A great moralist and a profound thinker has left it on record that there were few pleasanter sensations than those of being whirled rapidly along a good road at the top speed of a pair of posters. Whether, had he lived in our age of express trains, the “rail” might not have qualified the judgment is not so sure. One thing is, however, certain,—the charm of a brisk drive on a fine breezy morning, along a bold coast, with a very beautiful woman for a companion, is one that belongs to all eras, independent of broad gauges and narrow, and deriving none of its enjoyment from steam or science. Maitland was to know this now in all its ecstasy, as he drove off from Lyle Abbey with Mrs. Trafford. There was something of gala in the equipage,—the four dappled grays with pink roses at their heads, the smartly dressed servants, and, more than all, the lovely widow herself, most becomingly dressed in a costume which, by favor of the climate, could combine furs with lace,—that forcibly struck him as resembling the accompaniments of a wedding; and he smiled at the pleasant conceit.

“What is it amuses you, Mr. Maitland?” said she, unable to repress her curiosity.

“I am afraid to tell you,—that is, I might have told you a moment ago, but I can't now.”

“Perhaps I guess it?”

“I don't think so.”

“No matter; let us talk of something else. Isn't that a very beautiful little bay? It was a fancy of mine once to build a cottage there. You can see the spot from here, to the left of those three rocks.”

“Yes; but there are walls there,—ruins, I think.”

“No, not exactly ruins. They were the outer walls of my intended villa, which I abandoned after I had begun it; and there they stand,—accusers of a change of mind, sad reminders of other days and their projects.”

“Were they very pleasant days that you sigh over them, or are they sad reminiscences?”

“Both one and the other. I thought it would be such a nice thing to retire from the world and all its vanities, and live there very secluded and forgotten.”

“And how long ago was this?”

“Oh, very long ago,—fully a year and a half.”

“Indeed!” cried he, with a well-feigned astonishment.

“Yes,” said she, resuming. “I was very tired of being flattered and feted, and what people call 'spoiled;' for it is by no means remembered how much amusement is afforded to those who play the part of 'spoilers' in the wilfulness and caprice they excite; and so I thought, 'I 'll show you all how very easy it is to live without you. I 'll let you see that I can exist without your homage.'”

“And you really fancied this?”

“You ask as if you thought the thing incredible.”

“Only difficult,—not impossible.”

“I never intended total isolation, mind. I 'd have had my intimates, say two or three,—certainly not more,—dear friends, to come and go and stay as they pleased.”

“And do you know how you 'd have passed your time, or shall I tell you?”

“Yes. Let me hear your version of it.”

“In talking incessantly of that very world you had quitted, in greedily devouring all its scandals, and canvassing all its sins,—criticising, very possibly, its shortcomings and condemning its frivolities; but still following with a wistful eye all its doings, and secretly longing to be in the thick of them.”

“Oh, how wrong you are, how totally wrong! You know very little about him who would have been my chief adviser and Grand Vizier.”

“And who, pray, would have been so fortunate as to fill that post?”

“The son of that old lady to whom you devoted so many mornings,—the playfellow of long ago, Tony Butler.”

“Indeed, I only made his acquaintance yesterday, and it would be rash to speak on such a short experience; but I may be permitted to ask, has he that store of resources which enliven solitude? is he so full of life's experiences that he can afford to retire from the world and live on the interest of his knowledge of mankind?”

“He knows nothing whatever of what is called life,—at least what Mr. Maitland would call life. He is the most simple-hearted young fellow in the world, with the finest nature, and the most generous.”

“What would I not give for a friend who would grow so enthusiastic about me!”

“Are you so sure you 'd deserve it?”

“If I did, there would be no merit in the praise. Credit means trust for what one may or may not have.”

“Well, I am speaking of Tony as I know him; and, true to the adage, there he is, coming down the hill. Pull up, George.”

“Mr. Butler's making me a sign, ma'am, not to stop till I reach the top of the hill.”

The moment after, the spanking team stood champing their bits and tossing their manes on the crest of the ridge.

“Come here, Tony, and be scolded!” cried Mrs. Trafford; while the young fellow, instead of approaching the carriage, busied himself about the horses.

“Wait a moment till I let down their heads. How could you have suffered them to come up the long hill with the bearing-reins on, Alice?” cried he.

