On the morning after this conversation, the two friends set out for Tilney; Skeffy, as usual, full of himself, and consequently in high spirits,—happy in the present, and confident for the future. Tony, indeed, was delighted with his companion, and thoroughly enjoyed the volatile gayety of one who seemed to derive pleasure from everything. With all a school-boy's zest for a holiday, Skeffy would be forever at something. Now he would take the driver's seat on the car and play coachman till, with one wheel in the ditch and the conveyance nearly over, he was summarily deposed by Tony, and stoutly rated for his awkwardness.

Then it was his pleasure to “chaff” the people on the road,—a population the least susceptible of drollery in all Europe!—a grave, saturnine race, who, but for Tony's intervention, would have more than once resented such liberties very practically. As they saw the smoke from the chimney of a little cottage under the hill, and heard it was there Dolly Stewart lived, it was all Tony could do to prevent Skeffy running down to “have a look at her,” just as it required actual force to keep him from jumping off as they passed a village school, where Skeffy wanted to examine a class in the Catechism. Then he would eat and drink everywhere, and, with a mock desire for information, ask the name of every place they passed, and as invariably miscall them, to the no small amusement of the carman, this being about the limit of his appreciation of fun.

“What a fidgety beggar you are!” said Tony, half angry and half laughing at the incessant caprices of his vivacious companion. “Do you know it's now going on to eleven o'clock, and we have fourteen miles yet before us?”

“One must eat occasionally, my dear friend. Even in the 'Arabian Nights' the heroine takes a slight refection of dates now and then.”

“But this is our third 'slight refection' this morning, and we shall probably arrive at Tilney for luncheon.”

“You can bear long fasts, I know. I have often heard of the 'starving Irish;' but the Anglo-Saxon stomach requires a 'retainer,' to remind it of the great cause to be tried at dinner-time. A mere bite of bread and cheese, and I'm with you.”

At last the deep woods of Tilney came in sight; and evidence of a well-cared-for estate—trim cottages on the roadside, and tasteful little gardens—showed that they were approaching the residence of one who was proud of her tenantry.

“What's the matter with you?” asked Tony, struck by a momentary silence on his companion's part.

“I was thinking, Tony,” said he, gravely,—“I was just thinking whether I could not summon up a sort of emotion at seeing the woods under whose shade my ancestors must have walked for heaven knows what centuries.”

“Your ancestors! Why, they never lived here.”

“Well, if they did n't, they ought. It seems a grand old place, and I already feel my heart warming to it. By the way, where's Maitland?”

“Gone; I told you he was off to the Continent. What do you know about this man,—anything?”

“Not much. When I was at school, Tony, whenever in our New Testament examination they asked me who it was did this or said that, I always answered John the Baptist, and in eight times out of ten it was a hit; and so in secular matters, whenever I was puzzled about a fellow's parentage, I invariably said—and you 'll find as a rule it is invaluable—he's a son of George IV., or his father was. It accounts for everything,—good looks, plenty of cash, air, swagger, mystery. It explains how a fellow knows every one, and is claimed by none.”

“And is this Maitland's origin?”

“I can't tell; perhaps it is. Find me a better, or, as the poet says, 'bas accipe mecum.' I say, is that the gate-lodge? Tony, old fellow, I hope I'll have you spending your Christmas here one of these days, with Skeff Darner your host!”

“More unlikely things have happened!” said Tony, quietly.

“What a cold northernism is that! Why, man, what so likely—what so highly probable—what, were I a sanguine fellow, would I say so nearly certain? It was through a branch of the Darners—no, of the Nevils, I mean—who intermarried with us, that the Maxwells got the estate. Paul Nevil was Morton Maxwell's mother—aunt, I should say—”

“Or uncle, perhaps,” gravely interposed Tony.

“Yes, uncle,—you 're right! but you 've muddled my genealogy for all that! Let us see. Who was Noel Skeffington? Noel was a sort of pivot in our family-engine, and everything seemed to depend on him; and such a respect had we for his intentions, that we went on contesting the meaning of his last will till we found out there was nothing more left to fight for. This Noel was the man that caught King George's horse when he was run away with at the battle of Dettingen; and the King wanted to make him a baronet, but with tears in his eyes, he asked how he had ever incurred the royal displeasure to be visited with such a mark of disgrace? 'At all events,' said he, 'my innocent child, who is four years old, could never have offended your Majesty. Do not, therefore, involve him in my shame. Commute the sentence to knighthood, and my dishonor will die with me.'”

“I never heard of greater insolence,” said Tony.

