Tony Butler

"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 compa.s.sionate 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,

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

"Not for the world; I 'm late enough as it is. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s 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 companions.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sed 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, s.p.a.cious 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 s.p.a.ce of several hundred acres,--enclosed within a ma.s.sive wall, had not more pretensions to beauty than the mansion. There were, it is true, grand points of view,--n.o.ble stretches of sh.o.r.e 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 gra.s.s, 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 pa.s.sed 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 surpa.s.sed 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 sn.o.b yet that could n't find a woman to defend him; and this fellow, it would seem, has got two."

"Tony a sn.o.b!"

"Tony Butler a sn.o.b! 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 b.u.mpkin, 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"