Loe raamatut: «Tony Butler», lehekülg 21

“He is très grand seigneur!” said the Italian, with a voice of intense admiration and respect.

“Yes,” said Maitland; “in every case where mere money enters, he is princely. I never met a man who thought less of his gold. The strange thing is, that it is his ambition which exhibits him so small!”

“Adagio, adagio, caro mio!” cried Caffarelli, laughing. “I see where you are bound for now. You are going to tell me, as you have some score of times, that to all English estimation our foreign titles are sheer nonsense; that our pauper counts and beggarly dukes are laughing matter for even your Manchester folk; and that in your police code baron and blackleg are synonyms. Now spare me all this, caro Maitland, for I know it by heart.”

“If one must say such impertinences, it is well to say them to a cardinal’s nephew.”

The slight flush of temper in the Italian’s cheek gave way at once, and he asked good-humoredly, as he said, “Better say them to me, certainly, than to my uncle. But, to be practical, if he does attach so much importance to rank and title, why do you not take that countship of Amalfi the King offered you six months ago, and which, to this day, he is in doubt whether you have accepted or refused?”

“How do you know that?” asked Maitland, eagerly.

“I know it in this wise; that when his Majesty mentioned your name t’ other day to Filangieri, he said, ‘The Chevalier Maitland or Count of Amalfi, – I don’t know by which name he likes to call himself.’”

“Are you sure of this?”

“I heard it; I was present when he said it.”

“If I did not accept when it was offered, the reason was this: I thought that the first time I wrote myself Count of Amalfi, old Santarelli would summon me before him to show birth and parentage, and fifty other particulars which I could have no wish to see inquired after; and as the title of Amalfi was one once borne by a cadet of the royal family, he ‘d have been all the more exacting in his perquisitions before inscribing my name in that precious volume he calls the ‘Libro d’Oro.’ If, however, you tell me that the King considers that I have accepted the rank, it gives the matter another aspect.”

“I suspect poor old Santarelli has very little heart for heraldry just now. He has got a notion that the first man the Revolutionists will hang will be himself, representing, as he does, all the privileges of feudalism.”

“There is one way to do it if it could be managed,” said Maitland, pondering. “Three lines in the King’s hand, addressing me ‘The Chevalier Maitland, Count of Amalfi!’ With these I ‘d defy all the heralds that ever carried a painted coat in a procession.”

“If that be all, I ‘ll promise you it. I am writing to Filangieri to-morrow. Let me have some details of what men you have recruited and what services you have rendered, briefly, not formally; and I’ll say, ‘If our master would vouchsafe in his own hand a line, a word even, to the Count of Amalfi, it would be a recompense he would not exchange for millions.’ I ‘ll say ‘that the letter could be sent to Ludolf at Turin, where we shall probably be in a week or two. ‘”

“And do you think the King will accede?”

“Of course he will. We are not asking for a pension, or leave to shoot at Caserta. The thing is the same as done. Kings like a cheap road out of their indebtedness as well as humbler people. If not, they would never have invented crosses and grand cordons.”

“Now, let us concoct the thing regularly,” said Maitland, pushing the decanters from before him, as though, by a gesture, to show that he had turned from all conviviality to serious considerations. “You,” continued he, “will, first of all, write to Filangieri.”

“Yes. I will say, half incidentally, as it were, Maitland is here with me, as eager as the warmest of us in the cause. He has been eminently successful in his recruitment, of which he will soon send you details – ”

“Ay, but how? That fellow M’Caskey, who has all the papers, did not meet me as I ordered him, and I cannot tell where he is.”

“I am to blame for this, Maitland, for I ordered him to come over here, as the most certain of all ways of seeing you.”

“And he is here now?”

“Yes. Arrived last night In the hope of your arrival, I gave him a rendezvous here – any hour from ten to one or two to-night – and we shall soon see him.”

“I must confess, I don’t care how brief the interview be: the man is not at all to my liking.”

“You are not likely to be much bored by him here, at least.”