“It saved us, though; but for this, I should have been Sir Skeffington to-day. Is that the house I see yonder?”

“That's a wing of it.”

“'Home of my fathers, how my bosom throbs!' What's the next line? 'Home of my fathers, through my heart there runs!' That's it,—'there runs'—runs. I forget how it goes, but I suppose it must rhyme to 'duns.'”

“Now, try and be reasonable for a couple of minutes,” said Tony. “I scarcely am known to Mrs. Maxwell at all. I don't mean to stop here; I intend to go back to-night What are your movements?”

“Let the Fates decide; that is to say, I'll toss up,—heads, and I am to have the estate, and therefore remain; tails,—I'm disinherited, and go back with you.”

“I want you to be serious, Skeffy.”

“Very kind of you, when I've only got fourteen days' leave, and three of them gone already.”

“I 'd rather you 'd return with me; but I 'd not like you to risk your future to please me.”

“Has jealousy no share in this? Be frank and open: 'Crede Darner' is our proud motto; and by Jove, if certain tailors and bootmakers did not accept it, it would be an evil day for your humble servant!”

“I don't understand you,” said Tony, gravely.

“You fear I 'll make love to 'your widow,' Tony. Don't get so red, old fellow, nor look as if you wanted to throw me into the fish-pond.”

“I had half a mind to do it,” muttered Tony, in something between jest and earnest.

“I knew it,—I saw it. You looked what the Yankees call mean-ugly; and positively I was afraid of you. But just reflect on the indelible disgrace it would be to you if I was drowned.”

“You can swim, I suppose?”

“Not a stroke; it's about the only thing I cannot do.”

“Why, you told me yesterday that you never shoot, you could n't ride, never handled a fishing-rod.”

“Nor hemmed a pocket-handkerchief,” broke in Skeffy. “I own not to have any small accomplishments. What a noble building! I declare I am attached to it already. No, Tony; I pledge you my word of honor, no matter how pressed I may be, I'll not cut down a tree here.”

“You may go round to the stable-yard,” said Tony to the driver,—“they 'll feed you and your horse here.”

“Of course they will,” cried Skeffy; and then, grasping Tony's two hands, he said, “You are welcome to Tilney, my dear boy; I am heartily glad to see you here.”

Tony turned and pulled the bell; the deep summons echoed loudly, and a number of small dogs joined in the uproar at the same time.

“There's 'the deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home,'” said Skeffy, while he threw the end of his cigar away.

A servant soon appeared and ushered them into a large low-ceilinged room, with fireplaces of antique fashion, the chimney-pieces of dark oak, surmounted by massive coats of arms glowing in all the colors of heraldry. It was eminently comfortable in all its details of fat low ottomans, deep easy-chairs, and squat cushions; and although the three windows which lighted it looked out upon a lawn, the view was bounded by a belt of trees, as though to convey that it was a room in which snugness was to be typified, to the exclusion of all that pretended to elegance. A massive and splendidly bound Bible, showing little signs of use, lay on a centre table; a very well-thumbed “Peerage” was beside it.

“I say, Tony, this is evidently Aunt Maxwell's own drawing-room. It has all the peculiar grimness of an old lady's sanctum; and I declare that fat old dog, snoring away on the rug, looks like a relation.” While he stooped down to examine the creature more closely, the door opened, and Mrs. Maxwell, dressed in bonnet and shawl, and with a small garden watering-pot in her hand, entered. She only saw Tony; and, running towards him with her open hand, said, “You naughty boy, did n't I tell you not to come here?”

Tony blushed deeply, and blurted something about being told or ordered to come by Mrs. Trafford.

“Well, well; it does n't matter now; there 's no danger. It's not 'catching,' the doctor says, and she'll be up tomorrow. Dear me! and who is this?” The latter question was addressed to Skeffy, who had just risen from his knees.

“Mr. Skeffington Darner, ma'am,” said Tony.

“And who are you, then?”

“Tony Butler: I thought you knew me.”

“To be sure I do, and delighted to see you too. And this Pickle is Skeff, is he?”

“Dear aunt, let me embrace you,” cried Skeffy, rushing rapturously into her arms.

“Well, I declare!” said the old lady, looking from one to the other; “I thought, if it was you, Skeff, what a great fine tall man you had grown; and there you are, the same little creature I saw you last.”

“Little, aunt! what do you mean by little? Standard of the Line! In France I should be a Grenadier!”

The old lady laughed heartily at the haughty air with which he drew himself up and threw forward his chest as he spoke.

