner of her, it seems;
and there she is now, dismantled, and not one of us able to put her in
commission again.”

“I declare it sounds absurd,” broke in Lady Lyle, “but I fancy the
garden is beginning to look neglected already. Certainly I never saw
Mr. Graft there the whole morning; and he would not have dared to absent
himself if Tony were here.”

“I 'd go over willingly and see his mother,” said Sir Arthur; “but as
Tony did not confide to us his intended journey, but set off without a
word, it would have the appearance of a certain prying curiosity on my
part were I to ask after him, and when he is expected home again.”

“Not if you were to say frankly that we wanted him, and could n't get
on without him, papa,” said Alice. “I 'd have no shame in saying that
we are perfectly helpless without his skill, his courage, his ready wit,
and his good nature.”

“Why not secure all those perfections beyond risk, Alice?” said Sir
Arthur, laughing.

“How so?--only tell me.”

“Marry him.”

“First of all, papa, he might not marry me; and, secondly, if he should,
it might not be the way to insure the perpetuity I covet. You know what
Swift says of the 'promising' Princes and the 'bad' Kings the world is
full of?”

“I protest,” said Lady Lyle, haughtily, “I have a great regard for young
Butler; but it has never gone the length of making me desire him for a
son-in-law.”

“Meanwhile, papa,--for we have quite time enough to think over the
marriage,--pray let me order them to saddle Peter for you, and ride over
to the Burnside.”

“Do so, Alice; I'm quite ready; but, first of all, give me my
instructions.”

“We want Tony,” broke in Bella.

“Yes; and insist on having him. He must be here by Monday night or
Tuesday morning, if it cost an express to go after him.”

“We ought to bear in mind, girls, that Tony has not left home in pursuit
of pleasure. The poor fellow has had some call of urgency or necessity,
and our selfishness must not go the length of a cruelty.”

“But with your nice tact, papa, you'll find out all that; you 'll learn,
in the course of conversation, whether anything of importance has called
him away, or whether it be not, as I half suspect, a sort of passing
caprice.” And she looked significantly at Bella, and left her sentence
unfinished.

“Do you know of anything that should induce you to believe this, Alice?”

“Nothing more than a chance word that dropped from Mark this morning.
He took it into his head last night that poor Tony was presumptuous,
and gave himself airs,--Tony! of all creatures in the world; and so the
great hussar, in the plenitude of his regimental experiences, essayed
what he called 'to put him down'! Now, the chances are that this may
have occasioned some unpleasantness, and it is not in the least unlikely
may have led to Tony's departure.”

“You must be right, Alice; and since we have been standing here at the
window, I saw Mrs. Butler's herd give Mark a letter, which, after
reading, he crushed impatiently in his hand and thrust into his pocket.
This decides me at once. I will go down to Mrs. Butler's without delay.”

“Please explain that I have not called, solely because the carriage-road
is so bad. The drive down through that forest of fern and reeds is like
a horrid nightmare on me,” said Lady Lyle.

“Well, I think I can apologize for your absence without telling her that
she lives in an unapproachable wilderness,” said he, laughing; “and as
she cares little for visiting or being visited, the chances are my task
will be an easy one.

“Would you like me to go with you, papa?” asked Alice.

“Yes, by all means; but stay,” added he, quickly, “it might possibly be
better not to come; if anything unpleasant should have occurred between
Mark and Tony, she will have less reluctance to speak of it when we are
alone.”

They all agreed that this was well thought of, and soon after saw him
set out on his mission, their best wishes for his success following him.

Sir Arthur pondered as he went over what he should say, and how he would
meet the remarks he deemed it likely she would make to him. Without
being in the least what is called a person of superior abilities, Mrs.
Butler was a somewhat hard-headed woman, whose North of Ireland caution
and shrewdness stood her in stead for higher qualities; and if they
would not have guided her in great difficulties, she had the good
fortune or the prudence to escape from such. He knew this; and he
knew besides that there pertains to a position of diminished means and
station a peculiar species of touchy pride, always suggesting to its
possessor the suspicion that this or that liberty would never have been
taken in happier days, and thus to regard the most well-meant counsels
and delicately conveyed advice as uncalled-for interference, or worse.

It was after much consideration he saw himself at the little wicket of
the garden, where he dismounted, and, fastening his bridle to the gate,
knocked at the door. Though he could distinctly hear the sound of voices
within, and the quick movement of feet, his summons was unanswered, and
he was about to repeat it for the third time when the door was opened.

“Is your mistress at home, Jeanie?” said he, recognizing with a smile
the girl's courtesy to him.

“Yes, sir, she's at home,” was the dry answer.

“Will you just tell her, then, that Sir Arthur Lyle would take it as a
great favor if she'd permit him to speak to her?”

The girl disappeared with the message, but did not return again for
several minutes; and when she did, she looked slightly agitated. “My
mistress is very sorry, sir, but she canna see ye the day; it's a sort
of a headache she has.”

“Mr. Anthony, is he at home?” asked he, curious to remark the effect of
his question.

“He's no just at name the noo,” was the cautious reply.

“He has not been up at the Abbey to-day,” said he, carelessly; “but, to
be sure, I came through the 'bracken,' and might have missed him.”

A little dry nod of the head, to acknowledge that this or anything else
was possible, was all that his speech elicited.

“Say that I was very sorry, Jeanie, that Mrs. Butler could not see me,
and sorrier for the reason; but that I hope tomorrow or next day to be
more fortunate. Not,” added he, after a second thought, “that what I
wanted to speak of is important, except to myself; don't forget this,
Jeanie.”

“I winna forget,” said she; and courtesying again, closed the door. Sir
Arthur rode slowly back to report that his embassy had failed.



CHAPTER IV. SOME NEW ARRIVALS

Day after day went over, and no tidings of Maitland. When the post came
in of a morning, and no letter in his hand appeared, Mark's impatience
was too perceptible to make any comment for his sisters either safe or
prudent. Nor was it till nigh a week passed over that he himself said,
“I wonder what has become of Maitland? I hope he's not ill.” None
followed up the theme, and it dropped. The expected guests began to
drop in soon after, and, except by Mark himself, Mr. Norman Maitland
was totally forgotten. The visitors were for the most part squires,
and their wives and families; solid, well-to-do gentlemen, whose chief
objects in life were green crops and the poor-law. Their talk was
either of mangold or guano, swedes or the union, just as their sons'
conversation ranged over dogs, horses, meets, and covers; and the ladies
disported in toilette, and such details of the Castle drawing-rooms as
the Dublin papers afforded. There were Mr. and Mrs. Warren, with two
daughters and a son; and the Hunters, with two sons and a daughter.
There were Colonel Hoyle and Mrs. Hoyle, from regimental head-quarters,
Belfast; and Groves Bulkney, the member for the county, who had come
over, in the fear of an approaching dissolution of Parliament, to have
a look at his constituents. He was a Tory, who always voted with the
Whigs; a sort of politician in great favor with the North of Ireland,
and usually supposed to have much influence with both parties. There
were Masseys from Tipperary, and M'Clintocks from Louth; and, lastly,
herald of their approach, three large coffin-shaped trunks, undeniably
of sea-origin, with the words “Cap. Gambier Graham, R.N.,” marked on
them, which arrived by a carrier, with three gun-cases and an immense
array of fishing-tackle, gaffs, and nets.

“So I see those odious Grahams are coming,” said Mark, ill-humoredly,
as he met his elder sister in the hall. “I declare, if it were not that
Maitland might chance to arrive in my absence, I 'd set off this very
morning.”

“I assure you, Mark, you are all wrong; the girls are no favorites of
mine; but looking to the staple of our other guests, the Grahams are
perfect boons from Heaven. The Warrens, with their infant school, and
Mrs. Maxwell, with her quarrel with the bishop, and the Masseys, with
their pretension about that daughter who married Lord Claude Somebody,
are so terribly tiresome that I long for the racket and noise of those
bustling young women, who will at least dispel our dulness.”

“At the cost of our good breeding.”

“At all events, they are Jolly and good-tempered girls. We have known
them for--”

“Oh, don't say how long. The younger one is two years older than
myself.”

“No, Mark, Beck is exactly your own age.”

“Then I 'm determined to call myself five-and-thirty the first
opportunity I have. She shall have three years tacked to her for the
coming into the world along with me.”

“Sally is only thirty-four.”

“Only! the idea of saying _only_ to thirty-four.”

“They don't look within eight or nine years of it, I declare. I suppose
you will scarcely detect the slightest change in them.”

“So much the worse. Any change would improve them, in my eyes.”

“And the Captain, too. He, I believe, is now Commodore.”

“I perceive there is no change in the mode of travel,” said Mark,
pointing to the trunks. “The heavy luggage used always to arrive the
day before they drove up in their vile Irish jaunting-car. Do they still
come in that fashion?”

“Yes; and I really believe with the same horse they had long, long ago.”

“A flea-bitten mare with a twisted tail?”

“The very same,” cried she, laughing. “I'll certainly tell Beck how well
you remember their horse. She 'll take it as a flattery.”

“Tell her what you like; she'll soon find out how much flattery she
has to expect from _me!_” After a short pause, in which he made two
ineffectual attempts to light a cigar, and slightly burned his fingers,
he said, “I 'd not for a hundred pounds that Maitland had met them here.
With simply stupid country gentry, he 'd not care to notice their ways
nor pay attention to their humdrum habits; but these Grahams, with all
their flagrant vulgarity, will be a temptation too irresistible, and he
will leave this to associate us forever in his mind with the two most
ill-bred women in creation.”

“You are quite unfair, Mark; they are greatly liked,--at least, people
are glad to have them; and if we only had poor Tony Butler here, who
used to manage them to perfection, they 'd help us wonderfully with all
the dulness around us.”

“Thank Heaven we have not. I 'd certainly not face such a constellation
as the three of them. I tell you, frankly, that I 'd pack my portmanteau
and go over to Scotland if that fellow were to come here again.”

“You 're not likely to be driven to such an extremity, I suspect; but
here comes papa, and I think he has been down at the Burnside; let us
hear what news he has.”

“It has no interest for me,” said he, walking away, while she hastened
out to meet Sir Arthur.

“No tidings, Alice,--at least, none that I can learn. Mrs. Butler's
headache still prevents her seeing me, though I could wager I saw her at
work in the garden when I turned off the high-road.”

“How strange! You suspect that she avoids you?”

“I am certain of it; and I went round by the minister's, thinking to
have a talk with Stewart, and hear something that might explain this;
but he was engaged in preparing his sermon, and begged me to excuse
him.”

“I wish we could get to the bottom of this mystery. Would she receive
me, do you think, if I were to go over to the cottage?”

“Most likely not I suspect whatever it be that has led to this
estrangement will be a passing cloud; let us wait and see. Who are
those coming up the bend of the road? The horse looks fagged enough,
certainly.”

“The Grahams, I declare! Oh, I must find Mark, and let him be caught
here when they arrive.”

“Don't let the Commodore get at _me_ before dinner; that's all I ask,”
 said Sir Arthur, as he rode round to the stables.

When Alice entered the house, she found Mark at the open window watching
with an opera-glass the progress of the jaunting-car as it slowly wound
along the turns of the approach, lost and seen as the woods intervened
or opened.

“I cannot make it out at all, Alice,” said he; “there are two men and
two women, as well as I can see, besides the driver.”

“No, no; they have their maid, whom you mistake for a man.”

“Then the maid wears a wideawake and a paletot. Look, and see for
yourself;” and he handed her the glass.

“I declare you are right,--it is a man; he is beside Beck. Sally is on
the side with her father.”

“Are they capable of bringing some one along with them?” cried he, in
horror. “Do you think they would dare to take such a liberty as that
here?”

“I 'm certain they would not. It must be Kenrose the apothecary, who
was coming to see one of the maids, or one of our own people, or--”
 Her further conjectures were cut short by the outburst of so strong an
expletive as cannot be repeated; and Mark, pale as death, stammered out,
“It's Maitland! Norman Maitland!”

“But how, Mark, do they know him?”

“Confound them! who can tell how it happened?” said he., “I 'll not meet
him; I 'll leave the house,--I 'll not face such an indignity.”

“But remember, Mark, none of us know your friend, we have not so much as
seen him; and as he was to meet these people, it's all the better they
came as acquaintances.”

“That's all very fine,” said he, angrily; “you can be beautifully
philosophical about it, all because you have n't to go back to a
mess-table and be badgered by all sorts of allusions and references to
Maitland's capital story.”

“Here they are, here they are!” cried Alice; and the next moment she
was warmly embracing those dear friends to whose failings she was nowise
blind, however ardent her late defence of them. Mark, meanwhile, had
advanced towards Maitland, and gave him as cordial a welcome as he could
command. “My sister Mrs. Trafford, Mr. Maitland,” said he; and Alice
gave her hand with a graceful cordiality to the new guest.

“I declare, Mark is afraid that I 'll kiss him,” cried Beck. “Courage,
_mon ami_, I'll not expose you in public.”

“How are you? how are you?” cried the Commodore; “brown, brown, very
brown; Indian sun. Lucky if the mischief is only skin-deep.”

“Shake hands, Mark,” said Sally, in a deep masculine voice; “don't bear
malice, though I did pitch you out of the boat that day.”

Mark was however, happily, too much engaged with his friend to have
heard the speech. He was eagerly listening to Maitland's account of his
first meeting with the Grahams.

“My lucky star was in the ascendant; for there I stood,” said Maitland,
“in the great square of Bally--Bally--”

“Ballymena,” broke in Beck; “and there's no great square in the place;
but you stood in a very dirty stable-yard, in a much greater passion
than such a fine gentleman should ever give way to.”

“Calling, 'A horse! a horse! My kingdom for a horse!'”

“It was 'a chaise and pair' _I_ heard, and you were well laughed at
for your demand. The baker offered you a seat, which you rejected with
dismay; and, to tell the truth, it was half in the hope of witnessing
another outburst of your indignation that I went across and said, 'Would
you accept a place beside me, sir?'”

“And was I not overwhelmed with joy? Was it not in a transport of
gratitude that I embraced your offer?”

“I know you very nearly embraced my maid as you lifted her off the car.”

“And, by the way, where is Patience?” asked Mrs. Trafford.

“She's coming on, some fashion, with the swell's luggage,” added she,
dropping her voice to a whisper,--“eight trunks, eleven carpet-bags, and
four dressing-boxes, besides what I thought was a show-box, but is only
a shower-bath.”

“My people will take every care of her,” said Maitland.

“Is Fenton still with you?” asked Mark.

“Yes; he had some thoughts of leaving me lately. He said he thought he
'd like to retire,--that he 'd take a consulate or a barrack-mastership;
but I laughed him out of it.”

Sir Arthur and Lady Lyle had now come down to welcome the new arrivals;
and greetings and welcomes and felicitations resounded on all sides.

“Come along with me, Maitland,” said Mark, hurrying his friend away.
“Let me show you your quarters;” and as he moved off, he added, “What a
piece of ill-luck it was that you should have chanced upon the greatest
bores of our acquaintance!--people so detestable to me that if I had n't
been expecting your visit I 'd have left the house this morning.”