“How do you mean?”

“The police are certain to hear of his arrival, and to give him a friendly hint to arrange his private affairs with all convenient despatch and move off.”

“With what party or section do they connect him?”

“With how many? you might perhaps ask; for I take it he has held office with every shade of opinion, and intrigued for any cause from Henry V. to the reddest republicanism. The authorities, however, always deal with a certain courtesy to a man of this sort. They intimate, simply, We are aware you are here, – we know pretty well for what; and so don’t push us to any disagreeable measures, but cross over into Belgium or Switzerland. M’Caskey himself told me he was recognized as he drew up at the hotel, and, in consequence, thinks he shall have to go on in a day or two.”

“Is not the fellow’s vanity in some measure a reason for this? Does he not rather plume himself on being l’homme dangereux to all Europe?”

“In conversation he would certainly give this idea, but not in fact. He is marvellously adroit in all his dealings with the authorities, and in nothing is he more subtle than in the advantage he takes of his own immense conceit. He invariably makes it appear that vanity is his weak point; or, as he phrases it himself, ‘I always show my adversary so much of my hand as will mislead him.’”

“And is he really as deep as all this would imply?”

“Very deep for an Englishman; fully able to cope with the cunningest of his own people, but a child amongst ours, Maitland.”

Maitland laughed scornfully as he said, “For the real work of life all your craft avails little. No man ever cut his way through a wood with a penknife, were it ever so sharp.”

“The Count M’Caskey, Eccellenza, desires to know if you receive?” said Caffarelli’s servant, in a low tone.

“Yes, certainly; but do not admit any one else.”

Very significant – but very differently significant – were the looks that passed between Maitland and Caffarelli in the brief interval before M’Caskey entered. At last the door was flung wide, and the distinguished Major appeared in full evening dress, one side of his coat a blaze of stars and crosses, while in front of his cravat he wore the ribbon and collar of some very showy order. Nothing could be easier than his entrée; nothing less embarrassed than his salutation to each in turn, as, throwing his white gloves into his hat, he drew over to the table, and began to search for an unused wine-glass.

“Here is a glass,” said Caffarelli. “What will you drink? This is Bordeaux, and this is some sort of Hock; this is Moselle.”

“Hand me the sherry; I am chilly. I have been chilly all day, and went out to dine against my will.”

“Where did you dine?”

“With Plon-Plon,” said he, languidly.

“With the Prince Napoleon?” asked Maitland, incredulously.

“Yes; he insisted on it I wrote to him to say that La Verrier, the sous-prefect, had invited me to make as short a delay at Paris as was consistent with my perfect convenience, – the police euphuism for twenty-four hours; and I said, ‘Pray excuse me at dinner, for I shall want to see Caffarelli.’ But he would n’t take any apology, and I went, and we really were very pleasant.”

“Who was there?” asked Caffarelli.

“Only seven altogether: Bagration and his pretty niece; an Aldobrandini Countess, – bygone, but still handsome; Joseph Poniatowsky; Botrain of ‘La Patrie;’ and your humble servant. Fould, I think, was expected, but did not come. Fearfully hot, this sherry, – don’t you think so?”

Maitland looked superbly defiant, and turned his head away without ceremony. Caffarelli, however, came quickly to the rescue by pushing over a bottle of Burgundy, and Baying, “And it was a pleasant party?”

“Yes, decidedly pleasant,” said M’Caskey, with the air of one pronouncing a judicial opinion. “The women were nice, very well dressed, – the little Russian, especially; and then we talked away as people only do talk in Paris, where there is none of that rotten cant of London, and no subject discussed but the little trivialities of daily life.”

Caffarelli’s eyes sparkled with mischievous delight as he watched the expansive vanity in M’Caskey’s face, and the disgust that darkened in Maitland’s. “We had a little of everything,” said M’Caskey, with his head thrown back and two fingers of one hand jauntily stuck in his waistcoat pocket. “We had politics, – Plon-Plon’s own peculiar politics, – Europe a democracy, and himself the head of it. We discussed dinners and dinner-givers, – a race fast dying out We talked a little finance, and, lastly, women.”

