Tony Butler

“Burnside, Tuesday morning.

“Dear Sir, – I’ll not take the three days you gave me to consider your offer; I accept it at once. – Yours truly,

“Tony Butler.

“Norman Maitland, Esq., Lyle Abbey.”

“I’ll have to write to Skeffy,” said he to himself, “and say you may tell my noble patron that I don’t want the messengership, and that when next I call at the Office I ‘ll kick Willis for nothing. I don’t suppose that this is the formal way of resigning; but I take it they ‘ll not be sorry to be quit of me, and it will spare the two old coves in white cravats all the trouble of having me plucked at the examination. Poor Skeffy won’t be pleased, though; he was to have ‘coached me’ in foreign tongues and the Rule of Three. Well, I ‘m glad I ‘m in for a line of life where nobody asks about Colenso’s Arithmetic, nor has so much as heard of Ollendorff’s Method. Oh dear! how much happier the world must have been when people weren’t so confoundedly well informed! – so awfully brimful of all knowledge as they now are! In those pleasant days, instead of being a black sheep, I ‘d have been pretty much like the rest of the flock.”

The speculations on this topic – this golden age of ignorance and bliss – occupied him all the way, as he walked over the hills to leave his letter at the gate-lodge for Mr. Maitland.

Resisting all the lodge-keeper’s inducements to talk, – for he was an old friend of Tony’s, and wanted much to know where he had been and what doing of late, and why he was n’t up at the Abbey every day as of yore, – Tony refused to hear of all the sad consequences that had followed on his absence; how the “two three-year-olds had gone back in their training;” how “Piper wouldn’t let a saddle be put on his back;” how the carp were all dying in the new pond, nobody knew why, – there was even something gone wrong with the sun-dial over the stable, as though the sun himself had taken his departure in dudgeon, and would n’t look straight on the spot since. These were, with many more, shouted after him as he turned away, while he, laughing, called out, “It will be all right in a day or two, Mat. I ‘ll see to everything soon.”

“That I ‘ll not,” muttered he to himself when alone. “The smart hussar – the brave Captain – may try his hand now. I ‘d like to see him on Piper. I only wish that he may mount him with the saddle tightly girthed; and if he does n’t cut a somerset over his head, my name is n’t Tony! Let us see, too, what he ‘ll do with those young dogs; they ‘re wild enough by this time! I take it he ‘s too great a swell to know anything about gardening or grafting; so much the worse for my Lady’s flower-pot! There ‘s one thing I ‘d like to be able to do every morning of my life,” thought he, in sadder mood, – “just to give Alice’s chestnut mare one canter, to make her neck flexible and her mouth light, and to throw her back on her haunches. And then, if I could only see Alice on her! just to see her as she bends down over the mane and pats the mare’s shoulder to coax her not to buck-leap! There never was a picture that equalled it! the mare snorting and with eyes flashing, and Alice all the while caressing her, and saying, ‘How silly you are, Maida! come, now, do be gentle!’”

These thoughts set others in motion, – the happy, happy days of long ago; the wild, half-reckless gallops over the fern-clad hills in the clear bright days of winter; or the still more delightful saunterings of a summer’s eve on the sea-shore! – none of them – not one – ever to come back again. It was just as his reveries had reached so far that he caught sight of the four dappled grays – they were Alice’s own – swinging smoothly along in that long easy stride by which thoroughbreds persuade you that work is no distress to them. It was only as they breasted the hill that he saw that the bearing-reins were not let down, – a violation of a precept on which he was inexorable; and he hastened, with all the speed he could, to catch them ere they gained the crest of the ridge.

To say the truth, Tony was somewhat ashamed of himself for his long absence from the Abbey. If it was not ingratitude, it had a look of it. They knew nothing of what had passed between Mark and himself, and could only pronounce upon his conduct as fickleness, or worse; and he was glad of an opportunity to meet them less formally than by a regular morning visit. Either Alice and her sister, or Alice alone, were certain to be in the carriage; for Lady Lyle was too timid to trust herself with those “grays;” and so he bounded forward, his heart full of expectancy, and burning once more to hear that voice whose very chidings were as music to him.

