A few moral reflections closed the epistle. They were neither very novel nor very acute, but they embodied the sense of disappointment experienced by one who little thought, in taking a teacher from the manse of a minister, she was incurring a peril as great as if she had sent over to France for the latest refinement in Parisian depravity. “Keep her at home with yourself, Dr. Stewart,” wrote she, “unless the time comes when the creature she called Tony may turn up as a respectable man, and be willing to take her.” And with a gracefully expressed hope that Dolly’s ill health might prove seasonable for self-examination and correction, she signed herself, “Your compassionate friend, Martha M’Gruder.”
“What do you say to that, Mrs. Butler? Did ever you read as much cruelty in pen and ink, I ask you? Did you ever believe that the mother of children could write to a father of his own daughter in such terms as these?”
“I don’t know what it means, doctor; it ‘s all confusion to me. Who is Tony? It’s not our Tony, surely?”
“I’m not so sure of that, Mrs. Butler. Tony was up in London and he called to see Dolly. You remember that he told in his letter to you how the puir lassie’s hair was cut short – ”
“I remember it all, Dr. Stewart; but what has all that to do with all this dreadful scene at night in the garden?” The doctor shook his head mournfully, and made no reply. “If you mean, Dr. Stewart, that it was my Tony that brought about all these disasters, I tell you I will not – I cannot believe it. It would be better to speak your mind out, sir, than to go on shaking your head. We’re not altogether so depraved that our disgrace is beyond words.”
“There ‘s nothing for anger here, my dear old friend,” said he, calmly, “though maybe there’s something for sorrow. When you have spoken to your son, and I to my daughter, we ‘ll see our way better through this thorny path. Good-bye.”
“You are not angry with me, doctor?” said she, holding out her hand, while her eyes were dimmed with tears, – “you are not angry with me?”
“That I am not,” said he, grasping her hand warmly in both his own. “We have no other treasures in this world, either of us, than this lad and this lassie, and it’s a small fault if we cling to them the more closely. I think I see Tony coming to meet you, so I’ll just turn home again.” And with another and more affectionate good-bye, they parted.
CHAPTER XXVIII. AT THE MANSE
In no small perturbation of mind was it that Mrs. Butler passed her threshold. That a word should be breathed against her Tony, was something more than she could endure; that he could have deserved it, was more than she could believe. Tony, of whom for years and years she had listened to nothing but flatteries, how clever and ready-witted he was, how bold and fearless, how kind-hearted, and how truthful, – ay, how truthful! and how is it then, asked she of herself, that he has told me nothing of all this mischance, and what share he has had in bringing misfortune upon poor Dolly?
“Is Master Tony at home, Jenny?” said she, as she entered.
“Yes; he’s reading a letter that has just come wi’ the post.”
The old lady stopped, with her hand on the handle of the door, to draw a full breath, and regain a calm look; but a merry laugh from Tony, as he sat reading his letter, did more to rally her, though her heart smote her to think how soon she might have to throw a shadow across his sunshine.
“Who’s your letter from, Tony?” said she, dryly.
“From Skeffy; he ‘ll be here to-morrow; he’s to arrive at Coleraine by six in the morning, and wants me to meet him there.”
“And what’s the other sealed note in your hand?”
“This? – this is from another man, – a fellow you’ve never heard of; at least, you don’t know him.”
“And what may be his name, Tony?” asked she, in a still colder tone.
“He’s a stranger to you, mother. Skeffy found the note at my hotel, and forwarded it, – that’s all.”
“You were n’t wont to have secrets from me, Tony,” said she, tremulously.
“Nor have I, mother; except it may be some trifling annoyance or worry that I don’t care to tease you about. If I had anything heavier on my mind, you may trust me, I ‘d very soon be out with it.”
“But I ‘m not to hear who this man is?” said she, with a strange pertinacity.