“So, then, it is I that am to have the scolding,” said she, in a whisper; then added aloud, “Come here and beg pardon. I 'm not sure you 'll get it, for your shameful desertion of us. Where have you been, sir? and why have not you reported yourself on your return?”

Tony came up to the side of the carriage with an attempt at swagger that only increased his own confusion, and made him blush deeply. No sooner, however, had he seen Maitland, of whose presence up to that he had been ignorant, than he grew pale, and had to steady himself by catching hold of the door.

“I see you are ashamed,” said she, “but I 'll keep you over for sentence. Meanwhile, let me present you to Mr. Maitland.”

“I know him,” said Tony, gulping out the words.

“Yes,” chimed in Maitland, “we made acquaintance yesterday; and if Mr. Butler be but of my mind, it will not be a mere passing knowledge we shall have of each other.”

“Get in, Tony, and come a mile or two with us. You know all the short cuts in the mountains, and can get back easily.”

“There's the short cut I mean to take now,” said Tony, sternly, as he pointed to a path that led down to the seashore. “I am going home.”

“Yes, sir,” resumed she, with a well-feigned air of severity; “but mine is a command.”

“I have left the service,—I have taken my discharge,” said he, with a forced laugh.

“At least, you ought to quit with honor,—not as a deserter,” said she, softly but sadly.

“Perhaps he could not trust his resolution, if he were to see again the old flag he had served under,” said Maitland.

“Who made you the exponent of what I felt, sir?” said he, savagely. “I don't remember that in our one single conversation we touched on these things.”

“Tony!” cried Alice, in a low voice, full of deep feeling and sorrow,—“Tony!”

“Good-bye, Alice; I 'm sorry to have detained you, but I thought—I don't know what I thought. Remember me to Bella,—good-bye!” He turned away; then suddenly, as if remembering himself, wheeled round and said, “Good-morning, sir,” with a short quick nod of his head. The moment after he had sprung over the low wall at the roadside, and was soon lost to view in the tall ferns.

“How changed he is! I declare I can scarcely recognize him,” said Mrs. Trafford, as they resumed their journey. “He used to be the gentlest, easiest, and softest of all natures,—never put out, never crossed by anything.”

“And so I 've no doubt you 'd have found him to-day if I had not been here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Surely you remarked the sudden change that came over his face when he saw me. He thought you were alone. At all events, he never speculated on finding me at your side.”

“Indeed!” said she, with an air of half-offended pride; “and are you reputed to be such a very dangerous person that to drive out with you should inspire all this terror?”

“I don't believe I am,” said Maitland, laughing; “but perhaps your rustic friend might be pardoned if he thought so.”

“How very subtle that is! Even in your humility you contrive to shoot a bolt at poor Tony.”

“And why poor? Is he poor who is so rich in defenders? Is it a sign of poverty when a man can afford to dispense with all the restraints that attach to others, and say and do what he likes, with the certainty that it will all be submitted to? I call that wealth unbounded,—at least, it is the one prize that money confers; and if one can have it without the dross, I 'd say, Give me the privilege and keep the title-deeds.”

“Mr. Maitland,” said she, gravely, “Tony Butler is not in the least like what you would represent him. In my life I never knew any one so full of consideration for others.”

“Go on,” said he, laughing. “It's only another goldmine of his you are displaying before me. Has he any other gifts or graces?”

“He has a store of good qualities, Mr. Maitland; they are not, perhaps, very showy ones.”

“Like those of some other of our acquaintance,” added he, as if finishing her speech for her. “My dear Mrs. Trafford, I would not disparage your early friend—your once playfellow—for the world. Indeed, I feel, if life could be like a half-holiday from school, he 'd be an admirable companion to pass it with; the misfortune is that these men must take their places in the common tournament with the rest of us, and then they are not so certain of making a distinguished figure as when seen in the old playground with bat and ball and wicket.”

“You mean that such a man as Tony Butler will not be likely to make a great career in life?”

His reply was a shrug of the shoulders.

“And why not, pray?” asked she, defiantly.

“What if you were to ask Mark this question? Let him give you his impressions on this theme.”

“I see what it is,” cried she, warmly. “You two fine gentlemen have conspired against this poor simple boy,—for really, in all dealings with the world, he is a boy; and you would like us to believe that if we saw him under other circumstances and with other surroundings, we should be actually ashamed of him. Now, Mr. Maitland, I resent this supposition at once, and I tell you frankly I am very proud of his friendship.”