He was close to the carriage before he saw Maitland, – indeed, the sight of Alice, as he drew near, had so entranced him that he saw nothing else; but when his eyes did fall on her companion, a pang shot through him as though he had been stabbed. In the raging jealousy of the moment everything was forgotten but his passion, – his hatred of that man. He ‘d have given his right hand to be able to hurl at him a mortal defiance, to have dared him to the death. Indeed, so far as the insolence of his stare could convey his meaning, it declared an open war between them. Nor did Maitland’s attitude assuage this anger; he lay back with a cool assumption of superiority – an air of triumphant satisfaction – that seemed to say, Each of us is in the place that befits him.

So overcome was he by passion, that even Alice’s invitation to get into the carnage sounded like an outrage to his ears. It was bitter enough to cast him off without making him witness the success of another. Maitland’s daring to apologize for him – to explain away why he had or had not done this, that, or t’ other – was more than his endurance could brook; and as he hurried away from the spot, dashing recklessly down cliff and crag, and sprang from rock to rock without a thought of the peril, he almost accused himself of cowardice and cold-bloodedness for not having insulted him on the instant, and by some open outrage forced upon him a quarrel from which there could be no retreating. “If I ‘d insulted him before her,” cried he, “he never could have evaded me by calling me an angry boy.”

“I’ll have no companionship with him, at all events,” said he, suddenly checking himself in his speed; “he shall neither be leader nor comrade of mine. I ‘ll get my letter back before it reach him.” With this resolve he turned his steps back again to the Abbey. Although he knew well that he must reach the lodge before they could return from their drive, he hurried along as though his life depended on it The keeper was out, but Tony dashed into the lodge, and found, as he expected, the letter on the chimney; he tore it into fragments, and turned away.

The day was already drawing to a close as he descended the little path to the Burnside, and saw his mother awaiting him in the porch. As he came nearer, he perceived that she held up a letter in her hand. “Something important, Tony dear,” cried she. “It is printed at top, ‘On H. M’s Service,’ and marked ‘Immediate’ underneath. I have been very impatient all the day for your return.”

Although Tony’s mood at the moment did not dispose him to be on the very best terms with the world at large, nor even with himself, he felt a strange sort of vainglorious glow through him at being addressed on a great square-shaped envelope, “On Her Majesty’s Service,” and with a huge seal, the royal arms affixed. It imparted a sense of self-importance that was very welcome at such a moment It was a spoonful of brandy to a man not far from fainting.

With all this, he did n’t like his mother to see how much this gratified or interested him; and he tossed the letter to one side, and said, “I hope the dinner isn’t far off; I’m very hungry.”

“It will be on the table in a few minutes, Tony; but let us hear what Her Majesty wants with you.”

“It’s nothing that won’t keep till I have eaten my dinner, mother; at all events, I don’t mean to inquire.”

“I suppose I may break the seal myself, then,” said she, in a half-pique.

“If you like, – if you have any curiosity in the matter.”

“That I have,” said she, tearing open the envelope. “Why, it’s nothing, after all, Tony. It’s not from Her Majesty at all. It begins ‘Dear Butler.’”

“It’s from Skeffy,” cried he, taking it from her hands, “and is far more interesting to me than if it came from the Premier.”

Mrs. Butler sat down, disappointed and sad. It was a reminiscence of long ago, that formally shaped document, with its big seal, reminding her of days when the Colonel – her Colonel – used to receive despatches from the War Office, – grave documents of which he seldom spoke, but whose importance she could read in the thoughtful lines of his face, and which always impressed her with his consequence. “Ah, dear!” sighed she, drearily, “who would have thought it?”

So is it very often in this same world of ours, that the outsides of things are only solemn cheats. The orderly, who terrifies the village as he dashes past at speed, is but the bearer of an invitation to dine. The ambassador’s bag is filled not with protocols and treaties, but with fish-sauce or pickled walnuts; the little sack – marked “most important” – being choke-full of Russian cigarettes. Even lawn and lawyers’ wigs are occasionally the external coverings to qualities that fall short of absolute wisdom; so that though Mrs. Butler exclaimed, “Who would have thought it?” one more conversant with life would have felt less surprise and less disappointment.

A laugh from Tony – almost a hearty laugh – startled her from her musings. “What is it, Tony dear?” asked she, – “what is it that amuses you?”

“I’ll read it all for you, mother. It’s from Skeffy, and you ‘d think you heard him talking, it’s so like him.

“‘F. O., Sunday morning.

“‘Dear Butler, – What a fright you have given us all, old fellow, to have levanted so suddenly, leaving your traps with the waiter, as we first thought, but, as we afterwards discovered, exchanging them with one Rory Quin, who, apparently sorry for his bargain, came for three successive mornings to the hotel to find out your present whereabouts.’