“What a nice parrot you have sent me! but I can't make out what it is he says.”

“He says, 'Don't you wish you may get it?' aunt.”

“Ah! so it is; and he means luncheon, I 'm sure, which is just coming on the table. I hope you are both very hungry?”

“I ought to be, aunt. It's a long drive from the Causeway here.—Hold your tongue, you dog,” whispered he to Tony; “say nothing about the three breakfasts on the road, or I shall be disgraced.”

“And how is your mother, Mr. Tony? I hope she has good health. Give me your arm to the dining-room; Pickle will take care of himself. This is a sickly season. The poor dear Commodore fell ill! and though the weather is so severe, woodcocks very scarce,—there's a step here,—and all so frightened for fear of the scarlatina that they run away; and I really wanted you here to introduce you to—who was it?—not Mrs. Craycroft, was it? Tell Mrs. Trafford luncheon is ready, Groves, and say Mr. Butler is here. She doesn't know you, Pickle. Maybe you don't like to be called Pickle now?”

“Of course I do, aunt; it reminds me of long ago,” said he, with an air of emotion.

“By the way, it was George, and not you, I used to call Pickle,—poor George, that went to Bombay.”

“Ah, yes; he was India Pickle, aunt, and you used to call me Piccalilli!”

“Perhaps I did, but I forget. Here, take the head of the table; Mr. Tony, sit by me. Oh dear! what a small party! This day last week we were twenty-seven! Oh, he 'll not find Alice, for I left her in my flower-garden; I 'll go for her myself.”

“Make yourself at home, Tony,” said Skeffy, as soon as the old Lady left the room. “Believe me, it is with no common pleasure that I see you under my roof.”

“I was going to play parrot, and say, 'Don't you wish you may?'” muttered Tony, dryly.

“Unbeliever, that will not credit the mutton on his plate, nor the sherry in his glass! Hush! here they are.”

Alice sailed proudly into the room, gave her hand to Tony with a pretended air of condescension, but a real cordiality, and said, “You 're a good boy, after all; and Bella sends you all manner of kind forgivenesses.”

“My nephew Darner, Alice,” said Mrs. Maxwell, never very formal in her presentations of those she regarded as little more than children. “I suppose he 'll not mind being called Pickle before you?”

Even Tony—not the shrewdest, certainly, of observers—was struck by the well-bred ease with which his friend conducted himself in a situation of some difficulty, managing at the same time neither to offend the old lady's susceptibilities nor sacrifice the respect he owed himself. In fact, the presence of Alice recalled Skeffy, as if by magic, to every observance of his daily life. She belonged to the world he knew best,—perhaps the only one he knew at all; and his conversation at once became as easy and as natural as though he were once more back in the society of the great city.

Mrs. Maxwell, however, would not part with him so easily, and proceeded to put him through a catechism of all their connections—Skeffingtons, Darners, Maxwells, and Nevils—in every variety of combination. As Skeffy avowed afterwards, “The 'Little Go' was nothing to it.” With the intention of shocking the old lady, and what he called “shunting her” off all her inquiries, he reported nothing of the family but disasters and disgraces. The men and women of the house inherited, according to him, little of the proud boast of the Bayards; no one ever before heard such a catalogue of rogues, swindlers, defaulters, nor so many narratives of separations and divorces. What he meant for a shock turned out a seduction; and she grew madly eager to hear more,—more even than he was prepared to invent.

“Ugh!” said he at last to himself, as he tossed off a glass of sherry, “I'm coming fast to capital offences, and if she presses me more I'll give her a murder.”

These family histories, apparently so confidentially imparted, gave Alice a pretext to take Tony off with her, and show him the gardens. Poor Tony, too, was eager to have an opportunity to speak of his friend to Alice. “Skeffy was such a good fellow; so hearty, so generous, so ready to do a kind thing; and then, such a thorough gentleman! If you had but seen him, Alice, in our little cabin, so very different in every way from all he is accustomed to, and saw how delighted he was with everything; how pleasantly he fell into all our habits, and how nice his manner to my mother. She reads people pretty quickly; and I 'll tell you what she said,—'He has a brave big heart under all his motley.'”

“I rather like him already,” said Alice, with a faint smile at Tony's eagerness; “he is going to stop here, is he not?”

“I cannot tell. I only know that Mrs. Maxwell wrote to put him off.”

“Yes, that she did a couple of days ago; but now that Bella is so much better,—so nearly well, I may say,—I think she means to keep him, and you too, Tony, if you will so far favor us.”

“I cannot,—it is impossible.”

