Tony Butler

"I was thinking, Tony," said he, gravely,--"I was just thinking whether I could not summon up a sort of emotion at seeing the woods under whose shade my ancestors must have walked for heaven knows what centuries."

"Your ancestors! Why, they never lived here."

"Well, if they did n't, they ought. It seems a grand old place, and I already feel my heart warming to it. By the way, where's Maitland?"

"Gone; I told you he was off to the Continent. What do you know about this man,--anything?"

"Not much. When I was at school, Tony, whenever in our New Testament examination they asked me who it was did this or said that, I always answered John the Baptist, and in eight times out of ten it was a hit; and so in secular matters, whenever I was puzzled about a fellow's parentage, I invariably said--and you 'll find as a rule it is invaluable--he's a son of George IV., or his father was. It accounts for everything,--good looks, plenty of cash, air, swagger, mystery. It explains how a fellow knows every one, and is claimed by none."

"And is this Maitland's origin?"

"I can't tell; perhaps it is. Find me a better, or, as the poet says, 'bas accipe mec.u.m.' I say, is that the gate-lodge? Tony, old fellow, I hope I'll have you spending your Christmas here one of these days, with Skeff Darner your host!"

"More unlikely things have happened!" said Tony, quietly.

"What a cold northernism is that! Why, man, what so likely--what so highly probable--what, were I a sanguine fellow, would I say so nearly certain? It was through a branch of the Darners--no, of the Nevils, I mean--who intermarried with us, that the Maxwells got the estate. Paul Nevil was Morton Maxwell's mother--aunt, I should say--"

"Or uncle, perhaps," gravely interposed Tony.

"Yes, uncle,--you 're right! but you 've muddled my genealogy for all that! Let us see. Who was Noel Skeffington? Noel was a sort of pivot in our family-engine, and everything seemed to depend on him; and such a respect had we for his intentions, that we went on contesting the meaning of his last will till we found out there was nothing more left to fight for. This Noel was the man that caught King George's horse when he was run away with at the battle of Dettingen; and the King wanted to make him a baronet, but with tears in his eyes, he asked how he had ever incurred the royal displeasure to be visited with such a mark of disgrace? 'At all events,' said he, 'my innocent child, who is four years old, could never have offended your Majesty. Do not, therefore, involve him in my shame. Commute the sentence to knighthood, and my dishonor will die with me.'"

"I never heard of greater insolence," said Tony.

"It saved us, though; but for this, I should have been Sir Skeffington to-day. Is that the house I see yonder?"

"That's a wing of it."

"'Home of my fathers, how my bosom throbs!' What's the next line?

'Home of my fathers, through my heart there runs!' That's it,--'there runs'--runs. I forget how it goes, but I suppose it must rhyme to 'duns.'"

"Now, try and be reasonable for a couple of minutes," said Tony. "I scarcely am known to Mrs. Maxwell at all. I don't mean to stop here; I intend to go back to-night What are your movements?"

"Let the Fates decide; that

"I want you to be serious, Skeffy."

"Very kind of you, when I've only got fourteen days' leave, and three of them gone already."

"I 'd rather you 'd return with me; but I 'd not like you to risk your future to please me."

"Has jealousy no share in this? Be frank and open: 'Crede Darner' is our proud motto; and by Jove, if certain tailors and bootmakers did not accept it, it would be an evil day for your humble servant!"

"I don't understand you," said Tony, gravely.

"You fear I 'll make love to 'your widow,' Tony. Don't get so red, old fellow, nor look as if you wanted to throw me into the fish-pond."

"I had half a mind to do it," muttered Tony, in something between jest and earnest.

"I knew it,--I saw it. You looked what the Yankees call mean-ugly; and positively I was afraid of you. But just reflect on the indelible disgrace it would be to you if I was drowned."

"You can swim, I suppose?"

"Not a stroke; it's about the only thing I cannot do."