“Of course you are, if you want to hear; his name is there, on the corner of his note, – Robt M’Gruder, – and here’s the inside of it, though I don’t think you ‘ll be much the wiser when you ‘ve read it.”
“It’s for yourself to read your own letter, Tony,” said she, waving back the note. “I merely asked who was your correspondent.”
Tony broke the seal, and ran his eye hastily over the lines. “I ‘m as glad as if I got a hundred pounds!” cried he. “Listen to this, mother: —
“‘Dear Sir, – When I received your note on Monday – ’
“But wait a bit, mother; I must tell you the whole story, or you ‘ll not know why he wrote this to me. Do you remember my telling you, just at the back of a letter, that I was carried off to a dinner at Richmond?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“Well, I wish I hadn’t gone, that’s all. Not that it was n’t jolly, and the fellows very pleasant and full of fun, but somehow we all of us took too much wine, or we talked too much, or perhaps both; but we began laying wagers about every imaginable thing, and I made a bet, – I ‘ll be hanged if I could tell what it was; but it was something about Dolly Stewart. I believe it was that she was handsomer than another girl. I forgot all about her hair being cut off, and her changed looks. At all events, off we set in a body, to M’Gruder’s house. It was then about two in the morning, and we all singing, or what we thought was singing, most uproariously. Yes, you may shake your head. I ‘m ashamed of it now, too, but it was some strange wine – I think it was called Marcobrunner – that completely upset me; and the first thing that really sobered me was seeing that the other fellows ran away, leaving me all alone in the garden, while a short stout man rushed out of the house with a stick to thrash me. I tried to make him hear me, for I wanted to apologize; but he wouldn’t listen, and so I gave him a shake. I didn’t strike him; but I shook him off, roughly enough perhaps, for he fell, and then I sprang over the gate, and cut off as fast as I could. When I awoke next morning, I remembered it all, and heartily ashamed I was of myself; and I thought that perhaps I ought to go out in person and beg his pardon; but I had no time for that; I wanted to get away by that day’s packet, and so I wrote him a few civil lines. I don’t remember them exactly, but they were to say that I was very sorry for it all, and I hoped he ‘d see the thing as it was, – a stupid bit of boyish excess, of which I felt much ashamed; and here’s his answer: —
“‘Dear Sir, – When I received your note on Monday morning, I was having leeches to my eye, and could n’t answer it. Yesterday both eyes were closed, and it is only to-day that I can see to scratch these lines. If I had had a little more patience on the night I first met you, it would have been better for both of us. As it is, I receive all your explanation as frankly as it is given; and you ‘ll be lucky in life if nobody bears you more ill-will than – Yours truly,
‘Robt. M’Gruder.
“‘If you come up to town again, look in on me at 27 Cannon Street, City. I do not say here, as Mrs. M’G, has not yet forgiven the black eye.’”
“Oh, Tony! my own, dear, dear, true-hearted Tony!” cried his mother, as she flung her arms around him, and hugged him to her heart “I knew my own dear boy was as loyal as his own high-hearted father.”
Tony was exceedingly puzzled to what precise part of his late behavior be owned all this enthusiastic fondness, and was curious also to know if giving black eyes to Scotchmen had been a trait of his father’s.
“And this was all of it, Tony?” asked she, eagerly.
“Don’t you think it was quite enough? I’m certain Dolly did; for she knew my voice, and cried out, ‘Oh, Tony, how could you?’ or something like that from the window. And that’s a thing, mother, has been weighing heavily on my mind ever since. Has this unlucky freak of mine anything to do with Dolly’s coming home?”
“We ‘ll find that out later on, Tony; leave that to me,” said she, hurriedly; for with all her honesty, she could not bear to throw a cloud over his present happiness, or dash with sorrow the delight he felt at his friend’s coming.
“I don’t suspect,” continued he, thoughtfully, “that I made a very successful impression on that Mrs. M’Grader the day I called on Dolly; and if she only connected me with this night’s exploit, of course it’s all up with me.”