“Your own theme!” said Caffarelli, with a slight inclination of the head.

“Without vanity I might say it was. Poor old D’Orsay always said, ‘Scratch M’Caskey, and I’ll back myself for success against any man in Europe.’”

Maitland started as if a viper had bitten him; but by an effort he seemed to restrain himself, and, taking out his cigar-case, began a diligent search for a cigar.

“Ha, cheroots, I see?” cried M’Caskey; “cheroots are a weakness of mine. Pick me out a well-spotted one, will you?”

Maitland threw the case as it was across the table to him without a word.

M’Caskey selected some six or eight, and laid them beside him. “You are low, depressed, this evening, Maitland,” said he; “what’s the matter with you?”

“No, sir, not depressed, – disgusted.”

“Ah, disgusted!” said M’Caskey, slowly; and his small eyes twinkled like two balls of fire. “Would it be indiscreet to ask the cause?”

“It would be very indiscreet, Count M’Caskey,” interposed Caffarelli, “to forget that you are here purely on a grave matter of business, – far too grave to be compromised by any forgetfulness on the score of temper.”

“Yes, sir,” broke in Maitland; “there can always be found a fitting time and place to arrange any small questions outstanding between you and me. We want now to learn something of what you have done in Ireland lately, for the King’s service.”

M’Caskey drew from his pocket a much-worn pocket-book, crammed to bursting with a variety of loose papers, cards, and photographs, which fell about as he opened it. Not heeding the disorder, he sought out a particular page, and read aloud: “Embarked this twenty-second of September, at Gravesend, on board the ‘Ocean Queen,’ bound for Messina with machinery, two hundred and eleven laborers – laborers engaged for two years – to work on the State railroads, twenty-eight do. do. on board of the ‘Star of Swansea,’ for Molo de Gaeta with coals, – making, with three hundred and eighty-two already despatched, within about thirty of the first battalion of the Cacciatori of St Patrick.”

“Well done! bravissimo!” cried Caffarelli, right glad to seize upon the opportunity to restore a pleasanter understanding.

“There’s not a man amongst them would not be taken in the Guards; and they who regard height of stature as the first element of the soldier – amongst whom I am not one – would pronounce them magnificent!”

“And are many more available of the same sort?” asked Caffarelli.

“Ten thousand, sir, if you like to pay for them.”

“Do these men understand that they are enlisted as soldiers, not engaged as navvies?” asked Maitland.

“As well as you do. Whatever our friend Caffarelli may think, I can tell him that my countrymen are no more deficient in acuteness than his own. These fellows know the cause just as well as they know the bounty.”

“I was not inquiring as to their sympathies,” said Mait-land, caustically; “I merely wanted to hear how they understood the contract.”

“They are hirelings, of course, as I am, and as you are,” said M’Caskey.

“By what presumption, sir, do you speak of me?” said Maitland, rising, his face dark with passion. “If the accidents of life range us in the same cause, is there any other tie or bond between us?”

“Once more I declare I will have none of this,” said Caffarelli, pushing Maitland down into his chair. “Count M’Caskey, the Central Committee have placed you under my orders. These orders are that you report yourself to General Filangieri at Naples as soon as you can arrive there; that you duly inform the Minister at War of what steps you have already taken in the recruitment, putting yourself at his disposition for further service. Do you want money?” added he in a lower tone, as he drew the Major aside.

“A man always wants money, sir,” said M’Caskey, sententiously.

“I am your banker: what shall it be?” said Caffarelli, drawing out his pocket-book.

“For the present,” said M’Caskey, carelessly, “a couple of thousand francs will suffice. I have a rather long bill against his Majesty, but it can wait.”

He pocketed the notes without deigning to look at them, and then, drawing closer to Caffarelli, said, in a whisper, “You ‘ll have to keep your friend yonder somewhat ‘better in hand,’ – you will, really. If not, I shall have to shoot him.”

