Tony Butler Part 11

"Well, then, the cases are not similar, for Mr. Maitland does not care for me; or, if he does, I don't know it, nor do I want to know it."

"Come, darling, put on your shawl, and let us have a breezy walk on the cliffs before the day darkens; neither of these gentlemen are worth the slightest estrangement between such sisters as we are. Whether Tony likes me or not, don't steal him from me, and I 'll promise you to be just as loyal with regard to the other. How I 'd like to know what they are talking of there!"

As it is not impossible the reader may in some slight degree partic.i.p.ate in the fair widow's sentiment, we mean to take up the conversation just as it reached the time in which the remark was applied to it. Miss Becky Graham was giving her companion a sketchy description of all the persons then at the Abbey, not taking any especial care to be epigrammatic or picturesque, but to be literal and truthful.

"Mrs. Maxwell,--an old horror,--tolerated just because she owns Tilney Park, and can leave it to whom she likes; and the Lyles hope it will fall to Mark, or, possibly, to Bella. They stand to win on either."

"And which is the favorite?" asked Maitland, with a faint smile.

"You 'd like to think Isabella," said Miss Becky, with a sharp piercing glance to read his thoughts at an unguarded moment, if he had such, "but she is not. Old Aunt Maxwell--she 's as much your aunt as theirs--detests girls, and has, I actually believe, thoughts of marrying again. By the way, you said you wanted money; why not 'go in' there?

eight thousand a-year in land, real estate, and a fine old house with some great timber around it."

"I want to pay my old debts, not incur new ones, my dear Miss Graham."

"I 'm not your dear Miss Graham,--I 'm Beck, or Becky, or I 'm Miss Rebecca Graham, if you want to be respectful. But what do you say to the Maxwell handicap? I could do you a good turn there; she lets me say what I please to her."

"I'd rather you'd give me that privilege with yourself, charming Rebecca."

"Don't, I say; don't try that tiresome old dodge of mock flattery. I 'm not charming, any more than you are honest or straightforward. Let us be on the square--do you understand that? Of course you do? Whom shall I trot out next for you?--for the whole lot shall be disposed of without any reserve. Will you have Sir Arthur, with his tiresome Indian stories, enhanced to himself by all the lacs of rupees that are a.s.sociated with them? Will you have the gay widow, who married for pique, and inherited a great fortune by a blunder? Will you have Isabella, who is angling for a coronet, but would not refuse _you_ if you are rich enough? Will you have that very light dragoon, who thinks 'ours' the standard for manners in Europe?--or the two elder brothers, gray-headed, pale-faced, husky-voiced civil servants, working hard to make a fortune in advance of a liver complaint? Say the 'number' and the animal shall be led out for inspection."

"After all, it is scarcely fair in me to ask it, for I don't come as a buyer."

"Well, if you have a taste for that sort of thing--are we out of sight of the windows?--if so, let me have a cigarette like that you have there. I have n't smoked for five months. Oh! is n't it a pleasure?"

"Tell me about Mrs. Butler,--who is she?"

"She is Mrs. Butler; and her husband, when he was alive, was Colonel Butler, militarily known as Wat Tartar. He was a terrible pipeclay; and her son Tony is the factotum at the Abbey; or rather he was, till Mark told him to shave, a poodle, or singe a pony, or paint a wheelbarrow--I forget; but I know it was something he had done once out of good-humor, and the hussar creature fancied he'd make him do it again through an indignity."

"And he--I mean Butler--stands upon being a gentleman?"

"I should think he does; is not his birth good?"

"Certainly; the Butlers are of an old stock."

"They talk of an uncle, Sir Ramrod,--it is n't Ramrod, but it's like it,--a tiresome old fellow, who was envoy at Naples, and who married, I believe, a ballet-dancer, and who might leave Tony all his fortune, if he liked,--which he doesn't."

"Having no family of his own?" asked Maitland, as he puffed his cigar.