“Do you understand him, mother?” asked Tony at this.

“Partly, – go on.”

He resumed: “‘Rory, however, would seem to have a private scrape of his own to occupy him now, for I found to-day that a policeman was waiting all the morning to arrest him, of which he seems to have had timely notice, for he did not appear, and “R. 960” says, with much solemnity, “he won’t come no more."’”

“What does that mean, Tony?”

“I can make nothing of it. I hope and trust that I am not the cause of the poor fellow’s troubles. I ‘ll write about this at once. ‘More of all this, however, when we meet, which, I rejoice to say, will be soon. I have got fourteen days’ leave, and am going over to your immediate neighborhood, to visit an aunt, or a cousin, or a grandmother, – if she likes, – a certain Mrs. Maxwell of Tilney, who has lots of cash, and no one to leave it to, – five thousand a year in estate; I don’t know what in the Threes; and is, they tell me, weighing all her relatives, real or imaginary, in the balance of her esteem, to decide who is to be the Lord of Tilney, and which of us would most worthily represent her name and house. Preaching for a call is nothing to this; and a C. S. examination is cakes and gingerbread to it Just fancy a grand competitive dinner of both sexes, and the old lady watching who ate of her favorite dish, or who passed the decanter she “affectioned.” Imagine yourself talking, moving, sneezing, smiling, or blowing your nose, with five thousand a year on the issue. Picture to your mind the tortures of a scrutiny that may take in anything, from your complexion to your character, and which, though satisfied with your morals, might discover “something unpleasing about your mouth.”

“‘Worst news of all, I hear that the great Norman Maitland is somewhere in your vicinity, and, of course, will be invited wherever anything is going on. If he cares to do it, I suppose he ‘ll cut us all out, and that the old lady would rather fancy she made a graceful exit from life if this illustrious swell were to play chief mourner to her. By the way, do you know the man I ‘m talking of? He’s a monstrous clever fellow, and a great mystery to boot. I know him very slightly; indeed, so slightly that I’m not sure he knows me.

“‘As it would be invaluable to me to have a word of counsel from you, knowing nothing, or next to nothing, of my dear relative, I mean to start directly for you at once, and have one day with you before I go on to Tilney. Will this bore you, or inconvenience you? Is your house full? Most houses are at this time o’ year.’”

At this Tony laid down the letter and laughed immoderately; not so, however, his mother. She turned her head away, and sat, with her hands closely locked, in silence.

“Is n’t it good, – is n’t it downright droll, mother, to ask if our house be so full of guests we have no room for another? I declare, though it has a sore side to it, the question overcomes me with its absurdity.”

“That’s not the way I ‘m looking at it, Tony,” said she, sadly.

“But there’s no other way to look at it. If one can’t take that view of it, one would – ” He stopped suddenly, for he saw the old lady lift her handkerchief to her eyes, and hold it there. “But you are right, mother,” said he, quickly. “To bear it well, one need n’t laugh at it. At all events, what answer are we to make him?”

“Finish the letter first.”

“Ah, this is all about putting him up – anywhere – in a dressing-room or a closet. ‘At Carlscourt, last year, they had nothing to give me but a bathroom. They used to quiz me about sleeping in “marble halls,” for I lay in the bath.’”

“He seems a good-tempered creature,” said the old lady, who could not repress a laugh this time.

“The best in the world; and such spirits! I wish you saw him do the back-somersault over a chair, or the frog’s leap across a table. For all that, mother,” said he, with a change of tone, “he’s a perfect gentleman; and though he’s very short, – only so high, – he looks a gentleman, too.”

“I am not likely to forget all his kindness to you, Tony,” said she, feelingly. “If we could only receive him suitably, I ‘d be happy and proud to do it; as it is, however, the man, being a gentleman, will put up all the better with our humble entertainment: so just tell him to come, Tony; but tell him, also, what he’s coming to. His room will be pretty much like the bathroom, and the company he’ll meet afterwards very unlike what he saw at the fine house.”

“He ‘ll take all in good part, or I ‘m much mistaken in him. So here goes for the answer: —

“‘Dear Skeff, – We live in a cottage with five rooms. We have one maidservant, and we dine at two. If you have courage to face all this, you’ll have the heartiest of welcomes from my mother and your sincere friend,

“‘Tony Butler.

