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Tony Butler. Lever Charles James
Читать онлайн.Название Tony Butler
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Автор произведения Lever Charles James
Жанр Зарубежная классика
Издательство Public Domain
“No, of course not, darling. I ‘m not so selfish as that; and if you find that London amuses you and is not too expensive, – for you know, Tony, what a slender purse we have, – stay a week, – two weeks, Tony, if you like it.”
“What a good little woman it is!” said he, pressing her towards him; and the big tears trembled in his eyes and rolled heavily along his cheeks. “Now for the ugly part, – the money, I mean.”
“I have eleven pounds in the house, Tony, if that will do to take with you.”
“Do, mother! Of course it will. I don’t mean to spend near so much; but how can you spare such a sum? that’s the question.”
“I just had it by, Tony, for a rainy day, as they call it; or I meant to have made you a smart present on the fourth of next month, for your birthday. – I forget, indeed, what I intended it for,” said she, wiping her eyes, “for this sudden notion of yours has driven everything clean out of my head; and all I can think of is if there be buttons on your shirts, and how many pairs of socks you have.”
“I’m sure everything is right; it always is. And now go to bed like a dear little woman, and I ‘ll come in and say good-bye before I start in the morning.”
“No, no, Tony; I ‘ll be up and make you a cup of tea.”
“That you shall not. What a fuss to make of a trip to London; as if I was going to Auckland or the Fijee Islands? By the way, mother, would n’t you come out to me if the great man gave me something very fine and lucrative? – for I can’t persuade myself that he won’t make me a governor somewhere.”
She could not trust herself to speak, and merely clutched his hand in both her own and held it fast.
“There’s another thing,” said he, after a short struggle with himself; “there may possibly be notes or messages of one sort or another from Lyle Abbey; and just hint that I ‘ve been obliged to leave home for a day or two. You need n’t say for where nor how long; but that I was called away suddenly, – too hurriedly to go up and pay my respects, and the rest of it I ‘m not quite sure you ‘ll be troubled in this way; but if you should, say what I have told you.”
“The doctor will be sorry not to have said good-bye, Tony.”
“I may be back again before he need hear of my having gone. And now, good-night, dear mother; I ‘ll come and see you before I start.”
When Tony Butler found himself alone in his room, he opened his writing-desk and prepared to write, – a task, for him, of no common magnitude and of the very rarest occurrence. What it exacted in the way of strain and effort may be imagined from the swelling of the veins in his forehead, and the crimson patches that formed on his cheeks. “What would I give now,” muttered he, “for just ten minutes of ready tact, to express myself suitably, – to keep down my own temper, and at the same time make his boil over! If I have ten years of life before me, I ‘d give five of them to be able to do this; but I cannot, – I cannot! To say all that I want, and not be a braggart or something worse, requires mind and judgment and tact, and twenty other gifts that I have not got; and I have only to picture him going about with my letter in his hand, showing it to every one, with a sheer at my mode of expression, – possibly of my spelling! Here goes; my very writing shames me: —
“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!”
CHAPTER II. A COUNTRY-HOUSE IN IRELAND
The country-house life of Ireland had – and I would say has, if I were not unhappily drawing on my memory – this advantage over that of England, that it was passed in that season when the country offered all that it had of beauty and attraction; when the grove was leafy, and the blossomy fruit-trees vied in gorgeous color with the flowery beds beneath them; when the blackbird’s mellow song rang through the thicket, and the heavy plash of the trout rose above the ripple of the river; when the deep grass waved like a sea under a summer wind, and the cattle, grouped picturesquely, tempered the noonday heat beneath the spreading elms, or stood contemplatively in the stream, happy in their luxurious indolence.
What a wealth of enjoyment does such a season offer! How imperceptibly does the lovely aspect of nature blend itself day by day with every incident of our lives, stealing its peaceful influence over