“I don't know that,” said Maitland, half languidly; “perhaps I have
grown more tolerant, or more indifferent,--what may be another name for
the same thing; but I rather liked the young women. Have we any more
stairs to mount?”

“No; here you are;” and Mark reddened a little at the impertinent
question. “I have put you here because this was an old _garçon_
apartment I had arranged for myself; and you have your bath-room yonder,
and your servant, on the other side of the terrace.”

“It's all very nice, and seems very quiet,” said Maitland.

“As to that, you'll not have to complain; except the plash of the sea at
the foot of those cliffs, you 'll never hear a sound here.”

“It's a bold thing of you to make me so comfortable, Lyle. When I
wrote to you to say I was coming, my head was full of what we call
country-house life, with all its bustle and racket,--noisy breakfasts
and noisier luncheons, with dinners as numerous as _tables d'hôte_. I
never dreamed of such a paradise as this. May I dine here all alone when
in the humor?”

“You are to be all your own master, and to do exactly as you please. I
need not say, though, that I will scarce forgive you if you grudge us
your company.”

“I'm not always up to society. I'm growing a little footsore with the
world, Lyle, and like to lie down in the shade.”

“Lewis told me you were writing a book,--a novel, I think he said,” said
Mark.

“I write a book! I never thought of such a thing. Why, my dear Lyle, the
fellows who--like myself--know the whole thing, never write! Have n't
you often remarked that a man who has passed years of life in a foreign
city loses all power of depicting its traits of peculiarity, just
because, from habit, they have ceased to strike him as strange? So it
is. Your thorough man of the world knows life too well to describe it.
No, no; it is the creature that stands furtively in the flats that can
depict what goes on in the comedy. Who are your guests?”

Mark ran over the names carelessly.

“All new to me, and I to them. Don't introduce me, Mark; leave me to
shake down in any bivouac that may offer. I'll not be a bear if people
don't bait me. You understand?”

“Perhaps I do.”

“There are no foreigners? That's a loss. They season society, though
they never make it, and there's an evasive softness in French that
contributes much to the courtesies of life. So it is; the habits of the
Continent to the wearied man of the world are just like loose slippers
to a gouty man. People learn to be intimate there without being
over-familiar,--a great point, Mark.”

“By the way,--talking of that same familiarity,--there was a young
fellow who got the habit of coming here, before I returned from India,
on such easy terms that I found him installed like one of ourselves. He
had his room, his saddle-horse, a servant that waited on him, and who
did his orders, as if he were a son of the family. I cut the thing very
short when I came home, by giving him a message to do some trifling
service, just as I would have told my valet. He resented, left the
house, and sent me this letter next morning.”

“Not much given to letter-writing, I see,” muttered Mait-land, as he
read over Tony's epistle; “but still the thing is reasonably well put,
and means to say, 'Give me a chance, and I 'm ready for you.' What's the
name,--Buller?”

“No; Butler,--Tony Butler they call him here.”

“What Butlers does he belong to?” asked Maitland, with more interest in
his manner.

“No Butlers at all,--at least, none of any standing. My sisters, who
swear by this fellow, will tell you that his father was a colonel and
C.B., and I don't know what else; and that his uncle was, and I believe
is, a certain Sir Omerod Butler, minister or ex-minister somewhere; but
I have my doubts of all the fine parentage, seeing that this youth lives
with his mother in a cottage here that stands in the rent-roll at £18
per annum.”

“There is a Sir Omerod Butler,” said Maitland, with a slow, thoughtful
enunciation.

“But if he be this youth's uncle, he never knows nor recognizes him. My
sister, Mrs. Trafford, has the whole story of these people, and will be
charmed to tell it to you.”

“I have no curiosity in the matter,” said Maitland, languidly. “The
world is really so very small that by the time a man reaches my age
he knows every one that is to be known in it. And so,” said he, as he
looked again at the letter, “he went off, after sending you the letter?”

“Yes, he left this the same day.”

“And where for?”

“I never asked. The girls, I suppose, know all about his movements. I
overhear mutterings about poor Tony at every turn. Tell me, Maitland,”
 added he, with more earnestness, “is this letter a thing I can notice?
Is it not a regular provocation?”

“It is, and it is not,” said Maitland, as he lighted a cigar, puffing
the smoke leisurely between his words. “If he were a man that you would
chance upon at every moment, meet at your club, or sit opposite at
dinner, the thing would fester into a sore in its own time; but here
is a fellow, it may be, that you 'll never see again, or if so, but on
distant terms, I 'd say, put the document with your tailor's bills, and
think no more of it.”

Lyle nodded an assent, and was silent.

“I say, Lyle,” added Maitland, after a moment, “I'd advise you never to
speak of the fellow,--never discuss him. If your sisters bring up his
name, let it drop unnoticed; it is the only way to put the tombstone on
such memories. What is your dinner-hour here?”

“Late enough, even for you,--eight.”

“That _is_ civilized. I 'll come down--at least, to-day,” said he, after
a brief pause; “and now leave me.”

When Lyle withdrew, Maitland leaned on the window-sill, and ranged
his eyes over the bold coast-line beneath him. It was not, however,
to admire the bold promontory of Fairhead, or the sweeping shore that
shelved at its base; nor was it to gaze on the rugged outline of those
perilous rocks which stretched from the Causeway far into the open sea.
His mind was far, far away from the spot, deep in cares and wiles
and schemes; for his was an intriguing head, and had its own store of
knaveries.



CHAPTER V. IN LONDON

Seeking one's fortune is a very gambling sort of affair. It is leaving
so much to chance, trusting so implicitly to what is called “luck,” that
it makes all individual exertion a merely secondary process,--a kind of
“auxiliary screw” to aid the gale of Fortune. It was pretty much in this
spirit that Tony Butler arrived in London; nor did the aspect of that
mighty sea of humanity serve to increase his sense of self-reliance. It
was not merely his loneliness that he felt in that great crowd, but it
was his utter inutility--his actual worthlessness--to all others. If
the gamester's sentiment, to try his luck, was in his heart, it was
the spirit of a very poor gambler, who had but one “throw” to risk on
fortune; and, thus thinking, he set out for Downing Street.

If he was somewhat disappointed in the tumble-down, ruinous old mass of
building which held the state secrets of the empire, he was not the less
awestruck as he found himself at the threshold where the great men who
guide empires were accustomed to pass in. With a bold effort he swung
back the glass door of the inner hall, and found himself in presence of
a very well-whiskered, imposing-looking man, who, seated indolently in a
deep armchair, was busily engaged in reading the “Times.” A glance over
the top of the paper was sufficient to assure this great official
that it was not necessary to interrupt his perusal of the news on the
stranger's account, and so he read on undisturbed.

“I have a letter here for Sir Harry Elphinstone,” began Tony; “can I
deliver it to him?”

“You can leave it in that rack yonder,” said the other, pointing to a
glass-case attached to the wall.

“But I wish to give it myself,--with my own hand.”

“Sir Harry comes down to the office at five, and, if your name is down
for an audience, will see you after six.”

“And if it is not down?”

“He won't see you; that 's all.” There was an impatience about the last
words that implied he had lost his place in the newspaper, and wished to
be rid of his interrogator.

“And if I leave my letter here, when shall I call for the answer?” asked
Tony, diffidently.

“Any time from this to this day six weeks,” said the other, with a wave
of the hand to imply the audience was ended.

“What if I were to try his private residence?” said Tony.

“Eighty-one, Park Lane,” said the other, aloud, while he mumbled over
to himself the last line he had read, to recall his thoughts to the
passage.

“You advise me then to go there?”

“Always cutting down, always slicing off something!” muttered the other,
with his eyes on the paper. “'For the port-collector of Hallihololulo,
three hundred and twenty pounds. Mr. Scrudge moved as amendment that
the vote be reduced by the sum of seventy-four pounds eighteen and
sevenpence, being the amount of the collector's salary for the period of
his absence from his post during the prevalence of the yellow fever
on the coast. The honorable member knew a gentleman, whose name he
was unwilling to mention publicly, but would have much pleasure in
communicating confidentially to any honorable gentleman on either side
of the House, who had passed several days at Haccamana, and never was
attacked by any form of yellow fever.' That was a home-thrust, eh?”
 cried the reader, addressing Tony. “Not such an easy thing to answer old
Scrudge there?”

“I'm a poor opinion on such matters,” said Tony, with humility; “but
pray tell me, if I were to call at Park Lane--”

The remainder of his question was interrupted by the sudden start to his
legs of the austere porter, as an effeminate-looking young man with his
hat set on one side, and a glass to his eye, swung wide the door, and
walked up to the letter-rack.

“Only these, Willis?” said he, taking some half-dozen letters of various
sizes.

“And this, sir,” said the porter, handing him Tony's letter; “but the
young man thinks he 'd like to have it back;” while he added, in a low
but very significant tone, “he's going to Park Lane with it himself.”

The young gentleman turned round at this, and took a Tery leisurely
survey of the man who contemplated a step of such rare audacity.

“He 's from Ireland, Mr. Darner,” whispered the porter, with a
half-kindly impulse to make an apology for such ignorance.

Mr. Darner smiled faintly, and gave a little nod, as though to say that
the explanation was sufficient; and again turned towards Tony.

“I take it that you know Sir Harry Elphinstone?” asked he.

“I never saw him; but he knew my father very well, and he 'll remember
my name.”

“Knew your father? And in what capacity, may I ask?”

“In what capacity?” repeated Tony, almost fiercely.

“Yes; I mean, as what--on what relations did they stand to each other?”

“As schoolfellows at Westminster, where he fagged to my father; in the
Grenadier Guards afterwards, where they served together; and, last of
all, as correspondents, which they were for many years.”

“Ah, yes,” sighed the other, as though he had read the whole story, and
a very painful story too, of change of fortune and ruined condition.
“But still,” continued he, “I 'd scarcely advise your going to Park
Lane. He don't like it. None of them like it!”

“Don't they?” said Tony, not even vaguely guessing at whose prejudices
he was hinting, but feeling bound to say something.

“No, they don't,” rejoined Mr. Darner, in a half-confidential way.
“There is such a deal of it,--fellows who were in the same 'eleven' at
Oxford, or widows of tutors, or parties who wrote books,--I think
they are the worst, but all are bores, immense bores! You want to get
something, don't you?”

Tony smiled, as much at the oddity of the question as in acquiescence.

“I ask,” said the other, “because you'll have to come to me: I 'm
private secretary, and I give away nearly all the office patronage. Come
upstairs;” and with this he led the way up a very dirty staircase to a
still dirtier corridor, off which a variety of offices opened, the open
doors of which displayed the officials in all forms and attitudes of
idleness,--some asleep, some reading newspapers, some at luncheon, and
two were sparring with boxing-gloves.

“Sir Harry writes the whole night through,” said Mr. Damer; “that's the
reason these fellows have their own time of it now;” and with this bit
of apology he ushered Tony into a small but comfortably furnished room,
with a great coal-fire in the grate, though the day was a sultry one in
autumn.

Mr. Skeffington Darner's first care was to present himself before a
looking-glass, and arrange his hair, his whiskers, and his cravat;
having done which, he told Tony to be seated, and threw himself into a
most comfortably padded arm-chair, with a writing-desk appended to one
side of it.

“I may as well open your letter. It's not marked private, eh?”

“Not marked private,” said Tony, “but its contents are strictly
confidential.”

“But it will be in the waste-paper basket to-morrow morning for all
that,” said Darner, with a pitying compassion for the other's innocence.
“What is it you are looking for,--what sort of thing?”

“I scarcely know, because I 'm fit for so little; they tell me the
colonies, Australia or New Zealand, are the places for fellows like me.”

“Don't believe a word of it,” cried Darner, energetically. “A man with
any 'go' in him can do fifty thousand times better at home. You go some
thousand miles away--for what? to crush quartz, or hammer limestone,
or pump water, or carry mud in baskets, at a dollar, two dollars, five
dollars, if you like, a day, in a country where Dillon, one of our
fellows that's under-secretary there, writes me word he paid thirty
shillings for a pot of Yarmouth bloaters. It's a rank humbug all that
about the colonies,--take my word for it!”

“But what is there to be done at home, at least by one like me?”

“Scores of things. Go on to the Exchange,--go in for a rise, go in for
a fall. Take Peruvian Twelves--they 're splendid--or Montezuman mining
script. I did a little in Guatemalas last week, and I expect a capital
return by next settling-day. If you think all this too gambling, get
named director of a company. There's the patent phosphorus blacking,
will give fifty pounds for a respectable chairman; or write a
novel,--that's the easiest thing in life, and pays wonderfully,--Herd
and Dashen give a thousand down, and double the money for each edition;
and it's a fellow's own fault if it ain't a success. Then there's patent
medicine and scene-painting,--any one can paint a scene, all done with a
great brush--this fashion; and you get up to fifteen, ay, twenty pounds
a week. By the way, are you active?”

“Tolerably so. Why do you ask?” said Tony, smiling at the impetuous
incoherence of the other's talk.

“Just hold up this newspaper--so--not so high--there. Don't move; a very
little to the right.” So saying, Mr. Darner took three sofa-cushions,
and placed them in a line on the floor; and then, taking off his coat
and waistcoat, retired to a distant corner of the room. “Be steady, now;
don't move,” cried he; and then, with a brisk run, he dashed forward,
and leaped head-foremost through the extended newspaper, but with so
vigorous a spring as to alight on the floor a considerable distance in
advance of the cushions, so that he arose with a bump on his forehead,
and his nose bleeding.

“Admirably done! splendidly done!” cried Tony, anxious to cover the
disaster by a well-timed applause.

“I never got so much as a scratch before,” said Darner, as be proceeded
to sponge his face. “I 've done the clock and the coach-window at the
Adelphi, and they all thought it was Salter. I could have five pounds
a night and a free benefit. Is it growing black around the eye? I hope
it's not growing black around the eye?”

“Let me bathe it for you. By the way, have you any one here could manage
to get you a little newly baked dough? That's the boxer's remedy for a
bruise. If I knew where to go, I 'd fetch it myself.”

Darner looked up from his bathing proceedings, and stared at the
good-natured readiness of one so willing to oblige as not to think of
the ridicule that might attach to his kindness. “My servant will go for
it,” said he; “just pull that bell, will you, and I 'll send him. Is
not it strange how I could have done this?” continued he, still bent on
explaining away his failure; “what a nose I shall have to-morrow! Eh!
what's that? It's Sir Harry's bell ringing away furiously! Was there
ever the like of this! The only day he should have come for the last
eight months!” The bell now continued to ring violently, and Damer had
nothing for it but to huddle on his coat and rush away to answer the
summons.

Though not more than ten minutes absent, Tony thought the time very
long; in reality be felt anxious about the poor fellow, and eager to
know that his disaster had not led to disgrace.

“Never so much as noticed it,” said Darner,--“was so full of other
matters. I suspect,” added he, in a lower tone,--“I suspect we are going
out.”

“Out where?” asked Tony, with simplicity.

