Tony Butler. Lever Charles James
is strange to say that he was vexed at being disappointed. She was very pretty, very well-mannered, and very pleasing; but he longed to find that all the charm and grace about her were conventional; he wished to believe that “the whole thing,” as he called life, was a mere trick, where all cheated in proportion to their capacities. Mark had been honest enough to own that they were fortune-hunting, and Isabella certainly could not be ignorant of the stake she played for.
One by one the carriages drew up and moved away, and now Gambier Graham’s car stood before the door, alone; for the crowd of footmen who had thronged to press their services on the others, gradually melted away, hopeless of exacting a blackmail from the old Commodore. While Maitland stood watching the driver, who, in a composite sort of costume, rather more gardener than coachman, amused himself flicking with his whip imaginary flies off the old mare’s neck and withers, a smart tap came to the door; while a hasty voice called out, “May I come in?”
“Let me first hear who you are?” said Maitland.
“Commodore Graham,” was the answer.
In a moment it flashed across Maitland that the old sailor had come to reveal his discovery of M’Caskey. Just as quickly did he decide that it was better to admit him, and, if possible, contrive to make the story seem a secret between themselves.
“Come in, by all means, – the very man I wanted to see,” said Maitland, as he opened the door, and gave him a cordial shake-hands. “I was afraid you were going without seeing me, Commodore; and, early as it was, I got up and was dressing in hope to catch you.”
“That I call hearty, – downright hearty, – Maitland.”
Maitland actually started at this familiar mention of him by one whom he had never met till a few days before.
“Rather a rare event in your life to be up at this hour, I ‘ll be sworn, – except when you have n’t been to bed, eh?” And he laughed heartily at what he fancied was a most witty conceit. “You see we ‘re all off! We ‘ve had springs on our cables these last twenty-four hours, with this frolicsome old woman, who would insist on being back for her birthday; but she ‘s rich, Maitland, immensely rich, and we all worship her!”
Maitland gave a faint shrug of the shoulders, as though he deplored the degeneracy, but couldn’t help it.
“Yes, yes; I ‘m coming,” cried the Commodore, shouting from the open window to his daughters beneath. “The girls are impatient; they want to be at Lesliesford when the others are crossing. There’s a fresh on the river, and it ‘s better to get some stout fellows to guide the carriages through the water. I wanted greatly to have five minutes alone with you, – five would do; half of it, perhaps, between men of the world, as we are. You know about what.”
“I suspect I do,” said Maitland, quietly.
“I saw, too,” resumed Graham, “that you wished to have no talk about it here, amongst all these gossiping people. Was n’t I right?”
“Perfectly right; you appreciated me thoroughly.”
“What I said was this, – Maitland knows the world well. He ‘ll wait till he has his opportunity of talking the matter over with myself. He ‘ll say, ‘Graham and I will understand one another at once.’ One minute; only one,” screamed he out from the window. “Could n’t you come down and just say a word or two to them? They ‘d like it so much.”
Maitland muttered something about his costume.
“Ah! there it is. You fellows will never be seen till you are in full fig. Well, I must be off. Now, then, to finish what we ‘ve been saying. You ‘ll come over next week to Port-Graham, – that’s my little place, though there’s no port, nor anything like a port, within ten miles of it, – and we ‘ll arrange everything. If I ‘m an old fellow, Maitland, I don’t forget that I was once a young one, – mind that, my boy.” And the Commodore had to wipe his eyes, with the laughter at his drollery. “Yes; here I am,” cried he, again; and then turning to Maitland, shook his hand in both his own, repeating, “On Wednesday, – Wednesday to dinner, – not later than five, remember,” – he hastened down the stairs, and scrambled up on the car beside his eldest daughter, who apparently had already opened a floodgate of attack on him for his delay.
“Insupportable old bore!” muttered Maitland, as he waved his hand from the window, and smiled his blandest salutations to the retreating party. “What a tiresome old fool to fancy that I am going over to Graham-pond, or port, or whatever it is, to talk over an incident that I desire to have forgotten! Besides, when once I have left this neighborhood, he may discuss M’Caskey every day after his dinner; he may write his life, for anything I care.”
With this parting reflection he went down to the garden, strolling listlessly along the dew-spangled alleys, and carelessly tossing aside with his cane the apple-blossoms, which lay thick as snow-flakes on the walks. While thus lounging, he came suddenly upon Sir Arthur, as, hoe in hand, he imagined himself doing something useful.
“Oh, by the way, Mr. Maitland,” cried he, “Mark has just told me of the stupid mistake I made. Will you be generous enough to forgive me?”
“It is from me, sir, that the apologies must come,” began Maitland.
“Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Maitland. You will overwhelm me with shame if you say so. Let us each forget the incident; and, believe me, I shall feel myself your debtor by the act of oblivion.” He shook Maitland’s hand warmly, and in an easier tone added, “What good news I have heard! You are not tired of us, – not going!”
“I cannot – I told Mark this morning – I don’t believe there is a road out of this.”
“Well, wait here till I tell you it is fit for travelling,” said Sir Arthur, pleasantly, and addressed himself once more to his labors as a gardener.
Meanwhile Maitland threw himself down on a garden-bench, and cried aloud, “This is the real thing, after all, – this is actual repose. Not a word of political intrigue, no snares, no tricks, no deceptions, and no defeats; no waking to hear of our friends arrested, and our private letters in the hands of a Police Prefect. No horrid memories of the night before, and that run of ill-luck that has left us almost beggars. I wonder how long the charm of this tranquillity would endure; or is it like all other anodynes, which lose their calming power by habit? I ‘d certainly like to try.”
“Well, there is no reason why you shouldn’t,” said a voice from the back of the summer-house, which he knew to be Mrs. Trafford’s.
He jumped up to overtake her, but she was gone.
CHAPTER XII. MAITLAND’S VISIT
“What was it you were saying about flowers, Jeanie? I was not minding,” said Mrs. Butler, as she sat at her window watching the long heaving roll of the sea, as it broke along the jagged and rugged shore, her thoughts the while far beyond it.
“I was saying, ma’am, that the same man that came with the books t’ other day brought these roses, and asked very kindly how you were.”
“You mean the same gentleman, lassie, who left his card here!” said the old lady, correcting that very Northern habit of Ignoring all differences of condition.
“Well, I mind he was; for he had very white hands, and a big bright ring on one of his fingers.”
“You told him how sorry I was not to be able to see him, – that these bad headaches have left me unable to receive any one?”
“Na; I did n’t say that,” said she, half doggedly.
“Well, and what did you say?”
“I just said, she’s thinking too much about her son, who is away from home, to find any pleasure in a strange face. He laughed a little quiet laugh, and said, ‘There is good sense in that, Jeanie, and I ‘ll wait for a better moment.’”
“You should have given my message as I spoke it to you,” said the mistress, severely.
“I ‘m no sae blind that