“‘The mail will drop you at Coleraine, and I ‘ll be on the look-out for you every morning from this forward.’

“Won’t that do, mother?” asked he.

“I think you might have done it better; but I suppose you young folk understand each other best in your own fashion, so let it be.”

CHAPTER XX. THE MINISTER’S VISIT

While Tony was absent that morning from home, Mrs. Butler had a visit from Dr. Stewart; he came over, he said, to see Tony, and ask the news of what he had done in England. “I hope, ma’am,” said he, – and there was something dry and reserved in his manner, – “I hope, ma’am, your son has brought you good tidings of his late journey. A big city is a big temptation, and we dinna want temptations in this world of ours.”

“I know it well, doctor,” said she, with a sigh; “and if it had been any other than Tony – Ah, doctor! why do you shake your head? you make me think you ‘ve heard something or other. What is it, sir?”

“It’s just nothing at all, Mrs. Butler, but your own fears, and very proper fears too they are, for a young lad that goes away from home for the first time in his life, and to such a place too. Ah me!” cried he, in a soil of apostrophe, “it ‘s not so easy to be in grace down about Charing Cross and the Hay market.”

“You ‘re just frightening me, Dr. Stewart; that’s what it is you are doing.”

“And I say it again, ma’am, it’s yourself is the cause o’ it all. But tell me what success he has had, – has he seen Sir Harry Elphinstone?”

“That he has, and seen a greater than Sir Harry; he has come back with a fine place, doctor; he’s to be one of the Queen’s – I forget whether they call them couriers or messengers – that bring the state despatches all over the world; and, as poor dear Tony says, it’s a place that was made for him, – for they don’t want Greek or Latin, or any more book-learning than a country gentleman should have.

“What are you sighing about, Dr. Stewart? There’s nothing to sigh over getting five, maybe six, hundred a year.”

“I was not sighing; I was only thinkin’. And when is he to begin this new life?”

“If you are sighing over the fall it is for a Butler, one of his kith and kin, taking a very humble place, you may just spare your feelings, doctor, for there are others as good as himself in the same employ.”

“And what does Sir Arthur say to it, ma’am?” asked he, as it were to divert her thoughts into another course.

“Well, if you must know, Dr. Stewart,” said she, drawing herself up and smoothing down her dress with dignity, “we have ventured to take this step without consulting Sir Arthur or any of his family.”

A somewhat long silence ensued. At last she said: “If Tony was at home, doctor, he ‘d tell you how kindly his father’s old friend received him, – taking up stories of long ago, and calling him Watty, just as he used to do. And so, if they did not give my poor boy a better place, it was because there was nothing just ready at the moment, perhaps, – or nothing to fit him; for, as Sir Harry said laughingly, ‘We can’t make you a bishop, I fear.’”

“I dinna see anything against it,” muttered the old minister, not sorry for the chance of a shot against Episcopacy.

“I’m thinking, Dr. Stewart,” said she, tartly, “that your rheumatism must be troubling you to-day; and, indeed, I ‘m ashamed to say I never asked you how the pains were?”

“I might be better, and I might be worse, ma’am,” was the qualified reply; and again came a pause.

“Tony was saying the other day, doctor,” resumed she, “that if you will try a touch of what he calls the white oils.”

“I ‘m very much obliged to him, Mrs. Butler; he put a touch of the same white oils on my pony one day, and the beast that was always a lamb before just kicked me over his head when I got into the saddle.”

“You forget, doctor, you are not a beast of burden yourself.”

“We ‘re all beasts of burden, ma’am, – all of us, – even the best, if there be any best! heavy laden wi’ our sins, and bent down wi’ our transgressions. No, no,” added he, with a slight asperity, “I ‘ll have none of his white oils.”

“Well, you know the proverb, doctor, ‘He that winna use the means must bear the moans.’”

“‘T is a saying that hasna much sense in it,” said the doctor, crankily; “for who’s to say when the means is blessed?”

Here was a point that offered so wide a field for discussion that the old lady did not dare to make a rejoinder.

“I ‘ll be going to Derry to-morrow, Mrs. Butler,” resumed he, “if I can be of any service to you.”

“Going to Derry, doctor? that’s a long road for you!”

“So it is, ma’am; but I’m going to fetch back my dochter Dolly; she’s to come by the packet to-morrow evening.”

“Dolly coming home! How is that? You did not expect her, did you?”

