Though Tony was eager to persuade Rory to accompany him home, the poor fellow longed so ardently to see his friends and relations, to tell all that he had done and suffered for “the cause,” and to show the rank he had won, that Tony yielded at last, and only bound him by a promise to come and pass his Christmas at the Causeway; and now he hastened on night and day, feverishly impatient to see his mother, and yearning for that affection which his heart had never before so thirsted after.

There were times when he felt that, without Alice, all his good fortune in life was valueless; and it was a matter of utter indifference whether he was to see himself surrounded with every means of enjoyment, or rise each morning to meet some call of labor. And then there were times when he thought of the great space that separated them,—not in condition, but in tastes and habits and requirements. She was of that gay and fashionable world that she adorned,—made for it, and made to like it; its admiration and its homage were things she looked for. What would he have done if obliged to live in such a society? His delight was the freedom of an out-of-door existence,—the hard work of field-sports, dashed with a certain danger that gave them their zest. In these he admitted no man to be his superior; and in this very conscious strength lay the pride that sustained him. Compel him, however, to live in another fashion, surround him with the responsibilities of station, and the demands of certain ceremonies, and he would be wretched. “Perhaps she saw all that,” muttered he to himself. “With that marvellous quickness of hers, who knows if she might not have foreseen how unsuited I was to all habits but my own wayward careless ones? And though I hope I shall always be a gentleman, in truth there are some forms of the condition that puzzle me sorely.

“And, after all, have I not my dear mother to look after and make happy? and what a charm it will give to life to see her surrounded with the little objects she loved and cared for! What a garden she shall have!” Climate and soil, to be sure, were stiff adversaries to conquer, but money and skill could fight them; and that school for the little girls—the fishermen's daughters—that she was always planning, and always wondering Sir Arthur Lyle had never thought of, she should have it now, and a pretty building, too, it should be. He knew the very spot to suit it, and how beautiful he would make their own little cottage, if his mother should still desire to live there. Not that he thought of this positively with perfect calm and indifference. To live so near the Lyles, and live estranged from them, would be a great source of unpleasantness, and yet how could he possibly renew his relations there, now that all was over between Alice and himself? “Ah,” thought he, at last, “the world would stand still if it had to wait for stupid fellows like me to solve its difficulties. I must just let events happen, and do the best I can when they confront me;” and then mother would be there, mother would counsel and advise him; mother would warn him of this, and reconcile him to that; and so he was of good cheer as to the future, though there were things in the present that pressed him sorely.

It was about an hour after dark of a starry, sharp October evening, that the jaunting-car on which he travelled drove up to the spot where the little pathway turned off to the cottage, and Jeanie was there with her lantern waiting for him.

“You've no a' that luggage, Maister Tony?” cried she, as the man deposited the fourth trunk on the road.

“How's my mother?” asked he, impatiently,—“is she well?”

“Why wouldn't she be weel, and hearty too?” said the girl, who rather felt the question as savoring of ingratitude, seeing what blessings of fortune had been showered upon them.

As he walked hurriedly along, Jeanie trotted at his side, telling him, in broken and disjointed sentences, the events of the place,—the joy of the whole neighborhood on hearing of his new wealth; their hopes that he might not leave that part of the country; what Mrs. Blackie of Craigs Mills said at Mrs. Dumphy's christening, when she gave the name of Tony to the baby, and wouldn't say Anthony; and how Dr. M'Candlish improved the occasion for “twa good hours, wi' mair text o' Scripture than wad make a Sabbath-day's discourse; and ech, Maister Tony, it's a glad heart I'll hae o' it all, if I could only think that you 'll no be going to keep a man creature,—a sort of a butler like; there 's no such wastefu' bodies in the world as they, and wanting mair ceremonies than the best gentleman in the land.”

Before Tony had finished assuring her that no change in the household should displace herself, they had reached the little wicket; his mother, as she stood at the door, caught the sound of his voice, rushed out to meet him, and was soon clasped in his arms.

“It's more happiness than I hoped for,—more, far more,” was all she could say, as she clung to him. Her next words were uttered in a cry of joy, when the light fell full upon him in the doorway,—“you 're just your father, Tony; it's your own father's self I see standing before me, if you had not so much hair over your face.”

“I 'll soon get rid of that, mother, if you dislike it.”

“Let it be, Master Tony,—let it be,” cried Jeanie; “though it frightened me a bit at first, it 's no so bad when one gets used to it.”

Though Mrs. Butler had determined to make Tony relate every event that took place from the day he left her, in regular narrative order, nothing could be less connected, nothing less consecutive, than the incidents he recounted. Now it would be some reminiscence of his messenger days,—of his meeting with that glorious Sir Joseph, who treated him so handsomely; then of that villain who stole his despatches; of his life as a rag-merchant, or his days with Garibaldi. Rory, too, was remembered; and he related to his mother the pious fraud by which he had transferred to his humble follower the promotion Garibaldi had bestowed upon himself.

“He well deserved it, and more; he carried me, when I was wounded, through the orchard at Melazzo on his back, and though struck with a bullet himself, never owned he was hit till he fell on the grass beside me,—a grand fellow that, mother, though he never learned to read.” And there was a something of irony in his voice as he said this, that showed how the pains of learning still rankled in his mind.

“And you never met the Lyles? How strange!” exclaimed she.