“Her husband bears you no grudge for it at all, Tony.”
“That’s clear enough; he’s a fine fellow; but if it should turn out, mother, that poor Dolly lost her situation, – it was no great thing, to be sure; but she told me herself, it was hard enough to get as good; and if, I say, it was through me she lost it – ”
“You mustn’t give yourself the habit of coining evil, Tony. There are always enough of hard and solid troubles in life without our conjuring up shadows and spectres to frighten us. As I said before, I ‘ll have a talk with Dolly herself, and I ‘ll find out everything.”
“Do so, mother; and try and make her come often over here when I’m gone; she’ll be very lonely yonder, and you ‘ll be such good company for each other, won’t you?”
“I ‘ll do my best, for I love her dearly! She has so many ways, too, that suit an old body like myself. She’s so quiet and so gentle, and she ‘ll sit over her work at the window there, and lay it down on her knee to look out over the sea, never saying a word, but smiling a little quiet smile when our eyes meet, as though to say, ‘This is very peaceful and happy, and we have no need to tell each other about it, for we can feel it just as deeply.’”
Oh, if she ‘d only let Alice come to see her and sit with her, thought Tony; how she would love her! Alice could be all this, and would, too; and then, what a charm she can throw around her with that winning smile! Was there ever sunshine like it? And her voice – no music ever thrilled through me as that voice did. “I say, mother,” cried he, aloud, “don’t say No; don’t refuse her if she begs to come over now and then with a book or a few flowers; don’t deny her merely because she’s very rich and much courted and flattered. I pledge you my word the flattery has not spoiled her.”
“Poor Dolly! it’s the first time I ever heard that you were either rich or inn after! What ‘s the boy dreaming of, with his eyes staring in his head?”
“I ‘m thinking that I ‘ll go into Coleraine to-night, so as to be there when the mail arrives at six in the morning,” said Tony, recovering himself, though in considerable confusion. “Skeffy’s room is all ready, isn’t it?”
“To be sure it is; and very nice and comfortable it looks too;” and as she spoke, she arose and went into the little room, on which she and Jenny had expended any amount of care and trouble. “But, Tony dear,” she cried out, “what’s become of Alice Lyle’s picture? I put it over the fireplace myself, this morning.”
“And I took it down again, mother. Skeffy never knew Alice, – never saw her.”
“It was n’t for that I put it there; it was because she was a handsome lassie, and it’s always a pleasant sight to look upon. Just bring it back again; the room looks nothing without it.”
“No, no; leave it in your own room, in which it has always been,” said he, almost sternly. “And now about dinner to-morrow; I suppose we’d better make no change, but just have it at three, as we always do.”
“Your grand friend will think it’s luncheon, Tony.”
“He ‘ll learn his mistake when it comes to tea-time; but I ‘ll go and see if there ‘s not a salmon to be had at Carrig-a-Rede before I start; and if I ‘m lucky, I ‘ll bring you a brace of snipe back with me.”
“Do so, Tony; and if Mr. Gregg was to offer you a little seakale, or even some nice fresh celery – Eh, dear, he ‘s off, and no minding me! He ‘s a fine true-hearted lad,” muttered she, as she reseated herself at her work; “but I wonder what’s become of all his high spirits, and the merry ways that he used to have.”
Tony was not successful in his pursuit of provender. There was a heavy sea on the shore, and the nets had been taken up; and during his whole walk he never saw a bird He ate a hurried dinner when he came back, and, taking one more look at Skeffy’s room to see whether it looked as comfortable as he wished it, he set out for Coleraine.
Now, though his mind was very full of his coming guest, in part pleasurably, and in part with a painful consciousness of his inability to receive him handsomely, his thoughts would wander off at every moment to Dolly Stewart, and to her return home, which he felt convinced was still more or less connected with his own freak. The evening service was going on in the meeting-house as he passed, and he could hear the swell of the voices in the last hymn that preceded the final prayer, and he suddenly bethought him that he would take a turn by the Burnside and have a few minutes’ talk with Dolly before her father got back from meeting.