“You are pushing me to the verge of a great indiscretion; in fact, you have made it impossible for me to avoid it,” said he, seriously. “I must now trust you with a secret, or what I meant to be one. Here it is. Of course, what I am about to tell you is strictly to go no further,—never, never to be divulged. It is partly on this young man's account—chiefly so—that I am in Ireland. A friend of mine—that same Caffarelli of whom you heard—was commissioned by a very eccentric old Englishman who lives abroad, to learn if he could hear some tidings of this young Butler,—what sort of person he was, how brought up, how educated, how disciplined. The inquiry came from the desire of a person very able indeed to befriend him materially. The old man I speak of is the elder brother of Butler's father; very rich and very influential. This old man, I suppose, repenting of some harshness or other to his brother in former days, wants to see Tony,—wants to judge of him for himself,—wants, in fact, without disclosing the relationship between them, to pronounce whether this young fellow is one to whom he could rightfully bequeath a considerable fortune, and place before the world as the head of an honored house; but he wants to do this without exciting hopes or expectations, or risking, perhaps, disappointments. Now, I know very well by repute something of this eccentric old man, whose long life in the diplomatic service has made him fifty times more lenient to a moral delinquency than to a solecism in manners, and who could forgive the one and never the other. If he were to see your diamond in the rough, he 'd never contemplate the task of polishing,—he 'd simply say, 'This is not what I looked for; I don't want a gamekeeper, or a boatman, or a horse-breaker.'”

“Oh, Mr. Maitland!”

“Hear me out. I am representing, and very faithfully representing, another; he 'd say this more strongly too than I have, and he 'd leave him there. Now, I 'm not very certain that he 'd be wrong; permit me to finish. I mean to say that in all that regards what the old Minister-plenipotentiary acknowledges to be life, Master Tony would not shine. The solid qualities you dwelt on so favorably are like rough carvings; they are not meant for gilding. Now, seeing the deep interest you and all your family take in this youth, and feeling as I do a sincere regard for the old lady his mother, in whose society I have passed two or three delightful mornings, I conceived a sort of project which might possibly give the young fellow a good chance of success. I thought of taking him abroad,—on the Continent,—showing him something of life and the world in a sphere in which he had not yet seen it; letting him see for himself the value men set upon tact and address, and making him feel that these are the common coinage daily intercourse requires, while higher qualities are title-deeds that the world only calls for on emergencies.”

“But you could never have persuaded him to such a position of dependence.”

“I'd have called him my private secretary; I'd have treated him as my equal.”

“It was very generous; it was nobly generous.”

“When I thought I had made him presentable anywhere,—and it would not take long to do so—I'd have contrived to bring him under his uncle's notice,—as a stranger, of course: if the effect were favorable, well and good; if it proved a failure, there was neither disappointment nor chagrin. Mrs. Butler gave me a half assent, and I was on the good road with her son till this morning, when that unlucky meeting has, I suspect, spoiled everything.”

“But why should it?”

“Why should anything happen as men's passions or impulses decide it? Why should one man be jealous of the good fortune that another man has not won?”

She turned away her bead and was silent.

“I 'd not have told you one word of this, Mrs. Trafford, if I had not been so sore pressed that I could n't afford to let you, while defending your friend, accuse me of want of generosity and unfairness. Let me own it frankly,—I was piqued by all your praises of this young man; they sounded so like insidious criticisms on others less fortunate in your favor.”

“As if the great Mr. Maitland could care for any judgments of mine!” said she; and there was in her voice and manner a strange blending of levity and seriousness.

“They are the judgments that he cares most for in all the world,” said he, eagerly. “To have heard from your lips one half the praise, one tenth part of the interest you so lately bestowed on that young man—”

“Where are we going, George? What river is this?” exclaimed she, suddenly.

“To Tilney Park, ma'am; this is the Larne.”

“But it's the upper road, and I told you to take the lower road, by Captain Graham's.”

“No, ma'am; you only said Tilney.”

“Is it possible? and did n't you tell him, Mr. Maitland?”

“I? I knew nothing of the road. To tell you the truth,” added he, in a whisper, “I cared very little where it led, so long as I sat at your side.”