“Out of office, out of power,” replied the other, half testily; then
added in a more conciliatory voice, “I 'll tell you why I think so. He
began filling up all the things that are vacant. I have just named
two colonial secretaries, a chief justice, an auditor-general, and an
inspector of convicts. I thought of that for _you_, and handed him your
letter; but before he broke the seal he had filled up the place.”

“So then he has read the letter?”

“Yes, he read it twice; and when I told him you were here in waiting, he
said, 'Tell him not to go; I 'll see him.'”

The thought of presenting himself bodily before the great man made
Tony feel nervous and uncomfortable; and after a few moments of fidgety
uneasiness, he said, “What sort of person is he,--what is he like?”

“Well,” said Damer, who now stood over a basin, sponging his eye with
cold water, “he's shy--very shy--but you 'd never guess it; for he has
a bold, abrupt sort of way with him; and he constantly answers his own
questions, and if the replies displease him, he grows irritable. You 've
seen men like that?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

“Then it's downright impossible to say when he's in good humor with one,
for he 'll stop short in a laugh and give you such a pull up!”

“That is dreadful!” exclaimed Tony.

“_I_ can manage him! They say in the office I 'm the only fellow that
ever could manage him. There goes his bell,--that's for you; wait here,
however, till I come back.”

Darner hurried away, but was back in a moment, and beckoned to Tony to
follow him, which he did in a state of flurry and anxiety that a real
peril would never have caused him.

Tony found himself standing in the Minister's presence, where he
remained for full a couple of minutes before the great man lifted his
head and ceased writing. “Sit down,” was the first salutation; and as he
took a chair, he had time to remark the stern but handsome features of a
large man, somewhat past the prime of life, and showing in the lines of
his face traces of dissipation as well as of labor.

“Are you the son of Watty Butler?” asked he, as he wheeled his chair
from the table and confronted Tony.

“My father's name was Walter, sir,” replied Tony, not altogether without
resenting this tone of alluding to him.

“Walter! nothing of the kind; nobody ever called him anything but Watty,
or Wat Tartar, in the regiment. Poor Watty! you are very like him,--not
so large,--not so tall.” “The same height to a hair, sir.”

“Don't tell me; Watty was an inch and a half over you, and much broader
in the chest. I think I ought to know; he has thrown me scores of times
wrestling, and I suspect it would puzzle _you_ to do it.” Tony's face
flushed; he made no answer, but in his heart of hearts he 'd like to
have had a trial.

Perhaps the great man expected some confirmation of his opinion, or
perhaps he had his own doubts about its soundness; but, whatever
the reason, his voice was more peevish as he said: “I have read your
mother's note, but for the life of me I cannot see what it points to.
What has become of your father's fortune? He had something, surely.”

“Yes, sir, he had a younger son's portion, but he risked it in a
speculation--some mines in Canada--and lost it.”

“Ay, and dipped it too by extravagance! There's no need to tell me how
he lived; there wasn't so wasteful a fellow in the regiment; he 'd have
exactly what he pleased, and spend how he liked. And what has it come
to? ay, that's what I ask,--what has it come to? His wife comes here
with this petition--for it is a petition--asking--I 'll be shot if I
know what she asks.”

“Then I 'll tell you,” burst in Tony; “she asks the old brother-officer
of her husband--the man who in his letters called himself his
brother--to befriend his son, and there's nothing like a petition in the
whole of it.”

“What! what! what! This is something I 'm not accustomed to! You want
to make friends, young man, and you must not begin by outraging the very
few who might chance to be well disposed towards you.”

Tony stood abashed and overwhelmed, his cheeks on fire with shame, but
he never uttered a word.

“I have very little patronage,” said Sir Harry, drawing himself up
and speaking in a cold, measured tone; “the colonies appoint their own
officials, with a very few exceptions. I could make you a bishop or an
attorney-general, but I could n't make you a tide-waiter! What can you
do? Do you write a good hand?”

“No, sir; it is legible,--that's all.”

“And of course you know nothing of French or German?”

“A little French; not a word of German, sir.”

“I'd be surprised if you did. It is always when a fellow has utterly
neglected his education that he comes to a Government for a place. The
belief apparently is that the State supports a large institution of
incapables, eh?”

“Perhaps there is that impression abroad,” said Tony, defiantly.

“Well, sir, the impression, as you phrase it, is unfounded, I can
affirm. I have already declared it in the House, that there is not a
government in Europe more ably, more honestly, or more zealously served
than our own. We may not have the spirit of discipline of the French, or
the bureaucracy of the Prussian; but we have a class of officials proud
of the departments they administer; and, let me tell you,--it's no small
matter,--very keen after retiring pensions.”

Either Sir Harry thought he had said a smart thing, or that the theme
suggested something that tickled his fancy, for he smiled pleasantly
now on Tony, and looked far better tempered than before. Indeed, Tony
laughed at the abrupt peroration, and that laugh did him no disservice.

“Well, now, Butler, what are we to do with you?” resumed the Minister,
good-humoredly. “It's not easy to find the right thing, but I 'll
talk it over with Darner. Give him your address, and drop in upon him
occasionally,--not too often, but now and then, so that he should n't
forget you. Meanwhile brush up your French and Italian. I 'm glad you
know Italian.”

“But I do not, sir; not a syllable of the language.”

“Oh, it was German, then? Don't interrupt me. Indeed, let me take
the occasion to impress upon you that you have this great fault of
manners,--a fault I have remarked prevalent among Irishmen, and which
renders them excessively troublesome in the House, and brings them
frequently under the reproof of the Speaker. If you read the newspapers,
you will have seen this yourself.”

Second to a censure of himself, the severest thing for poor Tony to
endure was any sneer at his countrymen; but he made a great effort to
remain patient, and did not utter a word.

“Mind,” resumed the Minister, “don't misunderstand me. I do not say that
your countrymen are deficient in quickness and a certain ready-witted
way of meeting emergencies. Yes, they have that as well as some other
qualities of the same order; but these things won't make statesmen.
This was an old battle-ground between your father and myself thirty
years ago. Strange to think I should have to fight over the same
question with his son now.”

Tony did not exactly perceive what was his share in the conflict, but he
still kept silence.

“Your father was a clever fellow, too, and he had a brother,--a much
cleverer, by the way; there 's the man to serve you,--Sir Omerod Butler.
He 's alive, I know, for I saw his pension certificate not a week ago.
Have you written to him?”

“No, sir. My father and my uncle were not on speaking terms for years,
and it is not likely I would appeal to Sir Omerod for assistance.”

“The quarrel, or coolness, or whatever it was, might have been the fault
of your father.”

“No, sir, it was not.”

“Well, with that I have no concern. All that I know is, your uncle is
a man of a certain influence--at least with his own party--which is not
ours. He is, besides, rich; an old bachelor, too, if I 'm not mistaken;
and so it might be worth the while of a young fellow who has his way to
make in life, to compromise a little of his family pride.”

“I don't think so: I won't do it,” broke in Tony, hotly. “If you have
no other counsel to give me than one you never would have given to my
father, all I have to say is, I wish I had spared myself the trouble,
and my poor mother the cost of this journey.”

If the great man's wrath was moved by the insolent boldness of the
first part of this speech, the vibrating voice and the emotion that
accompanied the last words touched him, and, going over to where the
young man stood, he laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said:
“You'll have to keep this warm temper of yours in more subjection,
Butler, if you want to get on in life. The advice I gave you was very
worldly, perhaps; but when you live to be my age, such will be the
temper in which you'll come to consider most things. And, after all,”
 said he, with a smile, “you 're only the more like your father for it!
Go away now; look up your decimals, your school classics, and such like,
to be ready for the Civil Service people, and come back here in a week
or so,--let Darner know where to find you,” were the last words, as Tony
retired and left the room.

“Well, what success?” cried Darner, as Tony entered his room.

“I can scarcely tell you, but this is what took place;” and he
recounted, as well as memory would serve him, all that had happened.

“Then it's all right,--you are quite safe,” said Darner.

“I don't see that, particularly as there remains this examination.”

“Humbug,--nothing but humbug! They only pluck the 'swells,' the fellows
who have taken a double-first at Oxford. No, no; you 're as safe as
a church; you 'll get--let me see what it will be--you'll get the
Postmaster-ship of the Bahamas; or be Deputy Coal-meter at St. Helena;
or who knows if he'll not give you that thing he exchanged for t'other
day with F. O. It's a Consul's place, at Trincolopolis. It was Cole
of the Blues had it, and he died; and there are four widows of his now
claiming the pension. Yes, that's where you 'll go, rely on't. There 's
the bell again. Write your address large, very large, on that sheet of
paper, and I 'll send you word when there 's anything up.”



CHAPTER VI. DOLLY STEWART

Tony's first care, when he got back to his hotel, was to write to his
mother. He knew how great her impatience would be to hear of him, and
it was a sort of comfort to himself, in his loneliness, to sit down and
pour out his hopes and his anxieties before one who loved him. He told
her of his meeting with the Minister, and, by way of encouragement,
mentioned what Damer had pronounced upon that event. Nor did he forget
to say how grateful he felt to Damer, who, “after all, with his
fine-gentleman airs and graces, might readily have turned a cold
shoulder to a rough-looking fellow like me.”

Poor Tony! in his friendlessness he was very grateful for very little.
Nor is there anything which is more characteristic of destitution than
this sentiment. It is as with the schoolboy, who deems himself rich with
a half-crown!

Tony would have liked much to make some inquiry about the family at the
Abbey; whether any one had come to ask after or look for him; whether
Mrs. Trafford had sent down any books for his mother's reading, or any
fresh flowers,--the only present which the widow could be persuaded to
accept; but he was afraid to touch on a theme that had so many painful
memories to himself. Ah, what happy days he had passed there! What a
bright dream it all appeared now to look back on! The long rides along
the shore, with Alice for his companion, more free to talk with him,
less reserved than Isabella; and who could, on the pretext of her own
experiences of life,--she was a widow of two-and-twenty,--caution him
against so many pitfalls, and guard him against so many deceits of the
world. It was in this same quality of widow, too, that she could go out
to sail with him alone, making long excursions along the coast, diving
into bays, and landing on strange islands, giving them curious names as
they went, and fancying that they were new voyagers on unknown seas.

Were such days ever to come back again? No, he knew they could not They
never do come back, even to the luckiest of us; and how far less would
be our enjoyment of them if we but knew that each fleeting moment
could never be re-acted! “I wonder, is Alice lonely? Does she miss me?
Isabella will not care so much. She has books and her drawing, and she
is so self-dependent; but Alice, whose cry was, 'Where 's Tony?' till it
became a jest against her in the house. Oh, if she but knew how I envy
the dog that lies at her feet, and that can look up into her soft blue
eyes, and wonder what she is thinking of! Well, Alice, it has come at
last. Here is the day you so long predicted. I have set out to seek my
fortune; but where is the high heart and the bold spirit you promised
me? I have no doubt,” cried he, as he paced his room impatiently, “there
are plenty who would say, it is the life of luxurious indolence and
splendor that I am sorrowing after; that it is to be a fancied great
man,--to have horses to ride, and servants to wait on me, and my every
wish gratified,--it is all this I am regretting. But _I_ know better! I
'd be as poor as ever I was, and consent never to be better, if she 'd
just let me see her, and be with her, and love her, to my own heart,
without ever telling her. And now the day has come that makes all these
bygones!”

It was with a choking feeling in his throat, almost hysterical, that
he went downstairs and into the street to try and walk off his gloomy
humor. The great city was now before him,--a very wide and a very noisy
world,--with abundance to interest and attract him, had his mind been
less intent on his own future fortunes; but he felt that every hour he
was away from his poor mother was a pang, and every shilling he should
spend would be a privation to her. Heaven only could tell by what thrift
and care and time she had laid by the few pounds he had carried away
to pay his journey! As his eye fell upon the tempting objects of the
shop-windows, every moment displaying something he would like to have
brought back to her,--that nice warm shawl, that pretty clock for her
mantelpiece, that little vase for her flowers; how he despised himself
for his poverty, and how meanly the thought of a condition that made him
a burden where he ought to have been a benefit! Nor was the thought the
less bitter that it reminded him of the wide space that separated him
from her he had dared to love! “It comes to this,” cried he bitterly to
himself, “that I have no right to be here; no right to do anything, or
think of anything that I have done. Of the thousands that pass me, there
is not, perhaps, one the world has not more need of than of me! Is there
even one of all this mighty million that would have a kind word for me,
if they knew the heavy heart that was weighing me down?” At this minute
he suddenly thought of Dolly Stewart, the doctor's daughter, whose
address he had carefully taken down from his mother, at Mr. Alexander
M'Grader's, 4 Inverness Terrace, Richmond.

It would be a real pleasure to see Dolly's good-humored face, and hear
her merry voice, instead of those heavy looks and busy faces that addled
and confused him; and so, as much to fill up his time as to spare his
purse, he set out to walk to Richmond.

With whatever gloom and depression he began his journey, his spirits
rose as he gained the outskirts of the town, and rose higher and higher
as he felt the cheering breezes and the perfumed air that swept over the
rich meadows at either side of him. It was, besides, such a luxuriant
aspect of country as he had never before seen nor imagined,--fields
cultivated like gardens, trim hedgerows, ornamental trees, picturesque
villas on every hand. How beautiful it all seemed, and how happy! Was
not Dolly a lucky girl to have her lot thrown in such a paradise? How
enjoyable she must find it all!--she whose good spirits knew always
how “to take the most out of” whatever was pleasant How he pictured her
delight in a scene of such loveliness!

“That's Inverness Terrace, yonder,” said a policeman of whom he inquired
the way,--“that range of small houses you see there;” and he pointed to
a trim-looking row of cottage-houses on a sort of artificial embankment
which elevated them above the surrounding buildings, and gave a view of
the Thames as it wound through the rich meadows beneath. They were neat
with that English neatness which at once pleases and shocks a foreign
eye,--the trim propriety that loves comfort, but has no heart for
beauty. Thus, each was like his neighbor. The very jalousies were
painted the same color; and every ranunculus in one garden had his
brother in the next No. 4 was soon found, and Tony rang the bell and
inquired for Miss Stewart.

“She's in the school-room with the young ladies,” said the woman
servant; “but if you 'll step in and tell me your name, I 'll send her
to you.”

“Just say that I have come from her own neighborhood; or, better, say
Mr. Tony Butler would be glad to see her.” He had scarcely been a moment
in the neat but formal-looking front parlor, when a very tall, thin,
somewhat severe-looking lady--not old, nor yet young--entered, and
without any salutation said, “You asked for Miss Stewart, sir,--are you
a relative of hers?”

“No, madam. My mother and Miss Stewart's father are neighbors and very
old friends; and being by accident in London, I desired to see her, and
bring back news of her to the doctor.”

“At her father's request, of course?”

“No, madam; I cannot say so, for I left home suddenly, and had no time
to tell him of my journey.”

“Nor any letter from him?”

“None, madam.”