“She is such a true-hearted, honest girl,” said he to himself, “she ‘ll not be able to hide the fact from me; and I will ask her flatly, Is this so? was it not on my account you left the place?”
All was still and quiet at the minister’s cottage, and Tony raised the latch and walked through the little passage into the parlor unseen. The parlor, too, was empty. A large old Bible lay open on the table, and beside it a handkerchief – a white one – that he knew to be Dolly’s. As he looked at it, he bethought him of one Alice had given him once as a keepsake; he had it still. How different that fragment of gossamer with the frill of rich lace from this homely kerchief! Were they not almost emblems of their owners? and if so, did not his own fortunes rather link him with the humbler than with the higher? With one there might be companionship; with the other, what could it be but dependence?
While he was standing thus thinking, two ice-cold hands were laid over his eyes, and he cried out. “Ay, Dolly, those frozen fingers are yours;” and as he removed her hands, he threw one arm round her waist, and, pressing her closely to him, he kissed her.
“Tony, Tony!” said she, reproachfully, while her eyes swam in two heavy tears, and she turned away.
“Come here and sit beside me, Dolly. I want to ask you a question, and we have n’t much time, for the doctor will be here presently, and I am so fretted and worried thinking over it that I have nothing left but to come straight to yourself and ask it.”
“Well, what is it?” said she, calmly.
“But you will be frank with me, Dolly, – frank and honest, as you always were, – won’t you?”
“Yes, I think so,” said she, slowly.
“Ay, but you must be sure to be frank, Dolly, for it touches me very closely; and to show you that you may, I will tell you a secret, to begin with. Your father has had a letter from that Mrs. M’Gruder, where you lived.”
“From her?” said Dolly, growing so suddenly pale that she seemed about to faint; “are you sure of this?”
“My mother saw it; she read part of it, and here ‘s what it implies, – that it was all my fault – at least, the fault of knowing me – that cost you your place. She tells, not very unfairly, all things considered, about that unlucky night when I came under the windows and had that row with her husband; and then she hints at something, and I’ll be hanged if I can make out at what; and if my mother knows, which I suspect she does not, she has not told me; but whatever it be, it is in some way mixed up with your going away; and knowing, my dear Dolly, that you and I can talk to one another as few people can in this world, – is it not so? Are you ill, dear, – are you faint?”
“No; those are weak turns that come and go.”
“Put your head down here on my shoulder, my poor Dolly. How pale you are! and your hands so cold. What is it you say, darling? I can’t hear.”
Her lips moved, but without a sound, and her eyelids fell lazily over her eyes, as, pale and scarcely seeming to breathe, she leaned heavily towards him, and fell at last in his arms. There stood against the opposite wall of the room a little horse-hair sofa, a hard and narrow bench, to which he carried her, and, with her head supported by his arm, he knelt down beside her, helpless a nurse as ever gazed on sickness.
“There, you are getting better, my dear, dear Dolly,” he said, as a long heavy sigh escaped her. “You will be all right presently, my poor dear.”
“Fetch me a little water,” said she, faintly.
Tony soon found some, and held it to her lips, wondering the while how it was he had never before thought Dolly beautiful, so regular were the features, so calm the brow, so finely traced the mouth, and the well-rounded chin beneath it. How strange it seemed that the bright eye and the rich color of health should have served to hide rather than heighten these traits!
“I think I must have fainted, Tony,” said she, weakly.
“I believe you did, darling,” said he.
“And how was it? Of what were we talking, Tony? Tell me what I was saying to you.”
Tony was afraid to refer to what he feared might have had some share in her late seizure; he dreaded to recur to it.
