Tony Butler. Lever Charles James
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