The thin lady pursed up her parched lips, and bent her keen cold eyes
on the youth, who really felt his cheek grow hot under the scrutiny. He
knew that his confession did not serve to confirm his position; and he
heartily wished himself out of the house again.

“I think, then, sir,” said she, coldly, “it will serve every purpose if
I inform _you_ that Miss Stewart is well; and if I tell _her_ that you
were kind enough to call and ask after her.”

“I'm sure you are right, madam,” said he, hurriedly moving towards
the door, for already he felt as if the ground was on fire beneath
him,--“quite right; and I 'll tell the doctor that though I did n't see
Miss Dora, she was in good health, and very happy.”

“I did n't say anything about her happiness, that I remember, sir; but
as I see her now passing the door, I may leave that matter to come from
her own lips. Miss Stewart,” cried she, louder, “there is a gentleman
here, who has come to inquire after you.” A very pale but nicely
featured young girl, wearing a cap,--her hair had been lately cut short
in a fever,--entered the room, and, with a sudden flush that made her
positively handsome, held out her hand to young Butler, saying, “Oh,
Tony, I never expected to see you here! how are all at home?”

Too much shocked at the change in her appearance to speak, Tony could
only mumble out a few broken words about her father.

“Yes,” cried she, eagerly, “his last letter says that he rides old
Dobbin about just as well as ever; 'perhaps it is,' says he, 'that
having both of us grown old together, we bear our years with more
tolerance to each other;' but won't you sit down, Tony? you 're not
going away till I have talked a little with you.”

“Is the music lesson finished, Miss Stewart?” asked the thin lady,
sternly.

“Yes, ma'am; we have done everything but sacred history.”

“Everything but the one important task, you might have said, Miss
Stewart; but, perhaps, you are not now exactly in the temperament to
resume teaching for to-day; and as this young gentleman's mission is
apparently to report, not only on your health but your happiness, I
shall leave you a quarter of an hour to give him his instructions.”

“I hate that woman,” muttered Tony, as the door closed after her.

“No, Tony, she's not unkind; but she doesn't exactly see the world the
way you and I used long ago. What a great big man you have grown!”

“And what a fine tall girl, you! And I used to call you a stump!”

“Ay, there were few compliments wasted between us in those days; but
weren't they happy?”

“Do you remember them all, Dolly?”

“Every one of them,--the climbing the big cherry-tree the day the branch
broke, and we both fell into the melon-bed; the hunting for eels under
the stones in the river,--was n't that rare sport? and going out to sea
in that leaky little boat that I 'd not have courage to cross the Thames
in now!--oh, Tony, tell me, you never were so jolly since?”

“I don't think I was; and what's worse, Dolly, I doubt if I ever shall
be.”

The tone of deep despondency of these words went to her heart, and her
lip trembled, as she said,--

“Have you had any bad news of late? is there anything going wrong with
you?”

“No, Dolly, nothing new, nothing strange, nothing beyond the fact that
I have been staring at, though I did not see it three years back, that I
am a great hulking idle dog, of no earthly use to himself or to anybody
else. However, I _have_ opened my eyes to it at last; and here I am,
come to seek my fortune, as we used to say long ago, which, after all,
seems a far nicer thing in a fairy book than when reduced to a fact.”

Dolly gave a little short cough, to cover a faint sigh which escaped
her; for she, too, knew something about seeking her fortune, and that
the search was not always a success.

“And what are you thinking of doing, Tony?” asked she, eagerly.

“Like all lazy good-for-nothings, I begin by begging; that is to say, I
have been to a great man this morning who knew my father, to ask him to
give me something,--to make me something.”

“A soldier, I suppose?”

“No; mother won't listen to that She 's so indignant about the way they
treated my poor father about that good-service pension,--one of a race
that has been pouring out their blood like water for three centuries
back,--that she says she 'd not let me accept a commission if it were
offered to me, without it came coupled with a full apology for the wrong
done my father; and as I am too old for the navy, and too ignorant for
most other things, it will push all the great man's ingenuity very close
to find out the corner to suit me.”

“They talk a deal about Australia, Tony; and, indeed, I sometimes think
I 'd like to go there myself. I read in the 'Times' t' other day that
a dairy-maid got as much as forty-six pounds a-year and her board; only
fancy, forty-six pounds a-year! Do you know,” added she, in a cautious
whisper, “I have only eighteen pounds here, and was in rare luck too,
they say, to get it.”

“What if we were to set out together, Dolly?” said he, laughing; but a
deep scarlet flush covered her face, and though she tried to laugh too,
she had to turn her head away, for the tears were in her eyes.

“But how could _you_ turn dairymaid, Dolly?” cried he, half
reproachfully.

“Just as well, or rather better, than _you_ turn shepherd or
gold-digger. As to mere labor, it would be nothing; as to any loss of
condition, I 'd not feel it, and therefore not suffer it.”

“Oh, I have no snobbery myself about working with my hands,” added he,
hastily. “Heaven help me if I had, for my head would n't keep _me_; but
a girl's bringing up is so different from a boy's; she oughtn't to do
anything menial out of her own home.”

“We ought all of us just to do our best, Tony, and what leaves us less
of a burden to others,--that's my reading of it; and when we do that, we
'll have a quiet conscience, and that's something that many a rich man
could n't buy with all his money.”

“I think it's the time for the children's dinner, Miss Stewart,” said
the grim lady, entering. “I am sorry it should cut short an interview so
interesting.”

A half-angry reply rose to Tony's lips, when a look from Dora stopped
him, and he stammered out, “May I call and see you again before I go
back?”

“When _do_ you go back, young gentleman?” asked the thin lady.

“That's more than I can tell. This week if I can; next week if I must.”

“If you 'll write me a line, then, and say what day it would be your
convenience to come down here, I will reply, and state whether it will
be Miss Stewart's and mine to receive you.”

“Come, at all events,” said Dora, in a low voice, as they shook hands
and parted.

“Poor Dolly!” muttered he, as he went his way towards town. “What
between the pale cheeks and the cropped hair and the odious cap, I 'd
never have known her!” He suddenly heard the sound of footsteps behind
him, and, turning, he saw her running towards him at full speed.

“You had forgotten your cane, Tony,” said she, half breathless, “and I
knew it was an old favorite of yours, and you 'd be sorry to think it
was lost. Tell me one thing,” cried she, and her cheek flushed even a
deeper hue than the exercise had given it; “could you--would you be a
clerk--in a merchant's office, I mean?”

“Why do you ask me, Dolly?” said he; for her eager and anxious face
directed all his solicitude from himself to her.

“If you only would and could, Tony,” continued she, “write. No; make
papa write me a line to say so. There, I have no time for more; I have
already done enough to secure me a rare lesson when I get back. Don't
come here again.”

She was gone before he could answer her; and with a heavier heart and
a very puzzled head, he resumed his road to London, “Don't come here
again” ringing in his head as he went.



CHAPTER VII. LYLE ABBEY AND ITS GUESTS

The company at Lyle Abbey saw very little of Maitland for some days
after his arrival. He never appeared of a morning; he only once came
down to dinner; his pretext was indifferent health, and Mark showed a
disposition to quarrel with any one who disputed it. Not, indeed, that
the squirearchy then present were at all disposed to regret Maitland's
absence. They would infinitely rather have discussed his peculiarities
in secret committee than meet himself in open debate. It was not very
easy to say why they did not like him, but such was the fact. It was not
that he overbore them by any species of assumption; he neither took on
him airs of superior station nor of superior knowledge; he was neither
insolent nor haughty; nor was he even, what sometimes is not less
resented, careless and indifferent His manner was a sort of middle term
between popularity-seeking and inattention. The most marked trait in
it was one common enough in persons who have lived much on the
Continent,--a great preference for the society of ladies making him
almost ignore or avoid the presence of the men around him. Not that
Maitland was what is called _petit maître_; there was not any of that
flippant prettiness which is supposed to have its fascination for the
fair sex; he was quiet without any touch of over-seriousness, very
respectful, and at the same time with an insinuated friendliness as
though the person he talked to was one selected for especial cordiality;
and there was a sort of tender languor too about him, that implied some
secret care in his heart, of which each who listened to his conversation
was sure to fancy that she was one day to become the chosen depositary.

“Do you know, Bella,” said Mrs. Trafford, as they sat together at the
fire in her dressing-room, “I shall end by half liking him.”

“I have n't got that far, Alice, though I own that I am less in dread of
him than I was. His superiority is not so crushing as I feared it might
be; and certainly, if he be the Admirable Crichton Mark pretends he is,
he takes every possible pains to avoid all display of it.”

“There may be some impertinence in that,” said the other. “Did you
remark how he was a week here before he as much as owned he knew
anything of music, and listened to our weary little ballads every
evening without a word? and last night, out of pure caprice, as it
seemed, he sits down, and sings song after song of Verdi's difficult
music, with a tenor that reminds one of Mario.”

“And which has quite convinced old Mrs. Maxwell that he is a
professional, or, as she called it, 'a singing man.'”

“She would call him a sketching man if she saw the caricature he made of
herself in the pony carriage, which he tore up the moment he showed it
to me.”

“One thing is clear, Alice,--he means that we should like him; but he is
too clever to set about it in any vulgar spirit of captivation.”

“That is, he seeks regard for personal qualities rather more than
admiration for his high gifts of intellect. Well, up to this, it is his
cleverness that I like.”

“What puzzles me is why he ever came here. He is asked about everywhere,
has all manner of great houses open to him, and stores of fine people,
of whose intimacy you can see he is proud; and yet he comes down to a
dull country place in a dull county; and, stranger than all, he seems to
like it.”

“John Hunter says it is debt,” said Mrs. Trafford.

“Mark Fortescue hints that a rich and handsome widow has something to
say to it.”

“Paul M'Clintock declares that he saw your picture by Ary Scheffer in
the Exhibition, and fell madly in love with it, Bella.”

“And old Colonel Orde says that he is intriguing to get in for the
borough of Coleraine; that he saw him in the garden t'other morning with
a list of the electors in his hand.”

“My conjecture is, that he is intolerably bored everywhere, and came
down here to try the effect of a new mode of the infliction that he had
never experienced before. What else would explain a project I heard him
arrange for this morning,--a walk with Beck Graham!”

“Yes, I was in the window when he asked her where she usually went in
those wanderings over the fern hills, with that great umbrella; and she
told him to visit an old lady--a Mrs. Butler--who had been a dear friend
of her mother's; and then he said, 'I wish you 'd take me with you. I
have a positive weakness for old ladies;' and so the bargain was struck,
that they were to go to the cottage to-day together.”

“Beck, of course, fancying that it means a distinct avowal of attention
to herself.”

“And her sister, Sally, very fully persuaded that Maitland is a suitor
for her hand, and cunningly securing Beck's good offices before he risks
a declaration.”

“Sally already believes that Mark is what she calls 'landed;' and she
gave me some pretty broad hints about the insufferable pretensions of
younger sons, to which class she consigns him.”

“And Beck told me yesterday, in confidence, that Tony had been sent away
from home by his mother, as the last resource against the consequence of
his fatal passion for her.”

“Poor Tony,” sighed the young widow, “he never thought of her.”

“Did he tell you as much, Alice?” said her sister, slyly.

“No, dear; it is the one subject--I mean love in any shape--that we
never discussed. The poor boy confessed to me all his grief about his
purposeless idle life, his mother's straitened fortune, and his uncle's
heartless indifference; everything, in short, that lay heavily on his
heart.”

“Everything but the heaviest, Alice,” said the other smiling.

“Well, if he had opened that sorrow, I 'd have heard him without anger;
I'd have honestly told him it was a very vain and fruitless pursuit. But
still my own heart would have declared to me that a young fellow is all
the better for some romance of this kind,--that it elevates motives
and dignifies actions, and, not least of all advantages, makes him very
uncompanionable for creatures of mere dissipation and excess.”

“But that, of course, you were merely objective the while,--the source
from which so many admirable results were to issue, and never so much as
disturbed by the breath of his attachment. Is n't that so?”

“I 'd have said, 'You 're a very silly boy if you imagine that anything
can come of all this. '”

“And if he were to ask for the reason, and say, 'Alice, are you not your
own mistress, rich, free to do whatever you incline to do? Why should
you call me a fool for loving you?'”

“Take my word for it, Bella, he 'll never risk the answer he 'd be sure
to meet to such a speech,” said the other, haughtily; and Isabella, who
felt a sort of awe of her sister at certain moments, desisted from
the theme. “Look! yonder they go, Maitland and Rebecca, not exactly
arm-inarm, but with bent-down heads, and that propinquity that implies
close converse.”

“I declare I feel quite jealous,--I mean on your account, Bella,” said
Mrs. Trafford.

“Never mind _my_ interests in the matter, Alice,” said she, reddening;
“it is a matter of the most complete indifference to me with whom
he walks or talks. Mr. Norman Maitland is not to me one whit more of
consequence than is Tony Butler to my sister.”

“That's a confession, Bella,--a confession wrung out of a hasty moment;
for Tony certainly likes _me_, and _I_ know it.”

“Well, then, the cases are not similar, for Mr. Maitland does not care
for me; or, if he does, I don't know it, nor do I want to know it.”

“Come, darling, put on your shawl, and let us have a breezy walk on the
cliffs before the day darkens; neither of these gentlemen are worth
the slightest estrangement between such sisters as we are. Whether Tony
likes me or not, don't steal him from me, and I 'll promise you to be
just as loyal with regard to the other. How I 'd like to know what they
are talking of there!”

As it is not impossible the reader may in some slight degree participate
in the fair widow's sentiment, we mean to take up the conversation just
as it reached the time in which the remark was applied to it. Miss Becky
Graham was giving her companion a sketchy description of all the persons
then at the Abbey, not taking any especial care to be epigrammatic or
picturesque, but to be literal and truthful.

“Mrs. Maxwell,--an old horror,--tolerated just because she owns Tilney
Park, and can leave it to whom she likes; and the Lyles hope it will
fall to Mark, or, possibly, to Bella. They stand to win on either.”

“And which is the favorite?” asked Maitland, with a faint smile.

“You 'd like to think Isabella,” said Miss Becky, with a sharp piercing
glance to read his thoughts at an unguarded moment, if he had
such, “but she is not. Old Aunt Maxwell--she 's as much your aunt as
theirs--detests girls, and has, I actually believe, thoughts of marrying
again. By the way, you said you wanted money; why not 'go in' there?
eight thousand a-year in land, real estate, and a fine old house with
some great timber around it.”

“I want to pay my old debts, not incur new ones, my dear Miss Graham.”

“I 'm not your dear Miss Graham,--I 'm Beck, or Becky, or I 'm Miss
Rebecca Graham, if you want to be respectful. But what do you say to the
Maxwell handicap? I could do you a good turn there; she lets me say what
I please to her.”

“I'd rather you'd give me that privilege with yourself, charming
Rebecca.”