“Yes, I met Alice; at least,” said he, stooping down to settle the log on the fire, “I saw her the last evening I was at Naples.”

“Tell me all about it”

“There 's no all. I met her, we talked together for half an hour or so, and we parted; there's the whole of it.”

“She had heard, I suppose, of your good fortune?”

“Yes, Skeff had told them the story and, I take it, made the most of our wealth; not that rich people like the Lyles would be much impressed by our fortune.”

“That may be true, Tony, but rich folk have a sympathy with other rich folk, and they 're not very wrong in liking those whose condition resembles their own. What did Alice say? Did she give you some good advice as to your mode of life?”

“Yes, plenty of that; she rather likes advice-giving.”

“She was always a good friend of yours, Tony. I mind well when she used to come here to hear your letters read to her. She ever made the same remark: 'Tony is a fine true-hearted boy; and when he's moulded and shaped a bit by the pressure of the world, he 'll grow to be a fine true-hearted man.'”

“It was very gracious of her, no doubt,” said he, with a sharp, short tone; “and she was good enough to contribute a little to that self-same 'pressure' she hoped so much from.”

His mother looked at him to explain his words, but he turned his head away and was silent.

“Tell me something about home, mother. How are the Stewarts? Where is Dolly?”

“They are well, and Dolly is here; and a dear good girl she is. Ah, Tony! if you knew all the comfort she has been to me in your absence,—coming here through sleet and snow and storm, and nursing me like a daughter.”

“I liked her better till I learned how she had treated that good-hearted fellow Sam M'Gruder. Do you know how she has behaved to him?”

“I know it all. I read her letters, every one of them.”

“And can you mean that you defend her conduct?'”

“I mean that if she were to marry a man she did not love, and were dishonest enough not to tell him so, I 'd not attempt to defend her. There's what I mean, Tony.”

“Why promise him, then,—why accept him?”

“She never did.”

“Ah!” exclaimed he, holding up both his hands.

“I know what I say, Tony. It was the doctor answered the letter in which Mr. M'Gruder proposed for Dolly. He said that he could not, would not, use any influence over his daughter; but that, from all he had learned of Mr. M'Gruder's character, he would give his free consent to the match.”

“Well, then, Dolly said—”

“Wait a bit, I am coming to Dolly. She wrote back that she was sorry he had not first written to herself, and she would frankly have declared that she did not wish to marry; but now, as he had addressed her father,—an old man in failing health, anxious above all things about what was to become of her when he was removed,—the case was a more difficult one, since to refuse his offer was to place herself in opposition to her father's will,—a thing that in all her life had never happened. 'You will see from this,' said she, 'that I could not bring to you that love and affection which would be your right, were I only to marry you to spare my father's anxieties. You ought to have more than this in your wife, and I cannot give you more; therefore do not persist in this suit, or, at all events, do not press it.'”

“But I remember your writing me word that Dolly was only waiting till I left M'Gruder's house, or quitted the neighborhood, to name the day she would be married. How do you explain that?”

“It was her father forced her to write that letter: his health was failing, and his irritability had increased to that degree that at times we were almost afraid of his reason, Tony; and I mind well the night Dolly came over to show me what she had written. She read it in that chair where you are sitting now, and when she finished she fell on her knees, and, hiding her face in my lap, she sobbed as if her poor heart was breaking.”

“So, in fact, she was always averse to this match?”

“Always. She never got a letter from abroad that I could n't have told it by her red eyes and swelled eyelids, poor lassie!”

“I say, 'poor fellow!' mother; for I declare that the man who marries a woman against her will has the worst of it.”

“No, no, Tony; all sorrows fall heaviest on the helpless. When at last the time came that she could bear no more, she rallied her courage and told her father that if she were to marry M'Gruder it would be the misery of her whole life. He took it very ill at first; he said some very cruel things to her; and, indeed, it was only after seeing how I took the lassie's side, and approved of all she had done, that he yielded and gave way. But he isn't what he used to be, Tony. Old age, they say, makes people sometimes sterner and harder. A grievous thing to think of, that we 'd be more worldly just when the world was slipping away beneath us; and so what do you think he does? The same day that Dolly writes that letter to M'Gruder, he makes her write to Dr. M'Candlish to say that she 'd take a situation as a governess with a family going to India which the doctor mentioned was open to any well-qualified young person like herself. 'Ye canna say that your “heart will be broke wi' treachery” here, lassie,' said her father, jeering at what she said in her tears about the marriage.”

“You oughtn't to suffer this, mother; you ought to offer Dolly a home here with yourself.”

“It was what I was thinking of. Tony; but I did n't like to take any step in it till I saw you and spoke to you.”

“Do it, by all means,—do it to-morrow.”

“Not to-morrow, Tony, nor even the next day; for Dolly and the doctor left this to pass a few days with the M'Candlishes at Articlave, and they 'll not be back before Saturday; but I am so glad that you like the plan,—so glad that it came from yourself too.”

“It's the first bit of pleasure our new wealth has given us, mother; may it be a good augury!”

“That's a heathenish word, Tony, and most unsuited to be used in thankfulness for God's blessings.”

Tony took the rebuke in good part, and, to change the topic, laughingly asked if she thought Garibaldians never were hungry, for she had said nothing of supper since he came.

“Jeanie has been in three times to tell you it was ready, and the last time she said she 'd come no more; but come, and we'll see what there's for us.”