Tony Butler

“But don’t think only of me, Tony. She’s more to be considered than I am; and if this bargain was to be unhappy for her, it would only be misery for both of us. You’d not marry your own sweetheart against her own will?”

Tony neither agreed to nor dissented from this remark. The chances were that it was a proposition not so readily solved, and that he ‘d like to have thought over it.

“No; I know you better than that,” said M’Gruder, once more.

“Perhaps not,” remarked Tony; but the tone certainly gave no positive assurance of a settled determination. “At all events, I ‘ll see what I can do for you.”

“If it was that she cares for somebody else that she could n’t marry, – that her father disliked, or that he was too poor, – I ‘d never say one word; because who can tell what changes may come in life, and the man that could n’t support a wife now, in a year or two may be well off and thriving? And if it was that she really liked another, – you don’t think that likely? Well, neither do I; but I say it here because I want to take in every consideration of the question; but I repeat, if it were so, I ‘d never utter one word against it. Your mother, Tony, is more likely to find that out than any of us; and if she says Dolly’s heart is given away already, that will be enough. I ‘ll not trouble nor torment her more.”

Tony grasped his friend’s hand and shook it warmly, some vague suspicion darting through him at the time that this rag-merchant was more generous in his dealing with the woman he loved than he, Tony, would have been. Was it that he loved less, or was it that his love was more? Tony could n’t tell; nor was it so very easy to resolve it either way.

As day broke, the steamer ran into Leghorn to land some passengers and take in others; and M’Gruder, while he took leave of Tony, pointed to a red-tiled roof rising amongst some olive-trees, – the quaint little pigeon-house on top surmounted with a weather-vane fashioned into an enormous letter S.

“There it is,” said he, with a shake in his voice; “that was to have been her home. I ‘ll not go near it till I hear from you, and you may tell her so. Tell her you saw it, Tony, and that it was a sweet little spot, where one might look for happiness if they could only bring a quiet heart to it. And above all, Tony, write to me frankly and openly, and don’t give me any hopes if your own conscience tells you I have no right to them.”

With a strong grasp of the hand, and a long full look at each other in silence, M’Grader went over the side to his boat, and the steamer ploughed on her way to Marseilles.

CHAPTER LXI. TONY AT HOME AGAIN

Though Tony was eager to persuade Rory to accompany him home, the poor fellow longed so ardently to see his friends and relations, to tell all that he had done and suffered for “the cause,” and to show the rank he had won, that Tony yielded at last, and only bound him by a promise to come and pass his Christmas at the Causeway; and now he hastened on night and day, feverishly impatient to see his mother, and yearning for that affection which his heart had never before so thirsted after.

There were times when he felt that, without Alice, all his good fortune in life was valueless; and it was a matter of utter indifference whether he was to see himself surrounded with every means of enjoyment, or rise each morning to meet some call of labor. And then there were times when he thought of the great space that separated them, – not in condition, but in tastes and habits and requirements. She was of that gay and fashionable world that she adorned, – made for it, and made to like it; its admiration and its homage were things she looked for. What would he have done if obliged to live in such a society? His delight was the freedom of an out-of-door existence, – the hard work of field-sports, dashed with a certain danger that gave them their zest. In these he admitted no man to be his superior; and in this very conscious strength lay the pride that sustained him. Compel him, however, to live in another fashion, surround him with the responsibilities of station, and the demands of certain ceremonies, and he would be wretched. “Perhaps she saw all that,” muttered he to himself. “With that marvellous quickness of hers, who knows if she might not have foreseen how unsuited I was to all habits but my own wayward careless ones? And though I hope I shall always be a gentleman, in truth there are some forms of the condition that puzzle me sorely.

“And, after all, have I not my dear mother to look after and make happy? and what a charm it will give to life to see her surrounded with the little objects she loved and cared for! What a garden she shall have!” Climate and soil, to be sure, were stiff adversaries to conquer, but money and skill could fight them; and that school for the little girls – the fishermen’s daughters – that she was always planning, and always wondering Sir Arthur Lyle had never thought of, she should have it now, and a pretty building, too, it should be. He knew the very spot to suit it, and how beautiful he would make their own little cottage, if his mother should still desire to live there. Not that he thought of this positively with perfect calm and indifference. To live so near the Lyles, and live estranged from them, would be a great source of unpleasantness, and yet how could he possibly renew his relations there, now that all was over between Alice and himself? “Ah,” thought he, at last, “the world would stand still if it had to wait for stupid fellows like me to solve its difficulties. I must just let events happen, and do the best I can when they confront me;” and then mother would be there, mother would counsel and advise him; mother would warn him of this, and reconcile him to that; and so he was of good cheer as to the future, though there were things in the present that pressed him sorely.

It was about an hour after dark of a starry, sharp October evening, that the jaunting-car on which he travelled drove up to the spot where the little pathway turned off to the cottage, and Jeanie was there with her lantern waiting for him.

“You’ve no a’ that luggage, Maister Tony?” cried she, as the man deposited the fourth trunk on the road.

“How’s my mother?” asked he, impatiently, – “is she well?”

“Why wouldn’t she be weel, and hearty too?” said the girl, who rather felt the question as savoring of ingratitude, seeing what blessings of fortune had been showered upon them.

