Читать книгу Tony Butler - Charles James Lever - Страница 5

“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 compassionate 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, mother; I can just see the smoke over the cliff. I 'm off,” said he, as she had dropped off asleep.

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

“Not for the world; I 'm late enough as it is. God 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 passion 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 noble boy he is, and what a brave good man he may be!”