“Don't, I say; don't try that tiresome old dodge of mock flattery. I 'm
not charming, any more than you are honest or straightforward. Let us
be on the square--do you understand that? Of course you do? Whom shall
I trot out next for you?--for the whole lot shall be disposed of without
any reserve. Will you have Sir Arthur, with his tiresome Indian stories,
enhanced to himself by all the lacs of rupees that are associated with
them? Will you have the gay widow, who married for pique, and inherited
a great fortune by a blunder? Will you have Isabella, who is angling for
a coronet, but would not refuse _you_ if you are rich enough? Will you
have that very light dragoon, who thinks 'ours' the standard for
manners in Europe?--or the two elder brothers, gray-headed, pale-faced,
husky-voiced civil servants, working hard to make a fortune in advance
of a liver complaint? Say the 'number' and the animal shall be led out
for inspection.”

“After all, it is scarcely fair in me to ask it, for I don't come as a
buyer.”

“Well, if you have a taste for that sort of thing--are we out of sight
of the windows?--if so, let me have a cigarette like that you have
there. I have n't smoked for five months. Oh! is n't it a pleasure?”

“Tell me about Mrs. Butler,--who is she?”

“She is Mrs. Butler; and her husband, when he was alive, was Colonel
Butler, militarily known as Wat Tartar. He was a terrible pipeclay; and
her son Tony is the factotum at the Abbey; or rather he was, till Mark
told him to shave, a poodle, or singe a pony, or paint a wheelbarrow--I
forget; but I know it was something he had done once out of good-humor,
and the hussar creature fancied he'd make him do it again through an
indignity.”

“And he--I mean Butler--stands upon being a gentleman?”

“I should think he does; is not his birth good?”

“Certainly; the Butlers are of an old stock.”

“They talk of an uncle, Sir Ramrod,--it is n't Ramrod, but it's like
it,--a tiresome old fellow, who was envoy at Naples, and who married, I
believe, a ballet-dancer, and who might leave Tony all his fortune, if
he liked,--which he doesn't.”

“Having no family of his own?” asked Maitland, as he puffed his cigar.

“None; but that doesn't matter, for he has turned Jesuit, and will leave
everything to the sacred something or other in Rome. I 've heard all
that from old Widow Butler, who has a perfect passion for talking of
her amiable brother-in-law, as she calls him. She hates him,--always did
hate him,--and taught Tony to hate him; and with all that it was only
yesterday she said to me that perhaps she was not fully justified in
sending back unopened two letters he had written to her,--one after the
loss of some Canadian bonds of hers, which got rumored abroad in the
newspapers; the other was on Tony's coming of age; and she said, 'Becky,
I begin to suspect that I had no right to carry my own unforgiveness to
the extent of an injury to my boy,--tell me what you would do.'”

“And what was your answer?”

“I'd have made it up with the old swell. I'd say, 'Is not this boy more
to you than all those long-petticoated tonsured humbugs, who can always
cheat some one or other out of an Inheritance?' I 'd say, 'Look at him,
and you'll fancy it's Walter telling you that he forgives you.'”

“If he be like most of his order, Miss Becky, he 'd only smile at your
appeal,” said Maitland, coldly.

“Well, I 'd not let it be laughing matter with him, I can tell you;
stupid wills are broken every day of the week, and I don't think the
Jesuits are in such favor in England that a jury would decide for them
against an English youth of the kith and kin of the testator.”

“You speak cleverly, Miss Graham, and you show that you know all the
value that attaches to popular sympathy in the age we live in.”

“And don't you agree with me?”

“Ah, there's a deal to be said on either side.”

“Then, for Heaven's sake, don't say it. There--no--more to the
left--there, where you see the blue smoke rising over the rocks--there
stands the widow's cottage. I don't know how she endures the loneliness
of it. Could _you_ face such a life?”

“A double solitude--what the French call an _egoisme à deux_--is not so
insupportable. In fact, it all depends upon 'the partner with whom we
share our isolation.'” He threw a tone of half tenderness into the words
that made them very significant, and Rebecca gave him one of her quick
sudden glances with which she often read a secret motive. This time,
however, she failed. There was nothing in that sallow but handsome face
that revealed a clew to anything.

“I 'll have to ask Mrs. Butler's leave before I present you,” said she,
suddenly.

“Of course, I 'll await her permission.”

“The chances are she'll say no; indeed, it is all but certain she will.”

“Then I must resign myself to patience and a cigar till you come out
again,” said he, calmly.

“Shall I say that there's any reason for your visit? Do you know any
Butlers, or have you any relationship, real or pretended, with the
family, that would make a pretext for coming to see her?”

Had Miss Graham only glanced as keenly at Maitland's features now as she
had a few moments back, she might have seen a faint, a very faint, flush
cross his cheek, and then give way to a deep paleness. “No,” said he,
coldly, “I cannot pretend the shadow of a claim to her acquaintance, and
I can scarcely presume to ask you to present me as a friend of your own,
except in the common acceptation given to the word.”

“Oh, I'll do that readily enough. Bless your heart, if there was
anything to be gained by it, I 'd call you my cousin, and address you as
Norman all the time of the visit.”

“If you but knew how the familiarity would flatter me, particularly were
I to return it!”

“And call _me_ Becky,--I hope! Well, you _are_ a cool hand!”

“My friends are in the habit of amusing themselves with my diffidence
and my timidity.”

“They must be very ill off for a pastime, then. I used to think Mark
Lyle bad enough, but his is a blushing bash-fulness compared to yours.”

“You only see me in my struggle to overcome a natural defect. Miss
Graham,--just as a coward assumes the bully to conceal his poltroonery;
you regard in me the mock audacity that strives to shroud a most painful
modesty.”

She looked full at him for an instant, and then burst into a loud and
joyful fit of laughter, in which he joined without the faintest show of
displeasure. “Well, I believe you are good-tempered,” said she, frankly.

“The best in the world; I am very seldom angry; I never bear malice.”

“Have you any other good qualities?” asked she, with a slight mockery in
her voice.

“Yes,--many; I am trustful to the verge of credulity; I am generous
to the limits of extravagance; I am unswerving in my friendships, and
without the taint of a selfishness in all my nature.”

“How nice that is, or how nice it must be!”

“I could grow eloquent over my gifts, if it were not that my bashfulness
might embarrass me.”

“Have you any faults?”

“I don't think so; at least I can't recall any.”

“Nor failings?”

“Failings! perhaps,” said he, dubiously; “but they are, after all, mere
weaknesses,--such as a liking for splendor, a love of luxury generally,
a taste for profusion, a sort of regal profusion in daily life, which
occasionally jars with my circumstances, making me--not irritable, I am
never irritable--but low-spirited and depressed.”

“Then, from what you have told me, I think I'd better say to Mrs. Butler
that there 's an angel waiting outside who is most anxious to make her
acquaintance.”

“Do so; and add that he 'll fold his wings, and sit on this stone till
you come to fetch him.”

“_Au revoir_, Gabriel, then,” said she, passing in at the wicket, and
taking her way through the little garden.

Maitland sat discussing in his own mind the problem how far Alcibiades
was right or wrong in endeavoring to divert the world from any criticism
of himself by a certain alteration in his dog's tail, rather opining
that, in our day at least, the wiser course would have been to avoid all
comment whatsoever,--the imputation of an eccentricity being only second
to the accusation of a crime. With the Greeks of that day the false
scent was probably a success; with the English of ours, the real wisdom
is not to be hunted. “Oh, if it were all to be done again, how very
differently I should do it!”

“Indeed, and in what respect?” said a voice behind his shoulder. He
looked up, and saw Beck Graham gazing on him with something of interest
in her expression. “How so?” cried she, again. Not in the slightest
degree discomposed or flurried, he lay lazily back on the sward, and
drawing his hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun, said, in
a half-languid, weary tone, “If it were to do again, I 'd go in for
happiness.”

“What do you mean by happiness?”

“What we all mean by it: an organized selfishness, that draws a close
cordon round our home, and takes care to keep out, so far as possible,
duns, bores, fevers, and fashionable acquaintances. By the way, is your
visit ended, or will she see me?”

“Not to-day. She hopes to-morrow to be able. She asks if you are of the
Maitlands of Gillie--Gillie--not 'crankie,' but a sound like it,--and if
your mother's name was Janet.”

“And I trust, from the little you know of me, you assured her it could
not be,” said he, calmly.

“Well, I said that I knew no more of your family than all the rest of
us up at the Abbey, who have been sifting all the Maitlands in the three
kingdoms in the hope of finding you.”

“How flattering! and at the same time how vain a labor! The name came to
me with some fortune. I took it as I 'd have taken a more ill-sounding
one for money! Who wouldn't be baptized in bank stock? I hope it's not
on the plea of my mother being Janet, that she consents to receive me?”

“She hopes you are Lady Janet's son, and that you have the Maitland
eyes, which it seems are dark, and a something in their manner which she
assures me was especially captivating.”

“And for which, I trust, you vouched?”

“Yes. I said you were a clever sort of person, that could do a number
of things well, and that I for one did n't quarrel with your vanity or
conceit, but thought them rather good fun.”

“So they are! and we 'll laugh at them together,” said he, rising,
and preparing to set out “What a blessing to find one that really
understands me! I wish to heaven that you were not engaged!”

“And who says I am?” cried she, almost fiercely.

“Did I dream it? Who knows? The fact is, my dear Miss Becky, we do talk
with such a rare freedom to each other, it is pardonable to mix up one's
reveries with his actual information. How do you call that ruin yonder?”

“Dunluce.”

“And that great bluff beyond it?”

“Fairhead.”

“I 'll take a long walk to-morrow, and visit that part of the coast.”

“You are forgetting you are to call on Mrs. Butler.”

“So I was. At what hour are we to be here?”

“There is no question of 'we' in the matter; your modesty must make its
advances alone.”

“You are not angry with me, _cariasima_ Rebecca?”

“Don't think that a familiarity is less a liberty because it is dressed
in a foreign tongue.”

“But it would 'out;' the expression forced itself from my lips in spite
of me, just as some of the sharp things you have been saying to me were
perfectly irrepressible?”

“I suspect you like this sort of sparring?”

“Delight in it”

“So do I. There's only one condition I make: whenever you mean to take
off the gloves, and intend to hit out hard, that you 'll say so before.
Is that agreed?”

“It's a bargain.”

She held out her hand frankly, and he took it as cordially; and in a
hearty squeeze the compact was ratified.

“Shall I tell you,” said she, as they drew nigh the Abbey, “that you are
a great puzzle to us all here? We none of us can guess how so great
a person as yourself should condescend to come down to such an
out-o'-the-world spot, and waste his fascinations on such dull company.”

“Your explanation, I 'll wager, was the true one: let me hear it.”

“I called it eccentricity; the oddity of a man who had traded so long
in oddity that he grew to be inexplicable, even to himself, and that an
Irish country-house was one of the few things you had not 'done,' and
that you were determined to 'do' it.”

“There was that, and something more,” said Maitland, thoughtfully.

“The 'something more' being, I take it, the whole secret.”

“As you read me like a book, Miss Rebecca, all I ask is, that you 'll
shut the volume when you 've done with it, and not talk over it with
your literary friends.”

“It is not my way,” said she, half pettishly; and they reached the door
as she spoke.



CHAPTER VIII. SOME EXPLANATIONS

If there was anything strange or inexplicable in the appearance of one
of Maitland's pretensions in an unfrequented and obscure part of the
world,--if there was matter in it to puzzle the wise heads of squires,
and make country intelligences look confused,--there is no earthly
reason why any mystification should be practised with our reader. He, at
least, is under our guidance, and to him we impart whatever is known to
ourselves. For a variety of reasons, some of which this history later on
will disclose,--others, the less imminent, we are free now to avow,--Mr.
Norman Maitland had latterly addressed much of his mind to the political
intrigues of a foreign country: that country was Naples. He had known
it--we are not free to say how, at this place--from his childhood; he
knew its people in every rank and class; he knew its dialect in all its
idioms. He could talk the slang of the lazzaroni, and the wild _patois_
of Calabria, just as fluently as that composite language which the King
Ferdinand used, and which was a blending of the vulgarisms of the Chiaja
with the Frenchified chit-chat of the Court. There were events happening
in Italy which, though not for the moment involving the question of
Naples, suggested to the wiser heads in that country the sense of a
coming peril. We cannot, at this place, explain how or why Maitland
should have been a sharer in these deeds; it is enough to say that he
was one of a little knot who had free access to the palace, and enjoyed
constant intercourse with the king,--free to tell him of all that went
on in his brilliant capital of vice and levity, to narrate its duels,
its defalcations, its intrigues, its family scandals and domestic
disgraces,--to talk of anything and everything but one: not a word on
politics was to escape them; never in the most remote way was a syllable
to drop of either what was happening in the State, or what comments the
French or English press might pass on it. No allusion was to escape on
questions of government, nor the name of a minister to be spoken, except
he were the hero of some notorious scandal. All these precautions could
not stifle fear. The menials had seen the handwriting on the wall before
Belshazzar's eyes had fallen on it. The men who stood near the
throne saw that it rocked already. There was but one theme within the
palace,--the fidelity of the army; and every rude passage between the
soldiery and the people seemed to testify to that faithfulness. Amongst
those who were supposed to enjoy the sovereign confidence--for none
in reality possessed it--was the Count Caffarelli, a man of very
high family and large fortune; and though not in the slightest degree
tinctured with Liberalism in politics, one of the very few Neapolitan
nobles who either understood the drift, or estimated the force of the
party of action. He foresaw the coming struggle, and boded ill of its
result. With Mr. Maitland he lived in closest intimacy. The Italian,
though older than the Englishman, had been his companion in years
of dissipation. In every capital of Europe these two men had left
traditions of extravagance and excess. They had an easy access to the
highest circles in every city, and it was their pleasure to mix in all,
even to the lowest Between them there had grown what, between such men,
represented a strong friendship,--that is, either would readily have
staked his life or his fortune; in other words, have fought a duel, or
paid the play-debts of the other. Each knew the exact rules of honor
which guided the conduct of the other, and knew, besides, that no other
principles than these held any sway or influence over him.

Caffarelli saw that the Bourbon throne was in danger, and with it the
fortunes of all who adhered to the dynasty. If all his prejudices and
sympathies were with monarchy, these would not have prevented him from
making terms with the revolution, if he thought the revolution could be
trusted; but this was precisely what he did not, could not believe.

“_Ceux qui sont Bleus restent Bleus_” said the first Napoleon; and
so Caffarelli assured himself that a _canaille_ always would be a
_canaille_. Philip Égalité was a case in point of what came of such
concessions; therefore he decided it was better to stand by the
monarchy, and that real policy consisted in providing that there should
be a monarchy to stand by.

To play that mock game of popularity, the being cheered by the
lazzaroni, was the extent of toleration to which the king could be
persuaded. Indeed, he thought these _vivas_ the hearty outburst of a
fervent and affectionate loyalty; and many of his Ministers appeared
to concur with him. Caffarelli, who was Master of the Horse, deemed
otherwise, and confessed to Maitland that, though assassination
was cheap enough in the quarter of Santa Lucia, there was a most
indiscriminating indifference as to who might be the victim, and that
the old Marquess of Montanara, the Prefect of the Palace, would not cost
a _carlino_ more than the veriest follower of Mazzini.