“Not till I got her letter this morning; and that’s what made me come over to ask if Tony had, maybe, told you something about how she was looking, and what sort of spirits she seemed in; for her letter’s very short; only says, ‘I ‘ve got a kind of longing to be back again, dear father; as the song says, “It’s hame, and it’s hame, and it’s hame I fain wad be;” and as I know well there will be an open heart and an open door to greet me, I ‘m off tonight for Liverpool.’”

“She ‘s a good girl, and whatever she does it will be surely for the best,” said the old lady.

“I know it well;” and he wiped his eyes as he spoke. “But I ‘m sore troubled to think it’s maybe her health is breaking, and I wanted to ask Tony about her. D’ ye remember, ma’am, how he said she was looking?”

Now, if there was anything thoroughly repugnant to the old lady’s habits, it was untruthfulness; and yet, as Tony had not mentioned Dolly since his return, her only escape was by a little evasion, saying, “When he wrote to me his first letter from London, doctor, he said, ‘I was sorry to find Dolly looking pale, and I thought thin also; besides,’ added he, ‘they have cut off her pretty brown hair.’”

“Yes, she told me of that,” sighed the doctor. “And in her last note she says again, ‘Dinna think me a fright father dear, for it’s growing again, and I ‘m not half so ugly as I was three weeks ago;’ for the lassie knows it was always a snare to me, and I was ever pleased wi’ her bright, cheery face.”

“And a bright, cheery face it was!”

“Ye mind her smile, Mrs. Butler. It was like hearing good news to see it. Her mother had the same.” And the old man’s lip trembled, and his cheek too, as a heavy tear rolled slowly down it. “Did it ever strike you, ma’am,” added he, in a calmer tone, “that there’s natures in this world gi’en to us just to heal the affections, as there are herbs and plants sent to cure our bodily ailments?”

“It’s a blessed thought, doctor.”

“Eh, ma’am, it’s more than a thought; it’s a solemn truth. But I ‘m staying o’er-long; I ‘ve to go over to John Black’s and see his sister before I leave; and I ‘d like, too, to say a word o’ comfort to auld Matty McClintock.”

“You ‘ll be back for the Sabbath, doctor?” asked she.

“Wi’ His help and blessing, ma’am.”

“I was thinking if maybe you and dear Dolly would come and take dinner here – Saturday – there will be nothing ready for you at home; and it would be such a pleasure to Tony before he goes away.”

“T thank you heartily, Mrs. Butler; but our first evening under the auld roof we must e’en have it by ourselves. You ‘ll no think the worse o’ us for this, I am sure, ma’am.”

“Certainly not; then shall we say Monday? Dolly will be rested by that time, and Tony talks of leaving me so soon.”

“I ‘ll just, wi’ your good leave – I ‘ll just wait till I see Dolly; for maybe she ‘ll no be ower-strong when she comes. There’s nothing I can do for you in Derry, is there?”

“Nothing, sir, – nothing that I think of at this moment,” said she, coldly; for the doctor’s refusal of her second invitation had piqued her pride, and whether it was from his depression or some other cause, the doctor himself seemed less cordial than was his wont, and took his leave with more ceremony than usual.

The old lady watched him till he was out of sight, sorely perplexed to divine whether he had really unburdened his conscience of all he had to say, or had yet something on his mind unrevealed. Her kindly nature, however, in the end, mastered all other thoughts; and as she sat down once more to her knitting, she muttered, “Poor man! it’s a sore stroke of poverty when the sight of one’s only child coming back to them brings the sense of distress and want with it.” The words were not well uttered when she saw Tony coming up the little pathway; he was striding along at his own strong pace, but his hat was drawn down over his brows, and be neither looked right nor left as he went.

“Did you meet the doctor, Tony?” said she, as she opened the door for him.

“No; how should I meet him? I’ve not been to the Burn Bide.”

“But he has only left the house this minute, – you must have passed each other.”

“I came down the cliff. I was taking a short cut,” said he, as he threw himself into a seat, evidently tired and weary.

“He has been here to say that he’s off for Derry to-night with the mail to meet Dolly.”

“To meet Dolly!”

“Yes, she’s coming back; and the doctor cannot say why, for she’s over that fever she had, and getting stronger every day; and yet she writes, ‘You must come and fetch me from Derry, father, for I ‘m coming home to you.’ And the old man is sore distressed to make out whether she’s ill again, or what’s the meaning of it. And he thought, if he saw you, it was just possible you could tell him something.”