“I think I remember it,” said she, slowly, and as if struggling with the difficulty of a mental effort. “But stay; is not that the wicket I heard? Father is coming, Tony;” and as she spoke, the heavy foot of the minister was heard on the passage.
“Eh, Tony man, ye here? I’d rather hae seen ye at the evening lecture; but ye ‘re no fond of our form of worship, I believe. The Colonel, your father, I have heard, was a strong Episcopalian.”
“I was on my way to Coleraine, doctor, and I turned off at the mill to see Dolly, and ask her how she was.”
“Ye winna stay to supper, then?” said the old man, who, hospitable enough on ordinary occasions, had no wish to see the Sabbath evening’s meal invaded by the presence of a guest, even of one so well known as Tony.
Tony muttered some not very connected excuses, while his eyes turned to Dolly, who, still pale and sickly-looking, gave him one little brief nod, as though to say it were better he should go; and the old minister himself stood erect in the middle of the floor, calmly and almost coldly waiting the words “Good-bye.”
“Am I to tell mother you ‘ll come to us to-morrow, doctor, – you and Dolly?” asked Tony, with his band on the door.
“It’s no on the Sabbath evening we should turn our thoughts to feastin’, Master Tony; and none know that better than your worthy mother. I wish you a good-evening and a pleasant walk.”
“Good-night,” said Tony, shutting the door sharply; “and,” muttered he to himself, “if you catch me crossing your threshold again, Sabbath or week-day – ” He stopped, heaved a deep sigh, and, drawing his hand across his eyes, said, “My poor dear Dolly, hasn’t my precious temper done you mischief enough already, that I must let it follow you to your own quiet fireside?”
And he went his way, with many a vow of self-amendment, and many a kind wish, that was almost a prayer, for the minister and his daughter.
CHAPTER XXIX. DEPARTURES
All was confusion and dismay at Tilney. Bella Lyle’s cold turned out to be scarlatina, and Mark and Alice brought back tidings that old Commodore Graham had been seized with a fit, and was seriously, if not dangerously, ill. Of course, the company scattered like an exploded shell. The Graham girls hastened back to their father, while the other guests sought safety in flight, the great struggle now being who should soonest secure post-horses to get away. Like many old people rich in this world’s comforts, Mrs. Maxwell had an especial aversion to illness in any shape. It was a topic she never spoke on; and, if she could, would never have mentioned before her. Her intimates understood this thoroughly, and many were the expressions employed to imply that Mr. Such-a-one had a fever, or Mrs. So-and-so was given over by her doctors. As to the fatal result itself, it was always veiled in a sort of decent mystery, as though it would not be perfectly polite to inquire whither the missing friend had retired to.
“Dr. Reede says it is a very mild case of the malady, and that Bella will be up in a day or two, aunt,” said Alice.
“Of course she will,” replied the old lady, pettishly. “It ‘s just a cold and sore throat, – they had n’t that fine name for it long ago, and people got well all the sooner. Is he gone?”
“No; he’s talking with Mark in the library; he’ll be telling him, I think, about the Commodore.”
“Well, don’t ask him to stop to dinner; we have sorrow enough without seeing a doctor.”
“Oh, here comes Mark! Where is Dr. Reede?”
“He’s gone over to see Maitland. Fenton came to say that he wished to see him.”
“Surely he’s not ill,” said Alice.
“Oh, dear! what a misfortune that would be!” cried the old lady, with real affliction in her tone; “to think of Mr. Norman Maitland taking ill in one’s house.”
“Have n’t you been over to ask after him, Mark?”
“No. I was waiting till Reede came back: he’s one of those men that can’t bear being inquired after; and if it should turn out that he was not ill, he ‘d not take the anxiety in good part.”
“How he has contrived to play the tyrant to you all, I can’t imagine,” said Alice; “but I can see that every whim and caprice he practises is studied as courtiers study the moods of their masters.”