Both Caffarelli and Maitland enjoyed secret sources of information. They
were members of that strange league which has a link in every grade and
class of Neapolitan society, and makes the very highest in station the
confidant and the accomplice of the most degraded and the meanest This
sect, called La Camorra, was originally a mere system of organized
extortion, driving, by force of menace, an impost on every trade and
occupation, and exacting its dues by means of agents well known to be
capable of the greatest crimes. Caffarelli, who had long employed its
services to assist him in his intrigues or accomplish his vengeances,
was a splendid contributor to its resources. He was rich and munificent;
he loved profusion, but he adored it when it could be made the
mainspring of some dark and mysterious machinery. Though the Camorra was
not in the remotest degree political, Caffarelli learned, through its
agency, that the revolutionary party were hourly gaining strength and
courage. They saw the growing discontent that spread abroad about
the ruling dynasty, and they knew how little favor would be shown
the Bourbons by the Western Powers, whose counsels had been so flatly
rejected, and whose warnings despised. They felt that their hour was
approaching, and that Northern Italy would soon hasten to their aid if
the work of overthrow were once fairly begun. Their only doubts were
lest the success, when achieved, should have won nothing for them. It
may be as in Forty-eight, said they; we may drive the king out of
Naples as we drove the Austrians out of Milan, and, after all, only be
conquering a larger kingdom for the House of Savoy. Hence they hesitated
and held back; nor were their fears causeless. For what had revolution
poured forth its blood like water in Paris? To raise up the despotism of
the Second Empire!

Caffarelli was in possession of all this; he knew what they hoped
and wished and feared. The Camorra itself numbered many professed
revolutionists (“Reds,” as they liked to be called) in its sect, but
was itself untinctured by politics. The wily Count thought that it was
a pity so good an organization should be wasted on mere extortion and
robbery. There were higher crimes they might attain to, and grander
interests they might subserve. Never, perhaps, was the world of Europe
so much in the hands of a few powerful men. Withdraw from it, say, half
a dozen,--one could name them at once,--and what a change might come
over the Continent! Caffarelli was no assassin; but there are men, and
he was one of them, that can trifle with great crimes, just as children
play with fire; who can jest with them, laugh at them, and sport with
them, till, out of mere familiarity, they forget the horror they should
inspire and the penalty they enforce. He had known Orsini intimately,
and liked him; nor did he talk of his memory with less affection that he
had died beneath the guillotine. He would not himself engage in a crime
that would dishonor his name; but he knew there were a great number of
people in the world who could no more be punctilious about honor than
about the linen they wore,--fellows who walked in rags and dined
off garlic. Why should they stick at trifles? _They_ had no noble
escutcheons to be tarnished, no splendid names, no high lineage to be
disgraced. In fact, there were crimes that became them, just as certain
forms of labor suited them. They worked with their hands in each case.
Amongst the Camorra he knew many such. The difficulty was to bring the
power of the sect to bear upon the questions that engaged him. It would
not have been difficult to make them revolutionists,--the one word
“pillage” would have sufficed for that; the puzzle was how to make them
royalists. Mere pay would not do. These fellows had got a taste for
irregular gain. To expect to win them over by pay, or retain them
by discipline, was to hope to convert a poacher by inviting him to a
battue. Caffarelli had revolved the matter very long and carefully; he
had talked it over scores of times with Maitland. They agreed that the
Camorra had great capabilities, if one only could use them. Through the
members of that league in the army they had learned that the troops,
the long-vaunted reliance of the monarchy, could not be trusted. Many
regiments were ready to take arms with the Reds; many more would disband
and return to their homes. As for the navy, they declared there was not
one ship's company would stand by the Sovereign. The most well-affected
would be neutral; none save the foreign legions would fight for the
king. The question then was, to reinforce these, and at once,--a matter
far more difficult than it used to be. Switzerland would no longer
permit this recruitment. Austria would give none but her criminals.
America, it was said, abounded in ardent adventurous spirits that would
readily risk life in pursuit of fortune; but then the cause was not one
which, by any ingenuity, could be made to seem that of liberty. Nothing
then remained but Ireland. There there was bravery and poverty both;
thousands, who had no fears and very little food, ready for any
enterprise, but far readier for one which could be dignified as being
the battle of the Truth and the cause of the Holy Father.

An Irish legion, some five or six thousand devout Catholics and valiant
soldiers, was a project that the Minister of War at once embraced. His
Excellency saw Maitland on it, and talked over the whole plan. Maitland
was himself to direct all its operations. Caffarelli would correspond
with him from Naples, and, in case of any complication or difficulty,
shroud the Minister from attack. Ample funds would be provided. The men
could be engaged as laborers upon some great public work, and forwarded
in small drafts to a convenient port. Arms could be easily procured
from Liège. Officers could be readily obtained, either Irish or Poles or
Hungarians, who could speak English. In a word, all the details had been
well discussed and considered; and Maitland, on arriving in London, had
again talked over the project with wise and crafty heads, whose prudent
counsels showed him how little fit he was, personally, to negotiate
directly with the Irish peasant, and how imperative above all things it
was to depute this part of his task to some clever native, capable of
employing the subordinates he needed. “Hide yourself,” said they, “in
some out-of-the-way spot in Wales or Scotland; even the far North
of Ireland will do; remain anywhere near enough to have frequent
communication with your agent, but neither be seen nor known in the plot
yourself. Your English talk and your English accent would destroy more
confidence than your English gold would buy.”

Such an agent was soon found,--a man admirably adapted in many respects
for the station. He had been an adventurer all his life; served with the
French in Austria, and the Austrians in the Banat; held an independent
command of Turks during the Crimean War; besides, episodically, having
“done a little,” as he called it, on the Indian frontier with the
Yankees; and served on the staff of Rosas, at La Plata; all his great
and varied experiences tending to one solitary conviction, that no real
success was ever to be attained in anything except by means of Irishmen;
nor could order, peace, and loyalty be ever established anywhere without
their assistance. If he was one of the bravest men living, he was one
of the most pushing and impertinent. He would have maintained a point of
law against the Lord Chancellor, and contested tactics with a Marshal of
France. He thought himself the ornament of any society he entered, and
his vanity, in matters of intellect, was only surpassed by his personal
conceit. And now one word as to his appearance. With the aid of cleverly
constructed boots he stood five feet four, but was squarely, stoutly
built, broad in the chest, and very bow-legged; his head was large, and
seemed larger from a mass of fiery red hair, of which he was immensely
vain as the true Celtic color; he wore great whiskers, a moustache, and
chin-tuft; but the flaming hue of these seemed actually tamed and toned
down beside his eyes, which resembled two flaring carbuncles. They were
the most excitable, quarrelsome, restless pair of orbs that ever beamed
in a human head. They twinkled and sparkled with an incessant mischief,
and they darted such insolent glances right and left as seemed to say,
“Is there any one present who will presume to contradict me?”

His boundless self-conceit would have been droll if it had not been so
offensive. His theory was this: all men detested him; all women adored
him. Europe had done little better than intrigue for the last quarter
of a century what country could secure his services. As for the insolent
things he had said to kings and emperors, and the soft speeches that
empresses and queens had made to himself, they would fill a volume.
Believe him, and he had been on terms of more than intimacy in every
royal palace of the Continent. Show the slightest semblance of doubt in
him, and the chances were that he 'd have had you “out” in the morning.

Amongst his self-delusions, it was one to believe that his voice and
accent were peculiarly insinuating. There was, it is true, a certain
slippery insincerity about them, but the vulgarity was the chief
characteristic; and his brogue was that of Leinster, which, even to
Irish ears, is insufferable.

Such was, in brief, the gentleman who called himself Major
M'Caskey, Knight-Commander of various Orders, and C.S. in the Pope's
household,--which, interpreted, means Cameriere Secreto,--a something
which corresponds to gentleman-in-waiting. Maitland and he had never
met. They had corresponded freely, and the letters of the Major had by
no means made a favorable impression upon Maitland, who had more than
once forwarded extracts from them to the committees in London, pettishly
asking, “if something better could not be found than the writer of this
rubbish.” And yet, for the work before him, “the writer of this rubbish”
 was a most competent hand. He knew his countrymen well,--knew how to
approach them by those mingled appeals to their love of adventure
and love of gain; their passion for fighting, for carelessness, for
disorder; and, above all, that wide uncertainty as to what is to
come, which is, to an Irishman's nature, the most irresistible of
all seductions. The Major had established committees--in other words,
recruiting-depots--in several county towns; had named a considerable
number of petty officers; and was only waiting Maitland's orders whether
or not he should propose the expedition to adventurous but out-at-elbows
young fellows of a superior station,--the class from which officers
might be taken. We have now said enough of him and the project that
engaged him to admit of our presenting him to our readers in one of his
brief epistles. It was dated,--

“Castle Dubbow, August--, 18--.

“Sir,--I have the honor to report for your information that I yesterday
enrolled in this town and neighborhood eighteen fine fellows for H. N.
M. Two of them are returned convicts, and three more are bound over to
come up for sentence at a future assizes, and one, whom I have named a
corporal, is the notorious Hayes, who shot Captain Macon on the fair
green at Ballinasloe. So you see there's little fear that they'll want
to come back here when once they have attained to the style and dignity
of Neapolitan citizens. Bounty is higher here by from sixteen to twenty
shillings than in Meath; indeed, fellows who can handle a gun, or are
anyways ready with a weapon, can always command a job from one of the
secret clubs; and my experiences (wide as most men's) lead me entirely
to the selection of those who have shown any aptitude for active
service. I want your permission and instruction to engage some young
gentlemen of family and station, for the which I must necessarily be
provided with means of entertainment. _Tafel Gelt ist nicht Teufel's
Gelt_, says the Austrian adage; and I believe a very moderate outlay,
assisted by my own humble gifts of persuasion, will suffice. _Séduction
de M'Casky_, was a proverb in the 8th Voltigeurs. You may ask a certain
high personage in France who it was that told him not to despair on a
particular evening at Strasbourg. A hundred pounds--better if a hundred
and fifty--would be useful. The medals of his Holiness have done well,
but I only distribute them in the lower ranks. Some titles would be very
advisable if I am to deal with the higher class. Herewith you have a
muster-roll of what has been done in two counties; and I say it without
fear, not a man in the three kingdoms could have accomplished it but
Miles M'Marmont could plan, but not execute; Masséna execute, but not
organize; Soul could do none but the last. It is no vanity makes me
declare that I combine all the qualities. You see me now 'organizing;'
in a few days you shall judge me in the field; and, later on, if my
convictions do not deceive me, in the higher sphere of directing the
great operations of an army. I place these words in your hands that they
may be on record. If M'Caskey falls, it is a great destiny cut off; but
posterity will see that he died in the full conviction of his genius. I
have drawn on you for thirty-eight, ten-and-six; and to-morrow will draw
again for seventy-four, fifteen.

“Your note has just come. I am forced to say that its tone is not that
to which, in the sphere I have moved, I have been accustomed. If I am
to regard you as my superior officer, duty cries, 'Submit.' If you be
simply a civilian, no matter how exalted, I ask explanation. The dinner
at the Dawson Arms _was_ necessary; the champagne was _not_ excessive;
none of the company were really drunk before ten o'clock; and the
destruction of the furniture was a _plaisanterie_ of a young gentleman
from Louth who was going into holy orders, and might most probably not
have another such spree in all his life again. Are you satisfied? If
not, tell me what and where any other satisfaction may meet your wishes.
You say, 'Let us meet.' I reply, 'Yes, in any way you desire.' You
have not answered my demand--it was demand, not request--to be Count
M'Caskey. I have written to Count Caffarelli on the subject, and have
thoughts of addressing the king. Don't talk to me of decorations. I
have no room for them on the breast of my coat. I am forced to say these
things to you, for I cannot persuade myself that you really know or
understand the man you correspond with. After all, it took Radetzky a
year, and Omar Pasha seventeen months, to arrive at that knowledge which
my impatience, unjustly perhaps, complains that you have not attained
to. Yet I feel we shall like each other; and were it not like
precipitancy, I'd say, believe me, dear Maitland, very faithfully your
friend,

“Miles M'Caskey.”

The answer to this was very brief, and ran thus:--

     “Lyle Abbey, August.

     “Sir,--You will come to Coleraine, and await my orders
     there,--the first of which will be to take no liberties of
     any kind with your obedient servant,

     “Norman Maitland.

     “Major  M'Caskey, 'The Dawson Arms, Castle Durrow.

     “P. S. Avoid all English acquaintances on your road. Give
     yourself out to be a foreigner, and speak as little as
     possible.”



CHAPTER IX. MAITLAND'S FRIEND

“I don't think I 'll walk down to the Burnside with you to-day,” said
Beck Graham to Maitland, on the morning after their excursion.

“And why not?”

“People have begun to talk of our going off together alone,--long
solitary walks. They say it means something--or nothing.”

“So, I opine, does every step and incident of our lives.”

“Well. You understand what I intended to say.”

“Not very clearly, perhaps; but I shall wait a little further
explanation. What is it that the respectable public imputes to us?”

“That you are a very dangerous companion for a young lady in a country
walk.”

“But am I? Don't you think you are in a position to refute such a
calumny?”

“I spoke of you as I found you.”

“And how might that be?”

“Very amusing at some moments; very absent at others; very desirous to
be thought lenient and charitable in your judgments of people, while
evidently thinking the worst of every one; and with a rare frankness
about yourself that, to any one not very much interested to learn the
truth, was really as valuable as the true article.”

“But you never charged me with any ungenerous use of my advantage; to
make professions, for instance, because I found you alone.”

“A little--a very little of that--there was; just as children stamp on
thin ice and run away when they hear it crack beneath them.”

“Did I go so far as that?”

“Yes; and Sally says, if she was in my place, she 'd send papa to you
this morning.”

“And I should be charmed to see him. There are no people whom I prefer
to naval men. They have the fresh, vigorous, healthy tone of their own
sea life in all they say.”

“Yes; you'd have found him vigorous enough, I promise you.”

“And why did you consult your sister at all?”

“I did not consult her; she got all out of me by cross-questioning. She
began by saying, 'That man is a mystery to me; he has not come down here
to look after the widow nor Isabella; he's not thinking of politics nor
the borough; there 's no one here that he wants or cares for. What can
he be at?'”

“Could n't you have told her that he was one of those men who have lived
so much in the world it is a luxury to them to live a little out of it?
Just as it is a relief to sit in a darkened room after your eyes have
been dazzled with too strong light. Could n't you have said, He delights
to talk and walk with me, because he sees that he may expand freely, and
say what comes uppermost, without any fear of an unfair inference? That,
for the same reason,--the pleasure of an unrestricted intercourse,--he
wishes to know old Mrs. Butler, and talk with her,--over anything, in
short? Just to keep mind and faculties moving,--as a light breeze stirs
a lake and prevents stagnation?”

“Well. I 'm not going to perform Zephyr, even in such a high cause.”

“Could n't you have said, We had a pleasant walk and a mild cigarette
together,--_voilà tout?_” said he, languidly.