“I had hoped, Tony,” said she, with a malicious sparkle in her eyes, “that it was only against Lyle Abbey you bore a grudge, and not against every house where I should happen to be a visitor.”

“Alice, Alice!” said he, with trembling lips, “surely this is not fair.”

“If it be true, is the question; and until you have told me why you ceased to come to us,—why you gave up those who always liked you,—I must, I cannot help believing it to be true.”

Tony was silent: his heart swelled up as if it would burst his chest; but he struggled manfully, and hid his emotion.

“I conclude,” said she, sharply, “it was not a mere caprice which made you throw us off. You had a reason, or something that you fancied was a reason.”

“It is only fair to suppose so,” said he, gravely.

“Well, I 'll give you the benefit of that supposition; and I ask you, as a matter of right, to give me your reason.”

“I cannot, Alice,—I cannot,” stammered he out, while a deadly paleness spread over his face.

“Tony,” said she, gravely, “if you were a man of the world like your friend Mr. Darner, for instance, I would probably say that in a matter of this kind you ought to be left to your own judgment; but you are not. You are a kind-hearted simple-minded boy. Nay, don't blush and look offended; I never meant to offend you. Don't you know that?” and she held out to him her fair white hand, the taper fingers trembling with a slight emotion. Tony stooped and kissed it with a rapturous devotion. “There, I did not mean that, Master Tony,” said she, blushing; “I never intended your offence was to be condoned; I only thought of a free pardon.”

“Then give it to me, Alice,” said he, gulping down his emotion; “for I am going away, and who knows when I shall see you again?”

“Indeed,” said she, with a look of agitation; “have you reconsidered it, then? have you resolved to join Maitland?”

“And were you told of this, Alice?”

“Yes, Tony: as one who feels a very deep interest in you, I came to hear it; but, indeed, partly by an accident.”

“Will you tell me what it was you heard?” said he, gravely; “for I am curious to hear whether you know more than myself.”

“You were to go abroad with Maitland,—you were to travel on the Continent together.”

“And I was to be his secretary, eh?” broke in Tony, with a bitter laugh; “was n't that the notable project?”

“You know well, Tony, it was to be only in name.”

“Of course I do; my incapacity would insure that much.”

“I must say, Tony,” said she, reproachfully, “that so far as I know of Mr. Maitland's intentions towards you, they were both kind and generous. In all that he said to me, there was the delicacy of a gentleman towards a gentleman.”

“He told you, however, that I had refused his offer?”

“Yes; he said it with much regret, and I asked his leave to employ any influence I might possess over you to make you retract the refusal,—at least to think again over his offer.”

“And of course he refused you nothing?” said Tony, with a sneering smile.

“Pardon me,—he did not grant my request.”

“Then I think better of him than I did before.”

“I suspect, Tony, that, once you understood each other, you are men to be friends.”

“You mean by that to flatter me, Alice,—and of course it is great flattery; but whether it is that I am too conscious of my own inferiority, or that I have, as I feel I have, such a hearty hatred of your accomplished friend, I would detest the tie that should bind me to him. Is he coming back here?”

“I do not know.”

“You do not know!” said he, slowly, as he fixed his eyes on her.

“Take care, sir, take care; you never trod on more dangerous ground than when you forgot what was due to me, I told you I did not know; it was not necessary I should repeat it.”

“There was a time when you rebuked my bad breeding less painfully, Alice,” said he, in deep sorrow; “but these are days not to come back again. I do not know if it is not misery to remember them.”

“John Anthony Butler, Esq.,” cried a loud voice, and Skeffy sprang over a box-hedge almost as tall as himself, flourishing a great sealed packet in his band. “A despatch on Her Majesty's service just sent on here!” cried he; “and now remember, Tony, if it's Viceroy you're named, I insist on being Chief Sec.; if you go to India as Governor-General, I claim Bombay or Madras. What stuff is the fellow made of? Did you ever see such a stolid indifference? He doesn't want to know what the Fates have decreed him.”

“I don't care one farthing,” said Tony, doggedly.

“Here goes, then, to see,” cried Skeffy, tearing open the packet and reading: “'Downing Street, Friday, 5th.—Mr. Butler will report himself for service as F. O. Messenger on Tuesday morning, 9 th. By order of the Under-Secretary of State.'”

“There's a way to issue a service summons. It was Graves wrote that, I 'd swear. All he ought to have said was, 'Butler for service, F. O., to report immediately.'”

“I suppose the form is no great matter,” said Mrs. Trafford, whose eyes now turned with an anxious interest towards Tony.

