d; 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.

CHAPTER XIX. TONY'S TROUBLES

When Tony Butler met Mrs. Trafford's carriage, he was on his road, by a
cross path, to the back entrance of Lyle Abbey. It was not his intention
to pay a visit there at that moment, though he was resolved to do so
later. His present errand was to convey a letter he had written to
Maitland, accepting the proposal of the day before.

He had not closed his eyes all night thinking of it. There was a
captivation in its promise of adventure that he felt to be irresistible.
He knew too well the defects of his nature and of his intelligence not
to be aware that, in any of the ordinary and recognized paths in life,
he must see himself overtaken and left behind by almost all. What were
called the learned professions were strictly debarred to him. Had he
even the means for the study he would not have the qualities to pursue
them.

He did not feel that he could take willingly to a trade; as little
could he be a clerk. To be sure, he had obtained this appointment as
messenger, but how disparagingly Maitland had spoken of it! He said,
it is true they "weren't bad things," that "gentlemen somehow or other
managed to live on them;" but he hinted that these were gentlemen
whose knowledge of life had taught them a variety of little
accomplishments,--such as whist, billiards, and _ecarte_,--which form
the traffic of society, and a very profitable traffic too, to him who
knows a little more of them than his neighbors. Worst of all, it was
a career, Maitland said, that led to nothing. You can become an "old
messenger," if you live long enough, but nothing more; and he pictured
the life of a traveller who had lost every interest in the road he
journeyed,--who, in fact, only thought of it with reference to the time
it occupied,--as one of the dreariest of all imaginable things. "This
monotony," added he, "will do for the fellow who has seen everything and