“Very flattering, indeed! Have we passed the turn to the lower road very far, George?”

“Yes, ma'am; it's a good five miles behind us, and a bad bit of road too,—all fresh stones.”

“And you were so anxious to call at the cottage?” said she, addressing Maitland, with a smile of some significance.

“Nothing of the kind. I made some sort of silly promise to make a visit as I passed. I 'm sure I don't know why, or to gratify whom.”

“Oh, cruel Mr. Maitland, false Mr. Maitland I how can you say this? But are we to go back?—that is the question; for I see George is very impatient, and trying to make the horses the same.”

“Of course not. Go back! it was all the coachman's fault,—took the wrong turning, and never discovered his blunder till we were—I don't know where.”

“Tilney, George,—go on,” said she; then turning to Maitland, “and do you imagine that the charming Sally Graham or the fascinating Rebecca will understand such flimsy excuses as these, or that the sturdy old Commodore will put up with them?”

“I hope so, for their sakes at least; for it will save them a world of trouble to do so.”

“Ungrateful as well as perfidious! You were a great favorite with the Grahams. Beck told me, the night before they left the Abbey, that you were the only ÉlÉgant—exquisite she called it—she ever met that was n't a fool.”

“The praise was not extravagant. I don't feel my cheek growing hot under it.”

“And Sally said that if she had not seen with her own eyes, she'd never have believed that a man with such a diamond ring, and such wonderful pendants to his watch, could hook an eight-pound salmon, and bring him to land.”

“That indeed touches me,” said he, laying his hand over his heart.

“And old Graham himself declared to my father that if one of his girls had a fancy that way, though you were n't exactly his style of man, nor precisely what he 'd choose—”

“Do spare me. I beseech you, have some pity on me.”

“That he'd not set himself against it; and that, in fact, with a good certificate as to character, and the approved guarantee of respectable people, who had known you some years—”

“I implore you to stop.”

“Of course I'll stop when you tell me the theme is one too delicate to follow up; but, like all the world, you let one run into every sort of indiscretion, and only cry Halt when it is too late to retire. The Grahams, however, are excellent people,—old G. G., as they call him, a distinguished officer. He cut out somebody or something from under the guns of a Spanish fort, and the girls have refused—let me see whom they have not refused; but I 'll make them tell you, for we 'll certainly call there on our way back.”

The malicious drollery with which she poured out all this had heightened her color and given increased brilliancy to her eyes. Instead of the languid delicacy which usually marked her features, they shone now with animation and excitement, and became in consequence far more beautiful. So striking was the change that Maitland paid little attention to the words, while he gazed with rapture at the speaker.

It must have been a very palpable admiration he bestowed, for she drew down her veil with an impatient jerk of the hand, and said, “Well, sir, doesn't this arrangement suit you, or would you rather make your visit to Port-Graham alone?”

“I almost think I would,” said he, laughing. “I suspect it would be safer.”

“Oh, now that I know your intentions,—that you have made me your confidante,—you 'll see that I can be a marvel of discretion.”

“Put up your veil again, and you may be as maligne as you please.”

“There! yonder is Tilney,” said she, hastily, “where you see those fine trees. Are the horses distressed, George?”

“Well, ma'am, they 've had enough of it”

“I mean, are they too tired to go round by the river-side and the old gate?”

“It's a good two miles round, ma'am.”

“Oh, I know what that means,” said she, in a whisper. “If there should be anything amiss for the next three months, it will be that cruel day's work down at Tilney will be charged with it. Go in by the new lodge,” added she, aloud; “and as they have innumerable carriages here, Mr. Maitland, I 'll take you a drive over there to-morrow. It's a very nice thing, is n't it, to be as rich as old Mrs. Maxwell, and to be always playing the part of 'Good Fairy,' giving splendid banquets, delicious little country-parties to all the world; offering horses to ride, boats to sail in? What are you looking at so fixedly?”

“I think I recognize a conveyance I once had the happiness to travel in. Isn't that the Graham equipage before us?”

“I declare, it is!” cried she, joyfully. “Oh, lucky Mr. Maitland; they are going to Tilney.”

As she spoke, George, indignant at being dusted by a shambling old mare with long fetlocks, gathered up his team in hand, and sent them “spinning” past the lumbering jaunting-car, giving the Grahams only time to recognize the carriage and its two occupants.