Читать книгу Tony Butler - Charles James Lever - Страница 11

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Tony's first care, when he got back to his hotel, was to write to his mother. He knew how great her impatience would be to hear of him, and it was a sort of comfort to himself, in his loneliness, to sit down and pour out his hopes and his anxieties before one who loved him. He told her of his meeting with the Minister, and, by way of encouragement, mentioned what Damer had pronounced upon that event. Nor did he forget to say how grateful he felt to Damer, who, “after all, with his fine-gentleman airs and graces, might readily have turned a cold shoulder to a rough-looking fellow like me.”

Poor Tony! in his friendlessness he was very grateful for very little. Nor is there anything which is more characteristic of destitution than this sentiment. It is as with the schoolboy, who deems himself rich with a half-crown!

Tony would have liked much to make some inquiry about the family at the Abbey; whether any one had come to ask after or look for him; whether Mrs. Trafford had sent down any books for his mother's reading, or any fresh flowers—the only present which the widow could be persuaded to accept; but he was afraid to touch on a theme that had so many painful memories to himself. Ah, what happy days he had passed there! What a bright dream it all appeared now to look back on! The long rides along the shore, with Alice for his companion, more free to talk with him, less reserved than Isabella; and who could, on the pretext of her own experiences of life—she was a widow of two-and-twenty—caution him against so many pitfalls, and guard him against so many deceits of the world. It was in this same quality of widow, too, that she could go out to sail with him alone, making long excursions along the coast, diving into bays, and landing on strange islands, giving them curious names as they went, and fancying that they were new voyagers on unknown seas.

Were such days ever to come back again? No, he knew they could not They never do come back, even to the luckiest of us; and how far less would be our enjoyment of them if we but knew that each fleeting moment could never be re-acted! “I wonder, is Alice lonely? Does she miss me? Isabella will not care so much. She has books and her drawing, and she is so self-dependent; but Alice, whose cry was, 'Where 's Tony?' till it became a jest against her in the house. Oh, if she but knew how I envy the dog that lies at her feet, and that can look up into her soft blue eyes, and wonder what she is thinking of! Well, Alice, it has come at last. Here is the day you so long predicted. I have set out to seek my fortune; but where is the high heart and the bold spirit you promised me? I have no doubt,” cried he, as he paced his room impatiently, “there are plenty who would say, it is the life of luxurious indolence and splendor that I am sorrowing after; that it is to be a fancied great man—to have horses to ride, and servants to wait on me, and my every wish gratified—it is all this I am regretting. But I know better! I 'd be as poor as ever I was, and consent never to be better, if she 'd just let me see her, and be with her, and love her, to my own heart, without ever telling her. And now the day has come that makes all these bygones!”

It was with a choking feeling in his throat, almost hysterical, that he went downstairs and into the street to try and walk off his gloomy humor. The great city was now before him—a very wide and a very noisy world—with abundance to interest and attract him, had his mind been less intent on his own future fortunes; but he felt that every hour he was away from his poor mother was a pang, and every shilling he should spend would be a privation to her. Heaven only could tell by what thrift and care and time she had laid by the few pounds he had carried away to pay his journey! As his eye fell upon the tempting objects of the shop-windows, every moment displaying something he would like to have brought back to her—that nice warm shawl, that pretty clock for her mantelpiece, that little vase for her flowers; how he despised himself for his poverty, and how meanly the thought of a condition that made him a burden where he ought to have been a benefit! Nor was the thought the less bitter that it reminded him of the wide space that separated him from her he had dared to love! “It comes to this,” cried he bitterly to himself, “that I have no right to be here; no right to do anything, or think of anything that I have done. Of the thousands that pass me, there is not, perhaps, one the world has not more need of than of me! Is there even one of all this mighty million that would have a kind word for me, if they knew the heavy heart that was weighing me down?” At this minute he suddenly thought of Dolly Stewart, the doctor's daughter, whose address he had carefully taken down from his mother, at Mr. Alexander M'Grader's, 4 Inverness Terrace, Richmond.

It would be a real pleasure to see Dolly's good-humored face, and hear her merry voice, instead of those heavy looks and busy faces that addled and confused him; and so, as much to fill up his time as to spare his purse, he set out to walk to Richmond.