"None; but that doesn't matter, for he has turned Jesuit, and will leave everything to the sacred something or other in Rome. I 've heard all that from old Widow Butler, who has a perfect pa.s.sion for talking of her amiable brother-in-law, as she calls him. She hates him,--always did hate him,--and taught Tony to hate him; and with all that it was only yesterday she said to me that perhaps she was not fully justified in sending back unopened two letters he had written to her,--one after the loss of some Canadian bonds of hers, which got rumored abroad in the newspapers; the other was on Tony's coming of age; and she said, 'Becky, I begin to suspect that I had no right to carry my own unforgiveness to the extent of an injury to my boy,--tell me what you would do.'"

"And what was your answer?"

"I'd have made it up with the old swell. I'd say, 'Is not this boy more to you than all those long-petticoated tonsured humbugs, who can always cheat some one or other out of an Inheritance?' I 'd say, 'Look at him, and you'll fancy it's Walter telling you that he forgives you.'"

"If he be like most of his order, Miss Becky, he 'd only smile at your appeal," said Maitland, coldly.

"Well, I 'd not let it be laughing matter with him, I can tell you; stupid wills are broken every day of the week, and I don't think the Jesuits are in such favor in England that a jury would decide for them against an English youth of the kith and kin of the testator."

"You speak cleverly, Miss Graham, and you show that you know all the value that attaches to popular sympathy in the age we live in."

"And don't you agree with me?"

"Ah, there's a deal to be said on either side."

"Then, for Heaven's sake, don't say it. There--no--more to the left--there, where you see the blue smoke rising over the rocks--there stands the widow's cottage. I don't know how she endures the loneliness of it. Could _you_ face such a life?"

"A double solitude--what the French call an _egoisme a deux_--is not so insupportable. In fact, it all depends upon 'the partner with whom we share our isolation.'" He threw a tone of half tenderness into the words that made them very significant, and Rebecca gave him one of her quick sudden glances with which she often read a secret motive. This time, however, she failed. There was nothing in that sallow but handsome face that revealed a clew to anything.

"I 'll have to ask Mrs. Butler's leave before I present you," said she, suddenly.

"Of course, I 'll await her permission."

"The chances are she'll say no; indeed, it is all but certain she will."

"Then I must resign myself to patience and a cigar till you come out again," said he, calmly.

"Shall I say that there's any reason for your visit? Do you know any Butlers, or have you any relationship, real or pretended, with the family, that would make a pretext for coming to see her?"

Had Miss Graham only glanced as keenly at Maitland's features now as she had a few moments back, she might have seen a faint, a very faint, flush cross his cheek, and then give way to a deep paleness. "No," said he, coldly, "I cannot pretend the shadow of a claim to her acquaintance, and I can scarcely presume to ask you to present me as a friend of your own, except in the common acceptation given to the word."

"Oh, I'll do that readily enough. Bless your heart, if there was anything to be gained by it, I 'd call you my cousin, and address you as Norman all the time of the visit."

"If you but knew how the familiarity would flatter me, particularly were I to return it!"

"And call _me_ Becky,--I hope! Well, you _are_ a cool hand!"

"My friends are in the habit of amusing themselves with my diffidence and my timidity."

"They must be very ill off for a pastime, then. I used to think Mark Lyle bad enough, but his is a blushing bash-fulness compared to yours."

"You only see me in my struggle to overcome a natural defect. Miss Graham,--just as a coward a.s.sumes the bully to conceal his poltroonery; you regard in me the mock audacity that strives to shroud a most painful modesty."

She looked full at him for an instant, and then burst into a loud and joyful fit of laughter, in which he joined without the faintest show of displeasure. "Well, I believe you are good-tempered," said she, frankly.

"The best in the world; I am very seldom angry; I never bear malice."

"Have you any other good qualities?" asked she, with a slight mockery in her voice.

"Yes,--many; I am trustful to the verge of credulity; I am generous to the limits of extravagance; I am unswerving in my friendships, and without the taint of a selfishness in all my nature."

"How nice that is, or how nice it must be!"

"I could grow eloquent over my gifts, if it were not that my bashfulness might embarra.s.s me."

"Have you any faults?"

"I don't think so; at least I can't recall any."

"Nor failings?"