“The Chevalier Maitland is your superior officer, sir,” said Caffarelli, haughtily. “Take care how you speak of him to any one, but more especially to me, who am his friend.”

“I am at his ‘friend’s’ orders, equally,” said the Major; “my case contains two pistols.”

Caffarelli turned away with a shrug of the shoulder, and a look that unmistakably bespoke disgust.

“Here goes, then, for the stirrup-cup!” said M’Caskey, filling a large goblet with Burgundy. “To our next meeting, gentlemen,” and he bowed as he lifted it to his lips. “Won’t you drink to my toast?” said he, stopping.

Caffarelli filled his glass, and touched it to his lips; but Maitland sat with his gaze bent upon the fire, and never looked up.

“Present my homage to the pretty widow when you see her, Maitland, and give her that;” and he flung down a photograph on the table. “It’s not a good one, but it will serve to remind her of me.”

Maitland seized the card and pitched it into the fire, pressing down the embers with his boot.

Caffarelli sprang forward, and laid his hands on M’Caskey’s shoulders.

“When and where?” said the Major, calmly.

“Now – here – if you like,” said Maitland, as calmly.

“At last,” said a deep voice; and a brigadier of the gendarmerie entered, followed by two of his men.

“M. le Comte,” said he, addressing the Major, “I have been in search of you since eleven o’clock. There ‘s a special train waiting to convey you to Macon; pray don’t lose any more time.”

“I shall be at Naples within a fortnight,” whispered Maitland.

“All right,” replied M’Caskey. “M. le Brigadier, à vos ordres. Good-bye, Count. By the way, I was forgetting my cheroots, which are really excellent;” and so saying, he carefully placed them in his cigar-case; and then, giving his great-coat to one of the gendarmes to assist him while he drew it on, he waved a little familiar adieu with his hand and departed.

“My dear Maitland, how could you so far forget yourself, and with such a man?” said Caffarelli, laying his hands on his shoulder.

“With any other man I could not have forgotten myself,” said he, sternly. “Let us think no more of him.”

CHAPTER XXXI. TWO FRIENDS

It was like a return to his former self – to his gay, happy, careless nature – for Tony Butler to find himself with his friend Skeflfy. As painters lay layers of the same color on, one over the other, to deepen the effect, so does youth double itself by companionship. As for Skeflfy, never did a schoolboy exult more in a holiday; and, like a schoolboy, his spirits boiled over in all manner of small excesses, practical jokes on his fellow-passengers, and all those glorious tomfooleries, to be able to do which with zest is worth all the enjoyment that ever cynicism yielded twice told.

“I was afraid you would n’t come. I did n’t see you when the coach drove into the inn-yard; and I was so disappointed,” said Tony, as he surveyed the mass of luggage which the guard seemed never to finish depositing before his friend.

“Two portmanteaus, sir,” said the guard, “three carpetbags, a dressing-case, a hat-box, a gun-case, bundle of sticks and umbrellas, and I think this parrot and cage are yours.”

“A parrot, Skeflfy!”

“For Mrs. Maxwell, you dog: she loves parrots, and I gave ten guineas for that beggar, because they assured me he could positively keep up a conversation; and the only thing he can say is, ‘Don’t you wish you may get it?’”

No sooner had the bird heard the words than he screamed them out with a wild and scornful cry that made them sound like a bitter mockery.

“There, – that’s at me,” whispered Skeflfy, – “at me and my chance of Tilney. I ‘m half inclined to wring his neck when I hear it.”

“Are you looking for any one, Harris?” asked Tony of a servant in livery who had just ridden into the yard.

“Yes, sir; I have a letter from my mistress for a gentleman that was to have come by the mail.”

“Here he is,” said Tony, as he glanced at the address. “This is Mr. Skefflngton Darner.”