As he walked hurriedly along, Jeanie trotted at his side, telling him, in broken and disjointed sentences, the events of the place, – the joy of the whole neighborhood on hearing of his new wealth; their hopes that he might not leave that part of the country; what Mrs. Blackie of Craigs Mills said at Mrs. Dumphy’s christening, when she gave the name of Tony to the baby, and wouldn’t say Anthony; and how Dr. M’Candlish improved the occasion for “twa good hours, wi’ mair text o’ Scripture than wad make a Sabbath-day’s discourse; and ech, Maister Tony, it’s a glad heart I’ll hae o’ it all, if I could only think that you ‘ll no be going to keep a man creature, – a sort of a butler like; there ‘s no such wastefu’ bodies in the world as they, and wanting mair ceremonies than the best gentleman in the land.”

Before Tony had finished assuring her that no change in the household should displace herself, they had reached the little wicket; his mother, as she stood at the door, caught the sound of his voice, rushed out to meet him, and was soon clasped in his arms.

“It’s more happiness than I hoped for, – more, far more,” was all she could say, as she clung to him. Her next words were uttered in a cry of joy, when the light fell full upon him in the doorway, – “you ‘re just your father, Tony; it’s your own father’s self I see standing before me, if you had not so much hair over your face.”

“I ‘ll soon get rid of that, mother, if you dislike it.”

“Let it be, Master Tony, – let it be,” cried Jeanie; “though it frightened me a bit at first, it ‘s no so bad when one gets used to it.”

Though Mrs. Butler had determined to make Tony relate every event that took place from the day he left her, in regular narrative order, nothing could be less connected, nothing less consecutive, than the incidents he recounted. Now it would be some reminiscence of his messenger days, – of his meeting with that glorious Sir Joseph, who treated him so handsomely; then of that villain who stole his despatches; of his life as a rag-merchant, or his days with Garibaldi. Rory, too, was remembered; and he related to his mother the pious fraud by which he had transferred to his humble follower the promotion Garibaldi had bestowed upon himself.

“He well deserved it, and more; he carried me, when I was wounded, through the orchard at Melazzo on his back, and though struck with a bullet himself, never owned he was hit till he fell on the grass beside me, – a grand fellow that, mother, though he never learned to read.” And there was a something of irony in his voice as he said this, that showed how the pains of learning still rankled in his mind.

“And you never met the Lyles? How strange!” exclaimed she.

“Yes, I met Alice; at least,” said he, stooping down to settle the log on the fire, “I saw her the last evening I was at Naples.”

“Tell me all about it”

“There ‘s no all. I met her, we talked together for half an hour or so, and we parted; there’s the whole of it.”

“She had heard, I suppose, of your good fortune?”

“Yes, Skeff had told them the story and, I take it, made the most of our wealth; not that rich people like the Lyles would be much impressed by our fortune.”

“That may be true, Tony, but rich folk have a sympathy with other rich folk, and they ‘re not very wrong in liking those whose condition resembles their own. What did Alice say? Did she give you some good advice as to your mode of life?”

“Yes, plenty of that; she rather likes advice-giving.”

“She was always a good friend of yours, Tony. I mind well when she used to come here to hear your letters read to her. She ever made the same remark: ‘Tony is a fine true-hearted boy; and when he’s moulded and shaped a bit by the pressure of the world, he ‘ll grow to be a fine true-hearted man.’”

“It was very gracious of her, no doubt,” said he, with a sharp, short tone; “and she was good enough to contribute a little to that self-same ‘pressure’ she hoped so much from.”

His mother looked at him to explain his words, but he turned his head away and was silent.

“Tell me something about home, mother. How are the Stewarts? Where is Dolly?”

“They are well, and Dolly is here; and a dear good girl she is. Ah, Tony! if you knew all the comfort she has been to me in your absence, – coming here through sleet and snow and storm, and nursing me like a daughter.”

“I liked her better till I learned how she had treated that good-hearted fellow Sam M’Gruder. Do you know how she has behaved to him?”

“I know it all. I read her letters, every one of them.”

“And can you mean that you defend her conduct?’”

“I mean that if she were to marry a man she did not love, and were dishonest enough not to tell him so, I ‘d not attempt to defend her. There’s what I mean, Tony.”

“Why promise him, then, – why accept him?”

“She never did.”

“Ah!” exclaimed he, holding up both his hands.

“I know what I say, Tony. It was the doctor answered the letter in which Mr. M’Gruder proposed for Dolly. He said that he could not, would not, use any influence over his daughter; but that, from all he had learned of Mr. M’Gruder’s character, he would give his free consent to the match.”

“Well, then, Dolly said – ”

“Wait a bit, I am coming to Dolly. She wrote back that she was sorry he had not first written to herself, and she would frankly have declared that she did not wish to marry; but now, as he had addressed her father, – an old man in failing health, anxious above all things about what was to become of her when he was removed, – the case was a more difficult one, since to refuse his offer was to place herself in opposition to her father’s will, – a thing that in all her life had never happened. ‘You will see from this,’ said she, ‘that I could not bring to you that love and affection which would be your right, were I only to marry you to spare my father’s anxieties. You ought to have more than this in your wife, and I cannot give you more; therefore do not persist in this suit, or, at all events, do not press it.’”

“But I remember your writing me word that Dolly was only waiting till I left M’Gruder’s house, or quitted the neighborhood, to name the day she would be married. How do you explain that?”

“It was her father forced her to write that letter: his health was failing, and his irritability had increased to that degree that at times we were almost afraid of his reason, Tony; and I mind well the night Dolly came over to show me what she had written. She read it in that chair where you are sitting now, and when she finished she fell on her knees, and, hiding her face in my lap, she sobbed as if her poor heart was breaking.”

“So, in fact, she was always averse to this match?”