With whatever gloom and depression he began his journey, his spirits rose as he gained the outskirts of the town, and rose higher and higher as he felt the cheering breezes and the perfumed air that swept over the rich meadows at either side of him. It was, besides, such a luxuriant aspect of country as he had never before seen nor imagined—fields cultivated like gardens, trim hedgerows, ornamental trees, picturesque villas on every hand. How beautiful it all seemed, and how happy! Was not Dolly a lucky girl to have her lot thrown in such a paradise? How enjoyable she must find it all!—she whose good spirits knew always how “to take the most out of” whatever was pleasant How he pictured her delight in a scene of such loveliness!

“That's Inverness Terrace, yonder,” said a policeman of whom he inquired the way—“that range of small houses you see there;” and he pointed to a trim-looking row of cottage-houses on a sort of artificial embankment which elevated them above the surrounding buildings, and gave a view of the Thames as it wound through the rich meadows beneath. They were neat with that English neatness which at once pleases and shocks a foreign eye—the trim propriety that loves comfort, but has no heart for beauty. Thus, each was like his neighbor. The very jalousies were painted the same color; and every ranunculus in one garden had his brother in the next No. 4 was soon found, and Tony rang the bell and inquired for Miss Stewart.

“She's in the school-room with the young ladies,” said the woman servant; “but if you 'll step in and tell me your name, I 'll send her to you.”

“Just say that I have come from her own neighborhood; or, better, say Mr. Tony Butler would be glad to see her.” He had scarcely been a moment in the neat but formal-looking front parlor, when a very tall, thin, somewhat severe-looking lady—not old, nor yet young—entered, and without any salutation said, “You asked for Miss Stewart, sir—are you a relative of hers?”

“No, madam. My mother and Miss Stewart's father are neighbors and very old friends; and being by accident in London, I desired to see her, and bring back news of her to the doctor.”

“At her father's request, of course?”

“No, madam; I cannot say so, for I left home suddenly, and had no time to tell him of my journey.”

“Nor any letter from him?”

“None, madam.”

The thin lady pursed up her parched lips, and bent her keen cold eyes on the youth, who really felt his cheek grow hot under the scrutiny. He knew that his confession did not serve to confirm his position; and he heartily wished himself out of the house again.

“I think, then, sir,” said she, coldly, “it will serve every purpose if I inform you that Miss Stewart is well; and if I tell her that you were kind enough to call and ask after her.”

“I'm sure you are right, madam,” said he, hurriedly moving towards the door, for already he felt as if the ground was on fire beneath him—“quite right; and I 'll tell the doctor that though I did n't see Miss Dora, she was in good health, and very happy.”

“I did n't say anything about her happiness, that I remember, sir; but as I see her now passing the door, I may leave that matter to come from her own lips. Miss Stewart,” cried she, louder, “there is a gentleman here, who has come to inquire after you.” A very pale but nicely featured young girl, wearing a cap—her hair had been lately cut short in a fever—entered the room, and, with a sudden flush that made her positively handsome, held out her hand to young Butler, saying, “Oh, Tony, I never expected to see you here! how are all at home?”

Too much shocked at the change in her appearance to speak, Tony could only mumble out a few broken words about her father.

“Yes,” cried she, eagerly, “his last letter says that he rides old Dobbin about just as well as ever; 'perhaps it is,' says he, 'that having both of us grown old together, we bear our years with more tolerance to each other;' but won't you sit down, Tony? you 're not going away till I have talked a little with you.”

“Is the music lesson finished, Miss Stewart?” asked the thin lady, sternly.

“Yes, ma'am; we have done everything but sacred history.”

“Everything but the one important task, you might have said, Miss Stewart; but, perhaps, you are not now exactly in the temperament to resume teaching for to-day; and as this young gentleman's mission is apparently to report, not only on your health but your happiness, I shall leave you a quarter of an hour to give him his instructions.”

“I hate that woman,” muttered Tony, as the door closed after her.

“No, Tony, she's not unkind; but she doesn't exactly see the world the way you and I used long ago. What a great big man you have grown!”

“And what a fine tall girl, you! And I used to call you a stump!”

“Ay, there were few compliments wasted between us in those days; but weren't they happy?”

“Do you remember them all, Dolly?”