While Skeffy broke the seal, Tony muttered in his ear, “Mind, old fellow, you are to come to us before you go to Tilney, no matter how pressing she may be.”

“Here’s a business,” said Skeffy; “as well as I can make out her old pothooks, it is that she can’t receive me. ‘My dear,’ – she first wrote ‘Nephew,’ but it’s smudged out, – ‘My dear Cousin Darner, I am much distressed to tell you that you must not come here. It is the scarlatina, which the doctors all think highly infectious, though we burn cinnamon and that other thing through all the rooms. My advice would be to go to Harrogate, or some nice place, to amuse yourself, and I enclose this piece of thin paper.’ Where is it, though?” said he, opening the letter and shaking it “Just think of the old woman forgetting to put up the enclosure!”

“Try the envelope!” cried Tony, eagerly; but, no, the envelope was also empty, and it was plain enough she had omitted it.

Skeffy read on: “‘I had a very pretty pony for you here; and I remember Lydia Darner told me how nice you looked riding, with the long curls down your back.’ Why, that was five-and-twenty years ago!” cried he, with a scream of laughter, – “just fancy, Tony!” and he ran his fingers through his hair. “How am I ever to keep up the illusion with this crop! ‘But,’” – he went on to read, – “‘but I suppose I shall not see that now. I shall be eighty-one next November. Mind that you drink my health on the 22nd, if I be alive. I could send you the pony if you thought it would not be too expensive to keep him in London. Tilney is looking beautiful, and the trees are budding as if it were spring. Drop me a line before you leave the neighborhood; and believe me, your affectionate godmother,

“‘Dinah Maxwell.’

“I think I had better say I’ll send an answer,” said Skeffy, as he crumpled up the letter; “and as to the enclosure – ”

A wild scream and some unintelligible utterance broke from the parrot at this instant.

“Yes, you beggar, ‘you wish I may get it’ By the way, the servant can take that fellow back with him; I am right glad to be rid of him.”

“It’s the old adage of the ill wind,” said Tony, laughing.

“How so? What do you mean?”

“I mean that your ill-luck is our good fortune; for as you can’t go to Tilney, you’ll have to stay the longer with us.”

Skeffy seized his hand and gave it a cordial shake, and the two young fellows looked fully and frankly at each other, as men do look before the game of life has caught too strong a hold upon their hearts, and taught them over-anxiety to rise winners from it.

“Now, then, for your chateau,” said Skeffy, as he leaped up on the car, already half hidden beneath his luggage.

“Our chateau is a thatched cabin,” said Tony, blushing in spite of all his attempts to seem at ease. “It is only a friend would have heart to face its humble fare.”

Not heeding, if he even heard the remark, Skeffy rattled on about everything, – past, present, and future; talked of their jolly dinner at Richmond, and of each of their companions on that gay day; asked the names of the various places they passed on the road, what were the usual fortunes of the proprietors, how they spent them; and, seldom waiting for the answer, started some new query, to be forgotten in its turn.

“It is a finer country to ride over,” said Tony, anxious to say something favorable for his locality, “than to look at. It is not pretty, perhaps, but there’s plenty of grass, and no end of stone walls to jump, and in the season there’s some capital trout-fishing too.”

“Don’t care a copper for either. I’d rather see a new pantomime than the best stag-hunt in Europe. I ‘d rather see Tom Salter do the double spring backwards than I ‘d see them take a whale.”

“I ‘m not of your mind, then,” said Tony. “I ‘d rather be out on the hillside of a dull, good-scenting day, – well mounted, of course, – and hear the dogs as they rushed yelping through the cover.”

“Yoics, yoics, yoics! I saw it all at Astley’s, and they took a gate in rare style. But, I say, what is that tower yonder, topping the trees?”

“That is Lyle Abbey, – Sir Arthur Lyle’s place.”

“Lyle, – Lyle. There was such a picture in the Exhibition last year of two sisters, Maud, or Alice, or Bella Lyle, and another, by Watts. I used to go every morning, before I went down to the office, to have a look at them, and I never was quite certain which I was in love with.”