“I think it would be very easy to hate you,--hate you cordially,--Mr.
Norman Maitland.”

“So I've been told; and some have even tried it, but always
unsuccessfully.”

“Who is this wonderful foreigner they are making so much of at the
Castle and the Viceregal Lodge?” cried Mark, from one of the window
recesses, where he was reading a newspaper. “Maitland, you who know all
these people, who is the Prince Caffarelli?”

“Caffarelli! it must be the Count,” cried Maitland, hurrying over to
see the paragraph. “The Prince is upwards of eighty; but his son, Count
Caffarelli, is my dearest friend in the world. What could have brought
him over to Ireland?”

“Ah! there is the very question he himself is asking about the great Mr.
Norman Maitland,” said Mrs. Trafford, smiling.

“My reasons are easily stated. I had an admirable friend who could
secure me a most hospitable reception. I came here to enjoy the
courtesies of country home life in a perfection I scarcely believed
they could attain to. The most unremitting attention to one's comfort,
combined with the wildest liberty.”

“And such port wine,” interposed the Commodore, “as I am free to say no
other cellar in the province can rival.”

“Let us come back to your Prince or Count,” said Mark, “whichever he is.
Why not ask him down here?”

“Yes; we have room,” said Lady Lyle; “the M'Clintocks left this
morning.”

“By all means, invite him,” broke in Mrs. Trafford; “that is, if he be
what we conjecture the dear friend of Mr. Maitland might and should be.”

“I am afraid to speak of him,” said Maitland; “one disserves a friend
by any over-praise; but at Naples, and in his own set, he is thought
charming.”

“I like Italians myself,” said Colonel Hoyle. “I had a fellow I picked
up at Malta,--a certain Geronimo. I 'm not sure he was not a Maltese;
but such a salad as he could make! There was everything you could think
of in it,--tomato, eggs, sardines, radishes, beetroot, cucumber.”

“Every Italian is a bit of a cook,” said Maitland, relieving adroitly
the company from the tiresome detail of the Colonel. “I 'll back my
friend Caffarelli for a dish of macaroni against all professional
artists.”

While the Colonel and his wife got into a hot dispute whether there was
or was not a slight flavor of parmesan in the salad, the others gathered
around Maitland to hear more of his friend. Indeed, it was something new
to hear of an Italian of class and condition. They only knew the nation
as tenors or modellers or language masters. Their compound idea of
Italian was a thing of dark skin and dark eyes; very careless in dress,
very submissive in aspect, with a sort of subdued fire, however, in
look, that seemed to say how much energy was only sleeping there! and
when Maitland sketched the domestic ties of a rich magnate of the land,
living a life of luxurious indolence, in a sort of childlike simplicity
as to what engaged other men in other countries, without a thought for
questions of politics, religion, or literature, living for mere life's
sake, he interested them much.

“I shall be delighted to ask him here,” said he, at last; “only let me
warn you against disappointment. He'll not be witty like a Frenchman,
nor profound like a German, nor energetic like an Englishman; he 'll
neither want to gain knowledge nor impart it. He'll only ask to be
permitted to enjoy the pleasures of a very charming society without any
demand being made upon him to contribute anything; to make him fancy, in
short, that he knew you all years and years ago, and has just come back
out of cloud-land to renew the intimacy. Will you have him after this?”

“By all means,” was the reply. “Go and write your letter to him.”

Maitland went to his room, and soon wrote the following:--

     “Caro Carlo mio,--Who'd have thought of seeing you in
     Ireland? but I have scarce courage to ask you how and why
     you came here, lest you retort the question upon myself. For
     the moment, however, I am comfortably established in a
     goodish sort of country-house, with some pretty women, and,
     thank Heaven, no young men save one son of the family, whom
     I have made sufficiently afraid of me to repress all
     familiarities. They beg me to ask you here, and I see
     nothing against it. We eat and drink very well. The place is
     healthy, and though the climate is detestable, it braces and
     gives appetite. We shall have, at all events, ample time to
     talk over much that interests us both, and so I say, Come!

     “The road is by Belfast, and thence to Coleraine, where we
     shall take care to meet you. I ought to add that your host's
     name is Sir Arthur Lyle, an Anglo-Indian, but who, thank
     your stars for it! being a civilian, has neither shot tigers
     nor stuck pigs. It will also be a relief to you to learn
     that there's no sport of any kind in the neighborhood, and
     there cannot be the shade of a pretext for making you mount
     a horse or carry a gun, nor can any insidious tormentor
     persecute you with objects of interest or antiquity; and so,
     once again, Come--and believe me, ever your most cordial
     friend,

     “N. Maitland.

     “There is no reason why you should not be here by Saturday,
     so that, if nothing contrary is declared, I shall look out
     for you by that day; but write at all events.”



CHAPTER X. A BLUNDER

Sir Arthur Lyle was a county dignity, and somewhat fond of showing
it. It is true he could not compete with the old blood of the land, or
contest place with an O'Neil or an O'Hara; but his wealth gave him a
special power, and it was a power that all could appreciate. There was
no mistake about one who could head a subscription by a hundred pounds,
or write himself patron of a school or a hospital with a thousand! And
then his house was more splendid, his servants more numerous, their
liveries finer, his horses better, than his neighbors; and he was not
above making these advantages apparent. Perhaps his Indian experiences
may have influenced his leanings, and taught him to place a higher value
on show and all the details of external greatness. On everything that
savored of a public occasion, he came with all the pomp and parade of
a sovereign. A meeting of poor-law guardians, a committee of the
county infirmary, a board of railway directors, were all events to be
signalized by his splendid appearance.

His coach and four, and his outriders--for he had outriders--were
admirable in all their appointments. Royalty could not have swung upon
more perfectly balanced nor easier springs, nor could a royal team
have beat the earth with a grander action or more measured rhythm. The
harness--bating the excess of splendor--was perfect. It was massive and
well-fitting. As for the servants, a master of the horse could not have
detected an inaccurate fold in their cravats, nor a crease in their silk
stockings. Let the world be as critical or slighting as it may, these
things are successes. They are trifles only to him who has not attempted
them. Neither is it true to say that money can command them; for there
is much in them that mere money cannot do. There is a keeping in all
details,--a certain “tone” throughout, and, above all, a discipline the
least flaw in which would convert a solemn display into a mockery.

Neighbors might criticise the propriety or canvass the taste of so much
ostentation, but none, not the most sarcastic or scrutinizing, could say
one word against the display itself; and so, when on a certain forenoon
the dense crowd of the market-place scattered and fled right and left to
make way for the prancing leaders of that haughty equipage, the sense of
admiration overcame even the unpleasant feeling of inferiority, and that
flunkeyism that has its hold on humanity felt a sort of honor in being
hunted away by such magnificence.

Through the large square--or Diamond, as the Northerns love to call
it--of the town they came, upsetting apple-stalls and crockery-booths,
and frightening old peasant women, who, with a goose under one arm and
a hank of yarn under the other, were bent on enterprises of barter and
commerce. Sir Arthur drove up to the bank, of which he was the governor,
and on whose steps, to receive him, now stood the other members of
the board. With his massive gold watch in hand, he announced that the
fourteen miles had been done in an hour and sixteen minutes, and pointed
to the glossy team, whose swollen veins stood out like whipcord, to
prove that there was no distress to the cattle. The board chorused
assent, and one--doubtless an ambitious man--actually passed his hand
down the back sinews of a wheeler, and said, “Cool as spring-water, I
pledge my honor.” Sir Arthur smiled benignly, looked up at the sky, gave
an approving look at the sun as though to say, “Not bad for Ireland,”
 and entered the bank.

It was about five o'clock in the same evening when the great man again
appeared at the same place; he was flushed and weary-looking. Some
rebellious spirits--is not the world full of them?--had dared to oppose
one of his ordinances. They had ventured to question some subsidy that
he would accord or refuse to some local line of railroad. The opposition
had deeply offended him; and though he had crushed it, it had wounded
him. He was himself the bank!--its high repute, its great credit, its
large connection, were all of his making; and that same Mr. M'Candlish
who had dared to oppose him was a creature of his own,--that is, he had
made him a tithe-valuator, or a road-inspector, or a stamp distributor,
or a something or other of the hundred petty places which he distributed
just as the monks of old gave alms at the gates of their convents.

Sir Arthur whispered a word to Mr. Boyd, the secretary, as he passed
downstairs. “How does M'Candlish stand with the bank? He has had
advances lately; send me a note of them.” And thus, bent on reprisals,
he stood waiting for that gorgeous equipage which was now standing fully
ready in the inn yard, while the coachman was discussing a chop and a
pot of porter. “Why is not he ready?” asked Sir Arthur, impatiently.

“He was getting a nail in Blenheim's off foreshoe, sir,” was the ready
reply; and as Blenheim was a blood bay sixteen-three, and worth two
hundred and fifty pounds, there was no more to be said; and so Sir
Arthur saw the rest of the board depart on jaunting-cars, gigs, or
dog-carts, as it might be,--humble men with humble conveyances, that
could take them to their homes without the delays that wait upon
greatness.

“Anything new stirring, Boyd?” asked Sir Arthur, trying not to show that
he was waiting for the pleasure of his coachman.

“No, sir; all dull as ditch-water.”

“We want rain, I fancy,--don't we?”

“We 'd not be worse for a little, sir. The after-grass, at least, would
benefit by it.”

“Why don't you pave this town better, Boyd? I 'm certain it was these
rascally stones twisted Blenheim's shoe.”

“Our corporation will do nothing, sir,--nothing,” said the other, in a
whisper.

“Who is that fellow with the large whiskers, yonder,--on the steps of
the hotel? He looks as if he owned the town.”

“A foreigner, Sir Arthur; a Frenchman or a German, I believe. He came
over this morning to ask if we knew the address of Mr. Norman Maitland.”

“Count Caffarelli,” muttered Sir Arthur to himself; “what a chance that
I should see him! How did he come?”

“Posted, sir; slept at Cookstown last night, and came here to
breakfast.”

Though the figure of the illustrious stranger was very far from what Sir
Arthur was led to expect, he knew that personal appearance was not so
distinctive abroad as in England, and so he began to con over to himself
what words of French he could muster, to make his advances. Now, had
it been Hindostanee that was required, Sir Arthur would have opened
his negotiations with all the florid elegance that could be wished; but
French was a tongue in which he had never been a proficient, and, in
his ordinary life, had little need of. He thought, however, that his
magnificent carriage and splendid horses would help him out of the
blunders of declensions and genders, and that what he wanted in grammar
he could make up in greatness. “Follow me to M'Grotty's,” said he to his
coachman, and took the way across the square.

Major M'Caskey--for it was no other than that distinguished
gentleman--was standing with both hands in the pockets of a very
short shooting-jacket, and a clay pipe in his mouth, as Sir Arthur,
courteously uncovering, bowed his way up the steps, saying something in
which _l'honneur, la félicité, and infiniment flatté_, floated amidst
a number of less intelligibly rendered syllables, ended the whole with
“_Ami de mon ami_, M. Norman Maitland.”

Major M'Caskey raised his hat straight above his head and replaced it,
listening calmly to the embarrassed attempts of the other, and then
coldly replied in French, “I have the honor to be the friend of M.
Maitland,--how and when can I see him?”

“If you will condescend to be my guest, and allow me to offer you a seat
with me to Lyle Abbey, you will see your friend.” And, as Sir Arthur
spoke, he pointed to his carriage.

“Ah, and this is yours? _Pardie!_ it's remarkably well done. I accept
at once. Fetch down my portmanteau and the pistol-case,” said he to a
small, ill-looking boy in a shabby green livery, and to whom he spoke in
a whisper; while, turning to Sir Arthur, he resumed his French.

“This I call a real piece of good-fortune,--I was just saying to myself,
'Here I am; and though he says, Come! how are we to meet?'”

“But you knew, Count, that we were expecting you.”

“Nothing of the kind. All I knew was his message, 'Come here.' I had no
anticipation of such pleasant quarters as you promise me.”

Seated in the post of honor on the right of Sir Arthur, the Major, by
way of completing the measure of his enjoyments, asked leave to smoke.
The permission was courteously accorded, and away they rolled over the
smooth highway to the pleasant measure of that stirring music,--the trot
of four spanking horses.

Two--three--four efforts did Sir Arthur make at conversation, but they
all ended in sad failure. He wanted to say something about the crops,
but he did not remember the French for “oats;” he wished to speak of the
road, but he knew not the phrase for “grand jury;” he desired to make
some apology for a backward season, but he might as well have attempted
to write a Greek ode; and so he sat and smiled and waved his hand,
pointing out objects of interest, and interjectionally jerking
out, “Bons--braves--très braves--but poor--pauvres--très pauvres--light
soil--légère, you understand,” and with a vigorous “hem” satisfied
himself that he had said something intelligible. After this no more
attempts at conversation were made; for the Major had quietly set his
companion down for an intense bore, and fell back upon his tobacco for
solace.

“Là!” cried the Baronet, after a long silence--and he pointed with his
finger to a tall tower, over which a large flag was waving, about half
a mile away,--“Là! Notre chateau--Lyle Abbey--moi;” and he tapped his
breast to indicate the personal interest that attached to the spot.

“Je vous en fais mes compliments,” cried M'Caskey, who chuckled at
the idea of such quarters, and very eloquently went on to express the
infinite delight it gave him to cultivate relations with a family at
once so amiable and so distinguished. The happy hazard which brought
him was in reality another tie that bound him to the friendship of that
“cher Maitland.” Delivered of this, the Major emptied his pipe, replaced
it in its case, and then, taking off his hat, ran his hands through his
hair, arranged his shirt-collar, and made two or three other efforts at
an improvised toilet.

“We are late--_en retard_--I think,” said Sir Arthur, as they drew up at
the door, where two sprucely dressed servants stood to receive them. “We
dine--at eight--eight,” said he, pointing to that figure on his watch.
“You 'll have only time to dress,--dress;” and he touched the lappet
of his coat, for he was fairly driven to pantomime to express himself.
“Hailes,” cried he to a servant in discreet black, “show the Count to
his room, and attend to him; his own man has not come on, it seems,” and
then, with many bows and smiles and courteous gestures, consigned his
distinguished guest to the care of Mr. Hailes, and walked hurriedly
upstairs to his own room.

“Such a day as I have had,” cried he, as he entered the dressing-room,
where Lady Lyle was seated with a French novel. “Those fellows at the
bank, led on by that creature M'Candlish, had the insolence to move
an amendment to that motion of mine about the drainage loan. I almost
thought they'd have given me a fit of apoplexy; but I crushed them: and
I told Boyd, 'If I see any more of this, I don't care from what quarter
it comes,--if these insolences be repeated,--I' ll resign the direction.
It's no use making excuses, pleading that you misunderstood this or
mistook that, Boyd,' said I. 'If it occurs again, I go.' And then, as
if this was not enough, I 've had to talk French all the way out. By the
way, where's Maitland?”

“Talk French! what do you mean by that?”

“Where's Maitland, I say?”

