Tony Butler. Lever Charles James
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