“To be sure, darling, naturally,” broke in Mrs. Maxwell, who always misunderstood everybody. “Of course, we are only too happy to indulge him in a whim or fancy; and if the doctor thinks turtle would suit him – turtle is so light; I took it for several weeks for luncheon – we can have it at once. Will you touch the bell, Mark, and I’ll tell Raikes to telegraph? Who is it he gets it from?”
Mark pulled the bell, but took no notice of her question. “I wish,” muttered he below his breath, “we had never come here. There ‘s Bella now, laid up, and here ‘s Maitland. I ‘m certain he’s going away, for I overheard Fenton ask about the distance to Dundalk.”
“I suppose we might survive even that misfortune,” said she, haughtily.
“And one thing I’ll swear to,” said Mark, walking the room with impatience, – “it ‘s the last Ireland will see of him.”
“Poor Ireland! the failure in the potato-crop was bad enough, but this is more than can be endured.”
“That’s all very fine, Alice, but I ‘m much mistaken if you are as indifferent as you pretend.”
“Mark! what do you mean?” said she, angrily.
“Here’s Raikes now; and will some one tell him what it is we want?” said Mrs. Maxwell; but the others were far too deeply engaged in their own whispered controversy now to mind her.
“Captain Lyle will tell you by and by, Raikes,” said she, gathering up the mass of loose impedimenta with which she usually moved from one room to the other, and by which, as they fell at every step, her course could always be tracked. “He’ll tell you,” added she, moving away. “I think it was caviare, and you are to telegraph for it to Swan and Edgar’s – but my head is confused to-day; I’ll just go and lie down.”
As Mrs. Maxwell left by one door, Alice passed out by another; while Mark, whose temper evinced itself in a flushed cheek and a contracted brow, stood at a window, fretfully tapping the ground with his foot.
“Have you any orders, sir?” asked Raikes.
“Orders! No – stay a moment Have many gone away this morning?”
“Nearly all, sir. Except your family and Mr. Maitland, there’s nobody left but Major Clough, and he ‘s going, I believe, with Dr. Reede.”
“You ‘ve heard nothing of Mr. Maitland going, have you?”
“Oh, yes, sir! his man sent for post-horses about an hour ago.”
Muttering impatiently below his breath, Mark opened the window and passed out upon the lawn. What an unlucky turn had everything taken! It was but a week ago, and his friend Maitland was in high delight with all around him. The country, the scenery, the people were all charming; indeed, in the intervals between the showers, he had a good word to say for the climate. As for Lyle Abbey, he pronounced it the perfection of a country-house; and Mark actually speculated on the time when these opinions of his distinguished friend would have acquired a certain currency, and the judgment of one that none disputed would be recorded of his father’s house. And all these successes were now to be reversed by this stupid old sailor’s folly, – insanity he might call it; for what other word could characterize the pretension that could claim Norman Maitland for a son-in-law? – Maitland, that might have married, if the law would have let him, half a score of infantas and archduchesses, and who had but to choose throughout Europe the alliance that would suit him. And Alice – what could Alice mean by this impertinent tone she was taking towards him? Had the great man’s patience given way under it all, and was he really going away, wearied and tired out?
While Mark thus doubted and reasoned and questioned, Maitland was seated at his breakfast at one side of the fire, while Dr. Reede confronted him at the other.
Though Maitland had sent a message to say he wished to see the doctor, he only gave him now a divided attention, being deeply engaged, even as he talked, in deciphering a telegram which had just reached him, and which was only intelligible through a key to the cipher.
“So, then, doctor, it is simply the return of an old attack, – a thing to be expected, in fact, at his time of life?”
“Precisely, sir. He had one last autumn twelve month, brought on by a fit of passion. The old Commodore gives way, rather, to temper.”
“Ah! gives way, does he?” muttered Maitland, while he mumbled below his breath, “‘seventeen thousand and four D + X, and a gamba,’ – a very large blood-letting. By the way, doctor, is not bleeding – bleeding largely – a critical remedy with a man of seventy-six or seven?”