“Every one of them—the climbing the big cherry-tree the day the branch broke, and we both fell into the melon-bed; the hunting for eels under the stones in the river—was n't that rare sport? and going out to sea in that leaky little boat that I 'd not have courage to cross the Thames in now!—oh, Tony, tell me, you never were so jolly since?”

“I don't think I was; and what's worse, Dolly, I doubt if I ever shall be.”

The tone of deep despondency of these words went to her heart, and her lip trembled, as she said—

“Have you had any bad news of late? is there anything going wrong with you?”

“No, Dolly, nothing new, nothing strange, nothing beyond the fact that I have been staring at, though I did not see it three years back, that I am a great hulking idle dog, of no earthly use to himself or to anybody else. However, I have opened my eyes to it at last; and here I am, come to seek my fortune, as we used to say long ago, which, after all, seems a far nicer thing in a fairy book than when reduced to a fact.”

Dolly gave a little short cough, to cover a faint sigh which escaped her; for she, too, knew something about seeking her fortune, and that the search was not always a success.

“And what are you thinking of doing, Tony?” asked she, eagerly.

“Like all lazy good-for-nothings, I begin by begging; that is to say, I have been to a great man this morning who knew my father, to ask him to give me something—to make me something.”

“A soldier, I suppose?”

“No; mother won't listen to that She 's so indignant about the way they treated my poor father about that good-service pension—one of a race that has been pouring out their blood like water for three centuries back—that she says she 'd not let me accept a commission if it were offered to me, without it came coupled with a full apology for the wrong done my father; and as I am too old for the navy, and too ignorant for most other things, it will push all the great man's ingenuity very close to find out the corner to suit me.”

“They talk a deal about Australia, Tony; and, indeed, I sometimes think I 'd like to go there myself. I read in the 'Times' t' other day that a dairy-maid got as much as forty-six pounds a-year and her board; only fancy, forty-six pounds a-year! Do you know,” added she, in a cautious whisper, “I have only eighteen pounds here, and was in rare luck too, they say, to get it.”

“What if we were to set out together, Dolly?” said he, laughing; but a deep scarlet flush covered her face, and though she tried to laugh too, she had to turn her head away, for the tears were in her eyes.

“But how could you turn dairymaid, Dolly?” cried he, half reproachfully.

“Just as well, or rather better, than you turn shepherd or gold-digger. As to mere labor, it would be nothing; as to any loss of condition, I 'd not feel it, and therefore not suffer it.”

“Oh, I have no snobbery myself about working with my hands,” added he, hastily. “Heaven help me if I had, for my head would n't keep me; but a girl's bringing up is so different from a boy's; she oughtn't to do anything menial out of her own home.”

“We ought all of us just to do our best, Tony, and what leaves us less of a burden to others—that's my reading of it; and when we do that, we 'll have a quiet conscience, and that's something that many a rich man could n't buy with all his money.”

“I think it's the time for the children's dinner, Miss Stewart,” said the grim lady, entering. “I am sorry it should cut short an interview so interesting.”

A half-angry reply rose to Tony's lips, when a look from Dora stopped him, and he stammered out, “May I call and see you again before I go back?”

“When do you go back, young gentleman?” asked the thin lady.

“That's more than I can tell. This week if I can; next week if I must.”

“If you 'll write me a line, then, and say what day it would be your convenience to come down here, I will reply, and state whether it will be Miss Stewart's and mine to receive you.”

“Come, at all events,” said Dora, in a low voice, as they shook hands and parted.

“Poor Dolly!” muttered he, as he went his way towards town. “What between the pale cheeks and the cropped hair and the odious cap, I 'd never have known her!” He suddenly heard the sound of footsteps behind him, and, turning, he saw her running towards him at full speed.

“You had forgotten your cane, Tony,” said she, half breathless, “and I knew it was an old favorite of yours, and you 'd be sorry to think it was lost. Tell me one thing,” cried she, and her cheek flushed even a deeper hue than the exercise had given it; “could you—would you be a clerk—in a merchant's office, I mean?”

“Why do you ask me, Dolly?” said he; for her eager and anxious face directed all his solicitude from himself to her.

“If you only would and could, Tony,” continued she, “write. No; make papa write me a line to say so. There, I have no time for more; I have already done enough to secure me a rare lesson when I get back. Don't come here again.”

She was gone before he could answer her; and with a heavier heart and a very puzzled head, he resumed his road to London, “Don't come here again” ringing in his head as he went.