Tony Butler

"Your grand friend will think it's luncheon, Tony."

"He 'll learn his mistake when it comes to tea-time; but I 'll go and see if there 's not a salmon to be had at Carrig-a-Rede before I start; and if I 'm lucky, I 'll bring you a brace of snipe back with me."

"Do so, Tony; and if Mr. Gregg was to offer you a little seakale, or even some nice fresh celery--Eh, dear, he 's off, and no minding me! He 's a fine true-hearted lad," muttered she, as she reseated herself at her work; "but I wonder what's become of all his high spirits, and the merry ways that he used to have."

Tony was not successful in his pursuit of provender. There was a heavy sea on the sh.o.r.e, and the nets had been taken up; and during his whole walk he never saw a bird He ate a hurried dinner when he came back, and, taking one more look at Skeffy's room to see whether it looked as comfortable as he wished it, he set out for Coleraine.

Now, though his mind was very full of his coming guest, in part pleasurably, and in part with a painful consciousness of his inability to receive him handsomely, his thoughts would wander off at every moment to Dolly Stewart, and to her return home, which he felt convinced was still more or less connected with his own freak. The evening service was going on in the meeting-house as he pa.s.sed, and he could hear the swell of the voices in the last hymn that preceded the final prayer, and he suddenly bethought him that he would take a turn by the Burnside and have a few minutes' talk with Dolly before her father got back from meeting.

"She is such a true-hearted, honest girl," said he to himself, "she 'll not be able to hide the fact from me; and I will ask her flatly, Is this so? was it not on my account you left the place?"

All was still and quiet at the minister's cottage, and Tony raised the latch and walked through the little pa.s.sage into the parlor unseen. The parlor, too, was empty. A large old Bible lay open on the table, and beside it a handkerchief--a white one--that he knew to be Dolly's. As he looked at it, he bethought him of one Alice had given him once as a keepsake; he had it still. How different that fragment of gossamer with the frill of rich lace from this homely kerchief! Were they not almost emblems of their owners? and if so, did not his own fortunes rather link him with the humbler than with the higher? With one there might be companions.h.i.+p; with the other, what could it be but dependence?

While he was standing thus thinking, two ice-cold hands were laid over his eyes, and he cried out. "Ay, Dolly, those frozen fingers are yours;"

and as he removed her hands, he threw one arm round her waist, and, pressing her closely to him, he kissed her.

"Tony, Tony!" said she, reproachfully, while her eyes swam in two heavy tears, and she turned away.

"Come here and sit beside me, Dolly. I want to ask you a question, and we have n't much time, for the doctor will be here presently, and I am so fretted and worried thinking over it that I have nothing left but to come straight to yourself and ask it."

"Well, what is it?" said she, calmly.

"But you will be frank with me, Dolly,--frank and honest, as you always were,--won't you?"

"Yes, I think so," said she, slowly.

"Ay, but you must be sure to be frank, Dolly, for it touches me very closely; and to show you that you may, I will tell you a secret, to begin with. Your father has had a letter from that Mrs. M'Gruder, where you lived."

"From her?" said Dolly, growing so suddenly pale

"My mother saw it; she read part of it, and here 's what it implies,--that it was all my fault--at least, the fault of knowing me--that cost you your place. She tells, not very unfairly, all things considered, about that unlucky night when I came under the windows and had that row with her husband; and then she hints at something, and I'll be hanged if I can make out at what; and if my mother knows, which I suspect she does not, she has not told me; but whatever it be, it is in some way mixed up with your going away; and knowing, my dear Dolly, that you and I can talk to one another as few people can in this world,--is it not so? Are you ill, dear,--are you faint?"

"No; those are weak turns that come and go."

"Put your head down here on my shoulder, my poor Dolly. How pale you are! and your hands so cold. What is it you say, darling? I can't hear."

Her lips moved, but without a sound, and her eyelids fell lazily over her eyes, as, pale and scarcely seeming to breathe, she leaned heavily towards him, and fell at last in his arms. There stood against the opposite wall of the room a little horse-hair sofa, a hard and narrow bench, to which he carried her, and, with her head supported by his arm, he knelt down beside her, helpless a nurse as ever gazed on sickness.

"There, you are getting better, my dear, dear Dolly," he said, as a long heavy sigh escaped her. "You will be all right presently, my poor dear."

