Tony Butler. Lever Charles James

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      “But you never charged me with any ungenerous use of my advantage; to make professions, for instance, because I found you alone.”

      “A little – a very little of that – there was; just as children stamp on thin ice and run away when they hear it crack beneath them.”

      “Did I go so far as that?”

      “Yes; and Sally says, if she was in my place, she ‘d send papa to you this morning.”

      “And I should be charmed to see him. There are no people whom I prefer to naval men. They have the fresh, vigorous, healthy tone of their own sea life in all they say.”

      “Yes; you’d have found him vigorous enough, I promise you.”

      “And why did you consult your sister at all?”

      “I did not consult her; she got all out of me by cross-questioning. She began by saying, ‘That man is a mystery to me; he has not come down here to look after the widow nor Isabella; he’s not thinking of politics nor the borough; there ‘s no one here that he wants or cares for. What can he be at?’”

      “Could n’t you have told her that he was one of those men who have lived so much in the world it is a luxury to them to live a little out of it? Just as it is a relief to sit in a darkened room after your eyes have been dazzled with too strong light. Could n’t you have said, He delights to talk and walk with me, because he sees that he may expand freely, and say what comes uppermost, without any fear of an unfair inference? That, for the same reason, – the pleasure of an unrestricted intercourse, – he wishes to know old Mrs. Butler, and talk with her, – over anything, in short? Just to keep mind and faculties moving, – as a light breeze stirs a lake and prevents stagnation?”

      “Well. I ‘m not going to perform Zephyr, even in such a high cause.”

      “Could n’t you have said, We had a pleasant walk and a mild cigarette together, —voilà tout?” said he, languidly.

      “I think it would be very easy to hate you, – hate you cordially, – Mr. Norman Maitland.”

      “So I’ve been told; and some have even tried it, but always unsuccessfully.”

      “Who is this wonderful foreigner they are making so much of at the Castle and the Viceregal Lodge?” cried Mark, from one of the window recesses, where he was reading a newspaper. “Maitland, you who know all these people, who is the Prince Caffarelli?”

      “Caffarelli! it must be the Count,” cried Maitland, hurrying over to see the paragraph. “The Prince is upwards of eighty; but his son, Count Caffarelli, is my dearest friend in the world. What could have brought him over to Ireland?”

      “Ah! there is the very question he himself is asking about the great Mr. Norman Maitland,” said Mrs. Trafford, smiling.

      “My reasons are easily stated. I had an admirable friend who could secure me a most hospitable reception. I came here to enjoy the courtesies of country home life in a perfection I scarcely believed they could attain to. The most unremitting attention to one’s comfort, combined with the wildest liberty.”

      “And such port wine,” interposed the Commodore, “as I am free to say no other cellar in the province can rival.”

      “Let us come back to your Prince or Count,” said Mark, “whichever he is. Why not ask him down here?”

      “Yes; we have room,” said Lady Lyle; “the M’Clintocks left this morning.”

      “By all means, invite him,” broke in Mrs. Trafford; “that is, if he be what we conjecture the dear friend of Mr. Maitland might and should be.”

      “I am afraid to speak of him,” said Maitland; “one disserves a friend by any over-praise; but at Naples, and in his own set, he is thought charming.”

      “I like Italians myself,” said Colonel Hoyle. “I had a fellow I picked up at Malta, – a certain Geronimo. I ‘m not sure he was not a Maltese; but such a salad as he could make! There was everything you could think of in it, – tomato, eggs, sardines, radishes, beetroot, cucumber.”

      “Every Italian is a bit of a cook,” said Maitland, relieving adroitly the company from the tiresome detail of the Colonel. “I ‘ll back my friend Caffarelli for a dish of macaroni against all professional artists.”

      While the Colonel and his wife got into a hot dispute whether there was or was not a slight flavor of parmesan in the salad, the others gathered around Maitland to hear more of his friend. Indeed, it was something new to hear of an Italian of class and condition. They only knew the nation as tenors or modellers or language masters. Their compound idea of Italian was a thing of dark skin and dark eyes; very careless in dress, very submissive in aspect, with a sort of subdued fire, however, in look, that seemed to say how much energy was only sleeping there! and when Maitland sketched the domestic ties of a rich magnate of the land, living a life of luxurious indolence, in a sort of childlike simplicity as to what engaged other men in other countries, without a thought for questions of politics, religion, or literature, living for mere life’s sake, he interested them much.

      “I shall be delighted to ask him here,” said he, at last; “only let me warn you against disappointment. He’ll not be witty like a Frenchman, nor profound like a German, nor energetic like an Englishman; he ‘ll neither want to gain knowledge nor impart it. He’ll only ask to be permitted to enjoy the pleasures of a very charming society without any demand being made upon him to contribute anything; to make him fancy, in short, that he knew you all years and years ago, and has just come back out of cloud-land to renew the intimacy. Will you have him after this?”

      “By all means,” was the reply. “Go and write your letter to him.”

      Maitland went to his room, and soon wrote the following: —

      CHAPTER X. A BLUNDER

      Sir Arthur Lyle was a county dignity, and somewhat fond of showing it. It is true he could not compete with the old blood of the land, or СКАЧАТЬ