“Very much so, indeed, sir; and, if you observe, I only applied some leeches to the nuchæ. You misapprehended me in thinking I took blood from him freely.”
“Oh, yes, very true,” said Maitland, recovering himself. “I have no doubt you treated him with great judgment. It is a case, too, for much caution. Forty-seven and two G’s,” and he hastily turned over the leaves of his little book, muttering continually, “and two G’s, forty-six, forty-seven, with two B’s, two F’s. Ah! here it is. Shivering attacks are dangerous – are they – in these cases?”
“In which cases?” asked the doctor; for his shrewd intelligence at once perceived the double object which Maitland was trying to contemplate.
“In a word, then,” continued Maitland, not heeding the doctor’s question, but bending his gaze fixedly on the piece of paper before him, scrawled over and blotted by his own hand, – “in a word, then, a man of seventy, seized with paralysis, and, though partially rallied by bleeding, attacked with shivering, is in a very critical state? But how long might he live in that way?”
“We are not now speaking of Commodore Graham, I apprehend?” asked the doctor, slyly.
“No; I am simply putting a case, – a possible case, Doctors, I know, are not fond of these imagined emergencies; lawyers like them.”
“Doctors dislike them,” broke in Reede, “because they are never given to them in any completeness, – every important sign of pulse and tongue and temperature omitted – ”
“Of course you are right,” said Maitland, crumpling up the telegram and the other papers; “and now for the Commodore. You are not apprehensive of anything serious, I hope?”
“It ‘s an anxious case, sir, – a very anxious case; he ‘s eighty-four.”
“Eighty-four!” repeated Maitland, to whom the words conveyed a considerable significance.
“Eighty-four!” repeated the other, once more. “No one would suspect it. Why, Sally Graham is the same age as my wife; they were at school together.”
Too polite to push a question which involved a double-shotted answer, Maitland merely said, “Indeed!” and, after a slight pause, added, “You said, I think, that the road to Dundalk led past Commodore Graham’s cottage?”
“By the very gate.”
“May I offer you a seat with me? I am going that way. I have received news which calls me suddenly to England.”
“I thank you much, but I have some visits yet to make before I return to Port-Graham. I promised to stop the night there.”
Having charged the doctor to convey to the Commodore’s daughters his sincere regret for their father’s illness, and his no less sincere hope of a speedy recovery, Maitland endeavored, in recognition of a preliminary question or two about himself, to press the acceptance of a fee; but the doctor, armed with that self-respect and tact his profession so eminently upholds, refused to accept it, and took his leave, perhaps well requited in having seen and spoken with the great Mr. Norman Maitland, of whom half the country round were daily talking.
“Mr. Maitland is not ill, I hope?” said Alice, as she met the doctor on his way through the garden.
“No, Mrs. Trafford; I have been making a friendly call – no more,” said the doctor, rather vain that he could thus designate his visit; and with a few words of advice about her sister, he went his way. Alice, meanwhile, saw that Maitland had observed her from his window, and rightly guessed that he would soon be in search of her.
With that feminine instinct that never deceives in such cases, she determined that whatever was to pass between them should be undisturbed. She selected a most unfrequented path, bordered on one side by the high laurel-hedge, and on the other by a little rivulet, beyond which lay some rich meadows, backed in the distance by a thick plantation.
She had not gone far when she beard a short quick footstep behind her, and in a few minutes Maitland was at her side. “You forgot to liberate me,” said he, “so I had to break my arrest.”
“Signor mio, you must forgive me; we have had such a morning of confusion and trouble: first, Bella ill, – not seriously, but confined to bed; and then this poor old Commodore, – the doctor has told you all about it; and, last of all, Mark storming about the house, and angry with every one for having caught cold or a fever, and so disgusted (the great) Mr. Maitland that he is actually hurrying away, with a vow to heaven nevermore to put foot in Ireland.”