Charles Lever - Tony Butler

Mrs. Butler seemed not to follow the doctor’s speech; indeed, her whole heart was so set on one object and one theme that it was only by an effort she could address herself to any other. The humblest piece in which Tony played was a drama full of interest. Without him the stage had no attraction, and she cared not who were the performers. The doctor, therefore, was some time before he perceived that his edifying reflections on the sins of pride and self-conceit were unheeded. Long experience had taught him tolerance in such matters; he had known even elders to nod; and so he took his hat and said farewell with a good grace, and a promise to help her with a letter to the Secretary of State whenever the time came to write it.

Late on the night of that day in which this conversation occurred, Mrs. Butler sat at her writing-desk, essaying for the tenth time how to address that great man whose favor she would propitiate. Letter-writing had never been her gift, and she distrusted her powers even unfairly in this respect. The present was, besides, a case of some difficulty. She knew nothing of the sort of person she was addressing beyond the fact that he and her husband, when very young men, lived on terms of close intimacy and friendship. It might be that the great Minister had forgotten all about that long ago, or might not care to be reminded of it. It might be that her husband in his sanguine and warm-hearted way, calculated rather on the affection he bestowed than that he should receive, and so deemed the friendship between them a closer and stronger tie than it was. It might be, too, – she had heard of such things, – that men in power are so besieged by those who assume to have claims upon them, that they lose temper and patience, and indiscriminately class all such applicants as mere hungry place-hunters, presuming upon some accidental meeting, – some hap-hazard acquaintance of a few minutes. “And so,” said she, “if he has not heard of my husband for thirty-odd years, he may come to look coldly on this letter of mine, and even ask, ‘Who is Eleanor Butler, and of whom is she the widow?’ I will simply say to him: The son of the late Colonel Walter Butler, with whose name his widow believes you are not unacquainted, solicits some assistance on your part, towards – towards – shall I say at once an appointment in one of our colonies, or merely what may forward his pursuits in a new world? I wish I could hit upon something that will not sound like the every-day tune that must ring in his ears; but how can I, when what I seek is the selfsame thing?”

She leaned her head on her hand in thought, and, as she pondered, it occurred to her what her husband would have thought of such a step as she was taking. Would Walter have sanctioned it? He was a proud man on such points. He had never asked for anything in his life, and it was one of his sayings, – “There was no station that was not too dearly bought at the price of asking for it” She canvassed and debated the question with herself, balancing all that she owed to her husband’s memory against all that she ought to attempt for her boy’s welfare. It was a matter of no easy solution; but an accident decided for her what all her reasoning failed in; for, as she sat thinking, a hurried step was heard on the gravel, and then the well-known sound of Tony’s latch-key followed, and he entered the room, flushed and heated. He was still in dinner-dress, but his cravat was partly awry, and his look excited and angry.

“Why, my dear Tony,” said she, rising, and parting his hair tenderly on his forehead, “I did n’t look for you here to-night; how came it that you left the Abbey at this hour?”

“Wasn’t it a very good hour to come home?” answered he, curtly. “We dined at eight; I left at half-past eleven. Nothing very unusual in all that.”

“But you always slept there; you had that nice room you told me of.”

“Well, I preferred coming home. I suppose that was reason enough.”

“What has happened, Tony darling? Tell me frankly and fearlessly what it is that has ruffled you. Who has such a right to know it, or, if need be, to sympathize with you, as your own dear mother?”

“How you run on, mother, and all about nothing! I dine out, and I come back a little earlier than my wont, and immediately you find out that some one has outraged or insulted me.”

“Oh, no, no. I never dreamed of that, my dear boy!” said she, coloring deeply.

“Well, there’s enough about it,” said he, pacing the room with hasty strides. “What is that you were saying the other day about a Mr. Elphinstone, – that he was an old friend of my father’s, and that they had chummed together long ago?”

“All these scrawls that you see there,” said she, pointing to the table, “have been attempts to write to him, Tony. I was trying to ask him to give you some sort of place somewhere.”

“The very thing I want, mother,” said he, with a half-bitter laugh, – “some sort of place somewhere.”

“And,” continued she, “I was pondering whether it might not be as well to see if Sir Arthur Lyle would n’t write to some of his friends in power – ”

“Why should we ask him? What has he to do with it?” broke he in, hastily. “I ‘m not the son of an old steward or family coachman, that I want to go about with a black pocket-book stuffed with recommendatory letters. Write simply and fearlessly to this great man, – I don’t know his rank, – and say whose son I am. Leave me to tell him the rest.”

“My dear Tony, you little know how such people are overwhelmed with such-like applications, and what slight chance there is that you will be distinguished from the rest.”

“At all events, I shall not have the humiliation of a patron. If he will do anything for me, it will be for the sake of my father’s memory, and I need not be ashamed of that.”

“What shall I write, then?” And she took up her pen.

“Sir – I suppose he is ‘Sir;’ or is he ‘My Lord’?”

“No. His name is Sir Harry Elphinstone.”

“Sir, – The young man who bears this note is the only son of the late Colonel Walter Butler, C.B. He has no fortune, no profession, no friends, and very little ability. Can you place him in any position where he may acquire some of the three first and can dispense with the last?

“Your humble servant,

“Eleanor Butler.”

“Oh, Tony! you don’t think we could send such a letter as this?” said she, with a half-sad smile.

“I am certain I could deliver it, mother,” said he, gravely, “and I ‘m sure that it would answer its purpose just as well as a more finished composition.”

“Let me at least make a good copy of it,” said she, as he folded it up and placed it in an envelope.

“No, no,” said he; “just write his name, and all the fine things that he is sure to be, before and after it, and, as I said before, leave the issue to me.”

“And when would you think of going, Tony?”

“To-morrow morning, by the steamer that will pass this on the way to Liverpool. I know the Captain, and he will give me a passage; he’s always teasing me to take a trip with him.”

“To-morrow! but how could you get ready by to-morrow? I ‘ll have to look over all your clothes, Tony.”

“My dear little mother,” said he, passing his arm round her, and kissing her affectionately, “how easy it is to hold a review where there ‘s only a corporal’s guard for inspection! All my efficient movables will fit into a very small portmanteau, and I ‘ll pack it in less than ten minutes.”

“I see no necessity for all this haste, particularly where we have so much to consider and talk over. We ought to consult the doctor, too; he’s a warm friend, Tony, and bears you a sincere affection.”