"Fetch me a little water," said she, faintly.

Tony soon found some, and held it to her lips, wondering the while how it was he had never before thought Dolly beautiful, so regular were the features, so calm the brow, so finely traced the mouth, and the well-rounded chin beneath it. How strange it seemed that the bright eye and the rich color of health should have served to hide rather than heighten these traits!

"I think I must have fainted, Tony," said she, weakly.

"I believe you did, darling," said he.

"And how was it? Of what were we talking, Tony? Tell me what I was saying to you."

Tony was afraid to refer to what he feared might have had some share in her late seizure; he dreaded to recur to it.

"I think I remember it," said she, slowly, and as if struggling with the difficulty of a mental effort. "But stay; is not that the wicket I heard? Father is coming, Tony;" and as she spoke, the heavy foot of the minister was heard on the pa.s.sage.

"Eh, Tony man, ye here? I'd rather hae seen ye at the evening lecture; but ye 're no fond of our form of wors.h.i.+p, I believe. The Colonel, your father, I have heard, was a strong Episcopalian."

"I was on my way to Coleraine, doctor, and I turned off at the mill to see Dolly, and ask her how she was."

"Ye winna stay to supper, then?" said the old man, who, hospitable enough on ordinary occasions, had no wish to see the Sabbath evening's meal invaded by the presence of a guest, even of one so well known as Tony.

Tony muttered some not very connected excuses, while his eyes turned to Dolly, who, still pale and sickly-looking, gave him one little brief nod, as though to say it were better he should go; and the old minister himself stood erect in the middle of the floor, calmly and almost coldly waiting the words "Good-bye."

"Am I to tell mother you 'll come to us to-morrow, doctor,--you and Dolly?" asked Tony, with his band on the door.

"It's no on the Sabbath evening we should turn our thoughts to feastin', Master Tony; and none know that better than your worthy mother. I wish you a good-evening and a pleasant walk."

"Good-night," said Tony, shutting the door sharply; "and," muttered he to himself, "if you catch _me_ crossing your threshold again, Sabbath or week-day--" He stopped, heaved a deep sigh, and, drawing his hand across his eyes, said, "My poor dear Dolly, hasn't my precious temper done you mischief enough already, that I must let it follow you to your own quiet fireside?"

And he went his way, with many a vow of self-amendment, and many a kind wish, that was almost a prayer, for the minister and his daughter.

CHAPTER XXIX. DEPARTURES

All was confusion and dismay at Tilney. Bella Lyle's cold turned out to be scarlatina, and Mark and Alice brought back tidings that old Commodore Graham had been seized with a fit, and was seriously, if not dangerously, ill. Of course, the company scattered like an exploded sh.e.l.l. The Graham girls hastened back to their father, while the other guests sought safety in flight, the great struggle now being who should soonest secure post-horses to get away. Like many old people rich in this world's comforts, Mrs. Maxwell had an especial aversion to illness in any shape. It was a topic she never spoke on; and, if she could, would never have mentioned before her. Her intimates understood this thoroughly, and many were the expressions employed to imply that Mr.

Such-a-one had a fever, or Mrs. So-and-so was given over by her doctors.

As to the fatal result itself, it was always veiled in a sort of decent mystery, as though it would not be perfectly polite to inquire whither the missing friend had retired to.

"Dr. Reede says it is a very mild case of the malady, and that Bella will be up in a day or two, aunt," said Alice.

"Of course she will," replied the old lady, pettishly. "It 's just a cold and sore throat,--they had n't that fine name for it long ago, and people got well all the sooner. Is he gone?"

"No; he's talking with Mark in the library; he'll be telling him, I think, about the Commodore."

"Well, don't ask him to stop to dinner; we have sorrow enough without seeing a doctor."

"Oh, here comes Mark! Where is Dr. Reede?"

"He's gone over to see Maitland. Fenton came to say that he wished to see him."

"Surely he's not ill," said Alice.

"Oh, dear! what a misfortune that would be!" cried the old lady, with real affliction in her tone; "to think of Mr. Norman Maitland taking ill in one's house."

"Have n't you been over to ask after him, Mark?"

"No. I was waiting till Reede came back: he's one of those men that can't bear being inquired after; and if it should turn out that he was not ill, he 'd not take the anxiety in good part."

"How he has contrived to play the tyrant to you all, I can't imagine,"