"Why, you told me yesterday that you never shoot, you could n't ride, never handled a fis.h.i.+ng-rod."

"Nor hemmed a pocket-handkerchief," broke in Skeffy. "I own not to have any small accomplishments. What a n.o.ble building! I declare I am attached to it already. No, Tony; I pledge you my word of honor, no matter how pressed I may be, I'll not cut down a tree here."

"You may go round to the stable-yard," said Tony to the driver,--"they 'll feed you and your horse here."

"Of course they will," cried Skeffy; and then, grasping Tony's two hands, he said, "You are welcome to Tilney, my dear boy; I am heartily glad to see you here."

Tony turned and pulled the bell; the deep summons echoed loudly, and a number of small dogs joined in the uproar at the same time.

"There's 'the deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home,'" said Skeffy, while he threw the end of his cigar away.

A servant soon appeared and ushered them into a large low-ceilinged room, with fireplaces of antique fas.h.i.+on, the chimney-pieces of dark oak, surmounted by ma.s.sive coats of arms glowing in all the colors of heraldry. It was eminently comfortable in all its details of fat low ottomans, deep easy-chairs, and squat cus.h.i.+ons; and although the three windows which lighted it looked out upon a lawn, the view was bounded by a belt of trees, as though to convey that it was a room in which snugness was to be typified, to the exclusion of all that pretended to elegance. A ma.s.sive and splendidly bound Bible, showing little signs of use, lay on a centre table; a very well-thumbed "Peerage" was beside it.

"I say, Tony, this is evidently Aunt Maxwell's own drawing-room. It has all the peculiar grimness of an old lady's sanctum; and I declare that fat old dog, snoring away on the rug, looks like a relation." While he stooped down to examine the creature more closely, the door opened, and Mrs. Maxwell, dressed in bonnet and shawl, and with a small garden watering-pot in her hand, entered. She only saw Tony; and, running towards him with her open hand, said, "You naughty boy, did n't I tell you not to come here?"

Tony blushed deeply, and blurted something about being told or ordered to come by Mrs. Trafford.

"Well, well; it does n't matter now; there 's no danger. It's not 'catching,' the doctor says, and she'll be up tomorrow. Dear me! and who is this?" The latter question was addressed to Skeffy, who had just risen from his knees.

"Mr. Skeffington Darner, ma'am," said Tony.

"And who are you, then?"

"Tony Butler: I thought you knew me."

"To be sure I do, and delighted to see you too. And this Pickle is Skeff, is he?"

"Dear aunt, let me embrace you," cried Skeffy, rus.h.i.+ng rapturously into her arms.

"Well, I declare!" said the old lady, looking from one to the other; "I thought, if it was you, Skeff, what a great fine tall man you had grown; and there you are, the same little creature I saw you last."

"Little, aunt! what do you mean by little? Standard of the Line! In France I should be a Grenadier!"

The old lady laughed heartily at the haughty air with which he drew himself up and threw forward his chest as he spoke.

"What a nice parrot you have sent me! but I can't make out what it is he says."

"He says, 'Don't you wish you may get it?' aunt."

"Ah! so it is; and he means luncheon, I 'm sure, which is just coming on the table. I hope you are both very hungry?"

"I ought to be, aunt. It's a long drive from the Causeway here.--Hold your tongue, you dog," whispered he to Tony; "say nothing about the three breakfasts on the road, or I shall be disgraced."

"And how is your mother, Mr. Tony? I hope she has good health. Give me your arm to the dining-room; Pickle will take care of himself. This is a sickly season. The poor dear Commodore fell ill! and though the weather is so severe, woodc.o.c.ks very scarce,--there's a step here,--and all so frightened for fear of the scarlatina that they run away; and I really wanted you here to introduce you to--who was it?--not Mrs. Craycroft, was it? Tell Mrs. Trafford luncheon is ready, Groves, and say Mr. Butler is here. She doesn't know you, Pickle. Maybe you don't like to be called Pickle now?"