“The form is everything, I assure you. The Chief Secretary is a regular Tartar about style. One of our fellows, who has an impediment in his speech, once wrote, 'I had had,' in a despatch, and my Lord noted it with, 'It is inexcusable that he should stutter in writing.'”

“I must be there on Wednesday, is it?” asked Tony.

“Tuesday—Tuesday, and in good time too. But ain't you lucky, you dog! They 're so hard pressed for messengers, they've got no time to examine you. You are to enter official life par la petite porte, but you get in without knocking.”

“I cannot imagine that the examination would be much of a difficulty,” said Mrs. Trafford.

Tony shook his head in dissent, and gave a sad faint sigh.

“I 'd engage to coach him in a week,” broke in Skeffy. “It was I ground Vyse in Chinese, and taught him that glorious drinking-song, 'Tehin Tehan Ili-Ta!' that he offered to sing before the Commissioners if they could play the accompaniment.”

Leaving Skeffy to revel in his gratifying memories of such literary successes, Alice turned away a few steps with Tony.

“Let us part good friends, Tony,” said she, in a low tone. “You 'll go up to the Abbey, I hope, and wish them a good-bye, won't you?”

“I am half ashamed to go now,” muttered he.

“No, no, Tony; don't fancy that there is any breach in our friendship; and tell me another thing: would you like me to write to you? I know you 're not very fond of writing yourself, but I 'll not be exacting. You shall have two for one,—three, if you deserve it.”

He could not utter a word; his heart felt as if it would burst through his side, and a sense of suffocation almost choked him. He knew, if he tried to speak, that his emotion would break out, and in his pride he would have suffered torture rather than shed a tear.

With a woman's nice tact she saw his confusion, and hastened to relieve it. “The first letter must, however, be from you, Tony. It need be only half a dozen lines, to say if you have passed your examination, what you think of your new career, and where you are going.”

“I couldn't write!” stammered out Tony; “I could not!”

“Well, I will,” said she, with a tone of kind feeling. “Your mother shall tell me where to address you.”

“You will see mother, then?” asked he, eagerly.

“Of course, Tony. If Mrs. Butler will permit me, I will be a frequent visitor.”

“Oh, if I thought so!”

“Do think so,—be assured of it; and remember, Tony, whenever you have courage to think of me as your own old friend of long ago, write and tell me so.” These words were not said without a certain difficulty. “There, don't let us appear foolish to your smart friend, yonder. Goodbye.”

“Good-bye, Alice,” said he, and now the tears rushed fast, and rolled down his cheeks; but he drew his hand roughly across his face, and, springing upon the car, said, “Drive on, and as hard as you can; I am too late here.”

Skeffy shouted his adieux, and waved a most picturesque farewell; but Tony neither heard nor saw either. Both hands were pressed on his face, and he sobbed as if his very heart was breaking.

“Well, if that's not a melodramatic exit, I'm a Dutchman,” exclaimed Skeffy, turning to address Alice; but she too was gone, and he was left standing there alone.

“Don't be angry with me, Bella! don't scold, and I 'll tell you of an indiscretion I have just committed,” said Alice, as she sat on her sister's bed.

“I think I can guess it,” said Bella, looking up in her face.

“No, you cannot,—you are not within a thousand miles of it. I know perfectly what you mean, Bella; you suspect that I have opened a flirtation with the distinguished Londoner, the wonderful Skeffington Darner.”

Bella shook her head dissentingly.

“Not but one might,” continued Alice, laughing, “in a dull season, with an empty house and nothing to do; just as I 've seen you trying to play that twankling old harpsichord in the Flemish drawing-room, for want of better; but you are wrong, for all that.”

“It was not of him I was thinking, Alice,—on my word, it was not. I had another, and, I suppose, a very different person in my head.”

“Tony!”

“Just so.”

“Well, what of him; and what the indiscretion with which you would charge me?”

“With which you charge yourself, Alice dearest! I see it all in that pink spot on your cheek, in that trembling of your lips, and in that quick impatience of your manner.”

“Dear me! what can it be which has occasioned such agitation, and called up such terrible witnesses against me?”

“I 'll tell you, Alice. You have sent away that poor boy more in love than ever. You have let him carry away a hope which you well know is only a delusion.”

“I protest this is too bad. I never dreamed of such a lecture, and I 'll just go downstairs and make a victim of Mr. Damer.”

Alice arose and dashed out of the room; not, however, to do as she said, but to hurry to her own room, and lock the door after her as she entered it.