“He's gone off with Mark to Larne. They said they 'd not be back to
dinner.”

“Here's more of it; we shall have this foreign fellow on our hands till
he comes,--this Italian Count. I found him at M'Grotty's, and brought
him back with me.”

“And what is he like? is he as captivating as his portrait bespeaks?”

“He is, to my mind, as vulgar a dog as ever I met: he smoked beside me
all the road, though he saw how his vile tobacco set me a-coughing;
and he stretched his legs over the front seat of the carriage, where, I
promise you, his boots have left their impress on the silk lining; and
he poked his cane at Crattle's wig, and made some impertinent remark
which I could n't catch. I never was very enthusiastic about foreigners,
and the present specimen has not made a convert of me.”

“Maitland likes him,” said she, languidly.

“Well, then, it is an excellent reason not to like Maitland. There's the
second bell already. By the way, this Count, I suppose, takes you in to
dinner?”

“I suppose so, and it is very unpleasant, for I am out of the habit
of talking French. I 'll make Alice sit on the other side of him and
entertain him.”

The news that the distinguished Italian friend of Mr. Norman Maitland
had arrived created a sort of sensation in the house; and as the guests
dropped into the drawing-room before dinner, there was no other topic
than the Count. The door at last opened for his _entree_; and he came
in unannounced, the servant being probably unable to catch the name he
gave. In the absence of her father and mother, Mrs. Trafford did the
honors, and received him most courteously, presenting the other guests
to him, or him to them, as it might be. When it came to the turn of the
Commodore, he started, and muttered, “Eh, very like, the born image
of him!” and coloring deeply at his own awkwardness, mumbled out a few
unmeaning commonplaces. As for the Major, he eyed him with one of his
steadiest stares,--unflinching, un-blenching; and even said to Mrs.
Trafford in a whisper, “I didn't catch the name; was it Green you said?”
 Seated between Lady Lyle and Mrs. Trafford, M'Caskey felt that he was
the honored guest of the evening: Maitland's absence, so feelingly
deplored by the others, gave him little regret; indeed, instinct told
him that they were not men to like each other, and he was all the
happier that he had the field for a while his own. It was not a very
easy task to be the pleasant man of an Irish country-house, in a
foreign tongue; but if any man could have success, it was M'Caskey.
The incessant play of his features, the varied tones of his voice,
his extraordinary gestures, appealed to those who could not follow his
words, and led them very often to join in the laughter which his sallies
provoked from others. He was, it is true, the exact opposite to all they
had been led to expect,--he was neither well-looking, nor distinguished,
nor conciliatory in manner,--there was not a trace of that insinuating
softness and gentleness Maitland had spoken of,--he was, even to those
who could not follow his speech, one of the most coolly unabashed
fellows they had ever met, and made himself at home with a readiness
that said much more for his boldness than for his breeding; and
yet, withal, each was pleased in turn to see how he out-talked some
heretofore tyrant of conversation, how impudently he interrupted a bore,
and how mercilessly he pursued an antagonist whom he had vanquished. It
is not at all improbable, too, that he owed something of bis success to
that unconquerable objection people feel at confessing that they do not
understand a foreign language,--the more when that language is such a
cognate one as French. What a deal of ecstasy does not the polite world
expend upon German drama and Italian tragedy, and how frequently are
people moved to every imaginable emotion, without the slightest clew to
the intention of the charmer! If he was great at the dinner-table, he
was greater in the drawing-room. Scarcely was coffee served than he was
twanking away with a guitar, and singing a Spanish muleteer song, with
a jingling imitation of bells for the accompaniment; or seated at the
piano, he carolled out a French canzonette descriptive of soldier life,
far more picturesque than it was proper; and all this time there was
the old Commodore cruising above and below him, eying and watching
him,--growing perfectly feverish with the anxiety of his doubts, and
yet unable to confirm or refute them. It was a suspicious craft; he felt
that he had seen it before, and knew the rig well, and yet he was afraid
to board and say, “Let me look at your papers.”

“I say, Beck, just go slyly up and say something accidentally about
Barbadoes; don't ask any questions, but remark that the evening is
close, or the sky threatening, or the air oppressive, just as it used to
be before a tornado there.” The old sailor watched her, as he might have
watched a boat-party on a cutting-out expedition; he saw her draw nigh
the piano; he thought he could trace all the ingenious steps by which
she neared her object; and he was convinced that she had at last thrown
the shell on board him; but what was his grievous disappointment, as
he saw that the little fellow had turned to her with a look of warmest
admiration, and actually addressed a very ardent love-song to the eyes
that were then bent upon him. The Commodore made signals to cease firing
and fall back, but in vain. She was too deeply engaged to think of
orders; and there she stood to be admired and worshipped and adored, in
all the moods and tenses of a French “romance.” But Miss Rebecca Graham
was not the only victim of the Major's captivations; gradually the
whole company of the drawing-room had gathered round the piano, some to
wonder, some to laugh at, some to feel amused by, and not a few to feel
angry with, that little fiery-eyed, impertinent-looking fellow, who eyed
the ladies so languishingly, and stared at the men as if asking, “Who'll
quarrel with me?” You might not like, but it was impossible to ignore
him. There was, too, in his whole air and bearing a conscious sense of
power,--a sort of bold self-reliance,--that dignifies even impudence;
and as he sat in his chair with head up and hands vigorously striking
the chords of the piano, he looked, as it is by no means improbable that
he felt, “M'Caskey against the field.” It was in the midst of hearty
applause at a song he had just completed, that Maitland entered the
room. In the hall he had learned from the servants that his foreign
friend had arrived, and he hurried forward to greet him. Rather puzzled
at the vociferous gayety of the company, he made his way through the
crowd and approached the piano, and then stood staring on every side,
to find out his friend. Though he saw the Major, his eye only rested
passingly on him, as it ranged eagerly to catch the features of another.

“He's very amusing, though not in the least what you led us to expect,”
 whispered Mrs. Trafford. “Who is it of whom you are speaking?” “Your
friend yonder, the Count Caffarelli.” “What--that man?” cried Maitland,
as he grew pale with passion; and now, pushing forward, he leaned over
the back of the music-stool, and whispered, “Who are you that call
yourself Count Caffarelli?”

“Is your name Maitland?” said the other, with perfect coolness.

“Yes.”

“Mine is M'Caskey, sir.”

“And by what presumption do I find you here?”

“This is not the place nor the moment for explanations; but if you want
or prefer exposures, don't balk your fancy. I 'm as ready as you are.”

Maitland reeled back as if from a blow, and looked positively ill; and
then laughingly turning to the company, he said some common-place words
about his ill luck in being late to hear the last song.

“Well, it must be the last for to-night,” said Mr. M'Caskey, rising. “I
have really imposed too much upon every one's forbearance.”

After a little of the usual skirmishing,--the entreaties and the coy
refusals, the recollection of that charming thing you sang for us at
Woodpark, and the doubts lest they had brought no music with them,--the
Misses Graham sat down to one, of those duets which every one in England
seems able to compose and to sing; lackadaisical ditties adapted to the
humblest musical proficiency, and unfortunately, too, the very narrowest
intelligences. While the remainder of the company, after a brief moment
of silence, resumed conversation, Major M'Caskey stepped unobserved from
the room,--by all, at least, but by Maitland, who speedily followed him,
and, led by the sound of his footsteps along the corridor, tracked him
through the great hall. M'Caskey was standing on the lawn, and in the
act of lighting his cigar, as Maitland came up.

“Explain this intrusion here, sir, now, if you can,” cried Maitland, as
he walked straight towards him.

“If you want any explanations from me, you 'll have to ask for them more
suitably,” said the other, coldly.

“I desire to know, under what pretence you assume a name and rank you
have no right to, to obtain admission to this house?”

“Your question is easily answered: your instructions to me were, on my
arrival at Coleraine, to give myself out for a foreigner, and not to
speak English with any one. I have your note in my desk, and think there
can be no mistake about its meaning.”

“Well, well; I know all that: go on,” cried Maitland, impatiently.

M'Caskey smiled, half insolently, at this show of temper, and continued:
“It was, then, in my assumed character of Frenchman, Spaniard, Italian,
or whatever you wish,--for they are pretty much alike to me,--I was
standing at the door of the inn, when a rather pompous old fellow, with
two footmen after him, came up, and in some execrable French endeavored
to accost me, mingling your name in his jargon, and inviting me, as well
as his language would permit, to return with him to his house. What was
I to conclude but that the arrangement was yours? indeed, I never gave a
doubt to it.”

“When he addressed you as the Count Caffarelli, you might have had such
a doubt,” said Maitland, sneeringly.

“He called me simply Count,” was the reply.

“Well; so far well: there was no assumption of a name, at least.”

“None whatever; and if there had been, would the offence have seemed to
you so very--very unpardonable?” It is not easy to convey the intense
impertinence given to the delivery of this speech by the graduated
slowness of every word, and the insolent composure with which it was
spoken.

“What do you mean, sir, by this--this insinuation?” cried Maitland.

“Insinuation!--it's none. It is a mere question as to a matter of good
taste or good morals.”

“I have no time for such discussions, sir,” said Maitland, hotly. “I am
glad to find that the blunder by which you came here was not of your
own provoking, though I cannot see how it makes the explanation less
difficult to myself.”

“What is your difficulty, may I ask?” cried M'Caskey, coolly.

“Is it no difficulty that I must explain how I know--” and he stopped
suddenly, just as a man might stop on the verge of a precipice, and
look horror-struck down into the depth below him. “I mean,” said he,
recovering himself, “that to enter upon the question of our relations to
each other would open the discussion of matters essentially secret. When
I have said I know you, the next question will be, 'Who is he?'”

“Well, what is the difficulty there? I am Graf M'Caskey, in Bavaria;
Count of Serra-major, in Sicily; Commander of the Order of St. Peter
and St. Paul, and a Knight of Malta. I mention these, for I have the
'brevets' with me.”

“Very true,” said Maitland; “but you are also the same Lieutenant Miles
M'Caskey, who served in the 2d West Indian Regiment, and who left a few
unsettled matters between him and the Government there, when he quitted
Barbadoes.”

“And which they won't rake up, I promise you, if they don't want to hang
an ex-governor,” said he, laughing. “But none of us, Mr. Maitland, will
stand such investigations as these. There's a statute of limitations for
morals as well as for small debts.”

Maitland winced under the insolent look of the other, and in a tone
somewhat shaken, continued, “At all events it will not suit me to open
these inquiries. The only piece of good fortune in the whole is that
there was none here who knew you.”

“I am not so very sure of that, though,” said the Major, with a quiet
laugh.

“How so? what do you mean?”

“Why; that there is an old fellow whom I remember to have met on the
West Indian Station; he was a lieutenant, I think, on board the 'Dwarf,'
and he looked as if he were puzzled about me.”

“Gambier Graham?”

“That's the man; he followed me about all night, till some one carried
him off to play cribbage; but he 'd leave his game every now and then to
come and stare at me, till I gave him a look that said, 'If you do that
again, we 'll have a talk over it in the morning.'”

“To prevent which you must leave this to-night, sir,” said Maitland.
“I am not in the habit of carrying followers about with me to the
country-houses where I visit.”

A very prolonged whistle was M'Caskey's first reply to this speech, and
then he said: “They told me you were one of the cleverest fellows in
Europe, but I don't believe a word of it; for if you were, you would
never try to play the game of bully with a man of my stamp. Bigger men
than Mr. Norman Maitland have tried that, and did n't come so well out
of it.”

An insolent toss of the head, as he threw away his cigar, was all
Maitland's answer. At last he said, “I suppose, sir, you cannot wish to
drive me to say that I do not know you?”

“It would be awkward, certainly; for then I 'd be obliged to declare
that I _do_ know you.”

Instantly Maitland seized the other's arm; but M'Caskey, though not
by any means so strong a man, flung off the grasp, and started back,
saying, “Hands off, or I'll put a bullet through you. We've both of us
lived long enough amongst foreigners to know that these are liberties
that cost blood.”

“This is very silly and very unprofitable,” said Maitland, with a
ghastly attempt at a smile. “There ought not, there cannot be, any
quarrel between you and me. Though it is no fault of yours that this
blunder has occurred, the mistake has its unpleasant side, and may
lead to some embarrassment, the more as this old sea-captain is sure
to remember you if you meet again. There 's only one thing for it,
therefore,--get away as fast as you can. I 'll supply the pretext, and
show Sir Arthur in confidence how the whole affair occurred.”

M'Caskey shook his head dubiously. “This is not to my liking, sir; it
smacks of a very ignominious mode of retreat. I am to leave myself to
be discussed by a number of perhaps not over-favorable critics, and
defended by one who even shrinks from saying he knows me. No, no; I
can't do this.”

“But remember you are not the person to whom these people meant to offer
their hospitality.”

“I am Major Miles M'Caskey,” said he, drawing himself up to the full
height of his five feet four inches; “and there is no mistake whatever
in any consideration that is shown to the man who owns that name.”

“Yes, but why are you here,--how have you come?”

“I came by the host's invitation, and I look to you to explain how the
blunder occurred, and to recognize me afterwards. That is what I expect,
and what I insist on.”

“And if your old friend the Commodore, whose memory for ugly anecdotes
seems inexhaustible, comes out with any unpleasant reminiscences of West
Indian life--”

“Leave that to me, Mr. Norman Maitland. I 'll take care to see my
friend, as you call him, and I 'll offer you a trifling wager he 'll not
be a whit more anxious to claim my acquaintance than you are.”

“You appear to have no small reliance on your powers of intimidation,
Major,” said Maitland, with a sneering smile.

“They have never failed me, for I have always backed them with a very
steady hand and a correct eye, both of which are much at your service.”

Maitland lifted his hat and bowed an acknowledgment.

“I think we are losing our time, each of us, Major M'Caskey. There need
be no question of etiquette here. You are, if I understand the matter
aright, under my orders. Well, sir, these orders are, that you now start
for Castle Durrow, and be prepared by Tuesday next to make me a full
report of your proceedings, and produce for me, if necessary, the men
you have engaged.”

The change effected in the Major's manner at these words was magical; he
touched his hat in salute, and listened with all show of respect.

“It is my intention, if satisfied with your report, to recommend you
for the command of the legion, with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel,”
 continued Maitland; “and I have already written about those advances you
mentioned.”

“I 'll take care that you are satisfied with me,” said M'Caskey,
respectfully; “I'll start within half an hour.”

“This is all as it should be. I hope it is our first and last
misunderstanding;” and he held out his hand frankly, which the other
grasped and shook cordially. “How are you off for ready cash? Treat me
as a comrade, and say freely.”

“Not over flush, but I suppose I can rub on,” said the Major, with some
confusion.

“I have some thirty sovereigns here,” said Maitland; “take them, and
we'll settle all when we meet.”

M'Caskey put the purse in his pocket, and, with the uneasy consciousness
of a man ashamed of what he was doing, muttered out a few unmeaning
words of thanks, and said, “Good-bye!”

“These condottieri rascals have been troublesome fellows in all
ages,” said Maitland, as he smoked away alone; “

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