“They are here! they are Sir Arthur’s daughters.”

“You don’t say so! And do you know them, Tony?”

“As well as if they were my sisters.”

“Ain’t I in luck!” cried Skeffy, in exultation. “I’d have gone to Tarnoff, – that’s the place Holmes was named consul at, – and wrote back word that it did n’t exist, and that the geography fellows were only hoaxing the office! just fancy, hoaxing the office! Hulloa! – what have we here? A four-horse team, by all that’s stunning.”

“Mrs. Trafford’s. Draw up at the side of the road till they pass, Peter,” said Tony, hurriedly. The servant on the box of the carriage had, however, apparently announced Tony Butler’s presence, for the postilions slackened their pace, and came to a dead halt a few paces in front of the car.

“My mistress, sir, would be glad to speak to you,” said the servant, approaching Tony.

“Is she alone, Coles?” asked he, as he descended from the car.

“Yes, sir.”

Somewhat reassured by this, but at the same time not a little agitated, Tony drew nigh the carriage. Mrs. Trafford was wrapped up in a large fur mantle, – the day was a cold one, – and lay back without making any movement to salute, except a slight bend of the head as he approached.

“I have to apologize for stopping you,” said she, coldly; “but I had a message to give you from Mr. Maitland, who left this a couple of days ago.”

“Is he gone, – gone for good?” asked Tony, not really knowing what he said.

“I don’t exactly know what ‘for good’ means,” said she, smiling faintly; “but I believe he has not any intention to return here. His message was to say that, being much pressed for time, he had not an opportunity to reply to your note.”

“I don’t think it required an answer,” broke in Tony, sternly.

“Perhaps not as regarded you, but possibly it did as respected himself.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“What I mean is, that, as you had declined his offer, you might possibly, from inadvertence or any other cause, allude to it; whereas he expressly wished that the subject should never be mentioned.”

“You were apparently very much in his confidence?” said Tony, fixing his eyes steadily on her.

“When I learn by what right you ask me that question, I ‘ll answer it,” said she, just as defiantly.

Tony’s face became crimson, and he could not utter a word. At last he stammered out, “I have a friend here, – Mr. Darner: he is just come over to pay a visit at Tilney, and Mrs. Maxwell sends him a note to say that they are all ill there.”

“Only Bella, and she is better.”

“And was Bella ill?” asked Tony, eagerly.

“Yes, since Tuesday or Wednesday, and even up to Friday, very ill. There was a time this could scarcely have happened without your coming to ask after her.”

“Is it my fault, Alice? First of all, I never knew it. You know well I go nowhere. I do not mix with those who frequent grand houses. But tell me of Bella.”

“She was never alarmingly ill; but the doctor called it scarlatina, and frightened every one away; and poor Mrs. Maxwell has not yet recovered the shock of seeing her guests depart and her house deserted, for Bella and myself are all that remain.”

“May I present my friend to you? – he would take it as such a favor,” asked Tony, timidly.

“I think not,” said she, with an air of indolence.

“Do let me; he saw your picture – that picture of you and Bella at the Exhibition – and he is wild to see yourself. Don’t refuse me, Alice.”

“If you think this a favor, I wonder you have courage to ask it. Come, you need not look cross, Master Tony, particularly as all the fault is on your own side. Come over to Tilney the day after to-morrow with your friend.”

“But I don’t know Mrs. Maxwell.”

“That does not signify in the least; do what I bid you. I am as much mistress there as she is while I stay. Come early. I shall be quite alone, for Mark goes to-morrow to town, and Bella will scarcely be well enough to see you.”

“And you’ll not let me introduce him now?”

“No; I shall look more like my picture in a house dress; and perhaps – though I ‘ll not promise – be in a better temper too. Good-bye.”

“Won’t you shake hands with me, Alice?”

“No; it’s too cold to take my hand out of my muff. Remember, now, Saturday morning, without fail.”

“Alice!” said he, with a look at once devoted and reproachful.

“Tony!” said she, imitating his tone of voice to perfection, “there’s your friend getting impatient. Good-bye.”

As the spanking team whirled past, Skeffy had but a second or two to catch a glance at the veiled and muffled figure that reclined so voluptuously in the corner of the carriage; but he was ready to declare that she had the most beautiful eyes in the world, and “knew what to do with them besides.” “You ‘re in love with her, Tony,” cried he, fixing a steadfast stare on the pale and agitated features at his side. “I see it, old fellow! I know every shade and tint of that blessed thing they miscall the tender passion. Make me no confessions; I don’t want them. Your heart is at her feet, and she treats it like a football.”

Tony’s cheeks grew purple.

“There’s no shame in that, my boy. Women do that with better men than either of us; ay, and will continue to do it centuries after you and I shall be canonized as saints. It’s that same contempt of us that makes them worth the winning; but, I say, why is the fellow drawing up here? – Is he going to bait his beast?”

“No,” muttered Tony, with a certain confusion; “but we must get down and walk here. Our road lies by that path yonder: there ‘s no carriage-way up to our ‘chateau;’” and he gave a peculiar accent to the last word.

“All right,” said Skeffy, gayly. “I ‘m good for ten miles of a walk.”

“I ‘ll not test your powers so far; less than a quarter of an hour will bring us home. Take down the luggage, and I ‘ll send up for it,” said he to the driver.

“What honest poor devils you must be down here!” said Skeffy, as he saw the carman deposit the trunks on the road and drive off. “I ‘d not like to try this experiment in Charing Cross.”

“You see there is some good in poverty, after all,” said Tony, laughing.

“Egad, I’ve tried it for some years without discovering it,” said Skeffy, gravely. “That,” continued he, after a brief pause, “it should make men careless, thoughtless, reckless if you like, I can conceive; but why it should make them honest, is clean beyond me. What an appetite this sharp air is giving me, Master Tony! I’ll astonish that sirloin or that saddle of yours, whichever it be.”

“More likely neither, Skeffy. You ‘re lucky if it be a rasher and eggs.”

“Oh, that it may be,” cried the other, “and draught beer! Have you got draught beer?”

“I don’t think we have any other. There’s our crib, – that little cabin under the rocks yonder.”

“How pretty it is, – the snuggest spot I ever saw!”

“You’re a good fellow to say so,” cried Tony; and his eyes swam in tears as he turned away.

What a change has come over Tony Butler within the last twenty-four hours! All his fears and terrors as to what Skeffy would think of their humble cottage and simple mode of life have given way, and there he goes about from place to place, showing to his friend how comfortable everything is, and how snug. “There are grander dining-rooms, no doubt, but did you ever see a warmer or a ‘cosier’? And as to the drawing-room, – match the view from the window in all Europe; between that great bluff of Fairhead and the huge precipice yonder of the Causeway there is a sweep of coast unrivalled anywhere. Those great rocks are the Skerries; and there, where you see that one stone-pine tree, – there, under that cliff, is the cove where I keep my boat; not much of a boat,” added he, in a weaker voice, “because I used always to have the cutter, – Sir Arthur’s yacht Round that point there is such a spot to bathe in; twenty feet water at the very edge, and a white gravel bottom, without a weed. Passing up that little pathway, you gain the ledge yonder; and there – do you mark the two stones, like gate-piers? – there you enter Sir Arthur Lyle’s demesne. You can’t see the shrubberies, for the ground dips, and the trees will only grow in the valleys here!” And there was a despondent tenderness in the last words that seemed to say, “If it were not for that, this would be paradise!”

Nor was it mere politeness, and the spirit of good breeding, that made Skeffy a genial listener to these praises. What between the sense of a holiday, the delight of what cockneys call an “outing,” the fine fresh breezy air of the place, the breadth and space, – great elements of expansiveness, – Skeffy felt a degree of enjoyment that amounted to ecstasy.