CHAPTER XXXVII. MR. BUTLER FOR DUTY ON------

“I suppose M'Gruder's right,” mattered Tony, as he sauntered away

drearily from the door at Downing Street, one day in the second week

after his arrival in London. “A man gets to feel very like a 'flunkey,'

coming up in this fashion each morning 'for orders.' I am more than half

disposed to close with his offer and go 'into rags' at once.”

If he hesitated, be assured himself, very confidently too, that it

was not from the name or nature of the commercial operation. He had no

objection to trade in rags any more than in hides or tallow or oakum,

and some gum which did not “breathe of Araby the blest.” He was sure

that it could not possibly affect his choice, and that rags were just as

legitimate and just as elevating a speculation as sherry from Cadiz or

silk from China. He was ingenious enough in his self-discussions; but

somehow, though he thought he could tell his mother frankly and honestly

the new trade he was about to embark in, for the life of him he could

not summon courage to make the communication to Alice. He fancied her,

as she read the avowal, repeating the word “rags,” and, while her lips

trembled with the coming laughter, saying, “What in the name of all

absurdity led him to such a choice?” And what a number of vapid and

tasteless jokes would it provoke! “Such snobbery as it all is,” cried

he, as he walked the room angrily; “as if there was any poetry in cotton

bales, or anything romantic in molasses, and yet I might engage in these

without reproach, without ridicule. I think I ought to be above such

considerations. I do think my good blood might serve to assure me

that in whatever I do honorably, honestly, and avowedly there is no

derogation.”

But the snobbery was stronger than he wotted of; for, do what he would,

he could not frame the sentence in which he should write the tidings to

Alice, and yet he felt that there would be a degree of meanness in the

non-avowal infinitely more intolerable.

While he thus chafed and fretted, he heard a quick step mounting the

stair, and at the same instant his door was flung open, and Skeffy

Darner rushed towards him and grasped both his hands.

“Well, old Tony, you scarcely expected to see me here, nor did I either

thirty hours ago, but they telegraphed for me to come at once. I 'm off

for Naples.”

“And why to Naples?”

“I 'll tell you, Tony,” said he, confidentially; “but remember this is

for yourself alone. These things mustn't get abroad; they are Cabinet

secrets, and not known out of the Privy Council.”

“You may trust me,” said Tony; and Skeffy went on.

“I 'm to be attached there,” said be, solemnly.

“What do you mean by attached?”

“I'm going there officially. They want me at our Legation. Sir George

Home is on leave, and Mecklam is Chargé d'Affaires; of course every one

knows what that means.”

“But _I_ don't,” said Tony, bluntly.

“It means being bullied, being jockeyed, being outmanoeuvred, laughed at

by Brennier, and derided by Caraffa. Mecklam's an ass, Tony, that 's

the fact, and they know it at the Office, and I'm sent out to steer the

ship.”

“But what do _you_ know about Naples?”

“I know it just as I know the Ecuador question,--just as I know the

Month of the Danube question,--as I know the slave treaty with Portugal,

and the Sound dues with Denmark, and the right of search, and the

Mosquito frontier, and everything else that is pending throughout the

whole globe. Let me tell you, old fellow, the others--the French, the

Italians, and the Austrians--know me as well as they know Palmerston.

What do you think Walewski told Lady Pancroft the day Cavour went down

to Vichy to see the Emperor? They held a long conversation at a table

where there were writing-materials, and Cavour has an Italian habit of

scribbling all the time he talks, and he kept on scratching with a pen

on a sheet of blotting-paper, and what do you think he wrote?--the one

word, over and over again, Skeff, Skeff,--nothing else. 'Which led us,'

says Walewski, 'to add, Who or what was Skeff? when they told us he was

a young fellow'--these are his own words--'of splendid abilities in the

Foreign Office;' and if there is anything remarkable in Cavour, it is

the way he knows and finds out the coming man.”

“But how could he have heard of you?”

“These fellows have their spies everywhere, Tony. Gortchakoff

has a photograph of me, with two words in Russian underneath, that I

got translated, and that mean 'infernally dangerous'--_tanski

serateztrskoff_, infernally dangerous!--over his stove in his study.

You 're behind the scenes now, Tony, and it will be rare fun for you

to watch the newspapers, and see how differently things will go on at

Naples after I arrive there.”

“Tell me something about home, Skeffy; I want to hear about Tilney. Whom

did you leave there when you came away?”

“I left the Lyles, Alice and Bella,--none else. I was to have gone back

with them to Lyle Abbey if I had stayed till Monday, and I left them, of

course, very disconsolate, and greatly put out.”

“I suppose you made up to Alice. I thought you would,” said Tony, half

sulkily.

“No, old fellow, you do me wrong; that's a thing I never do. As I

said to Ernest Palfi about Pauline Esterhazy, I 'll take no unfair

advantage,--I 'll take no steps in your absence; and Alice saw this

herself.”

“How do you mean? Alice saw it?” said Tony, reddening.

“She saw it, for she said to me one day, 'Mr. Damer, it seems to me you

have very punctilious notions on the score of friendship.'

“'I have,' said I; 'you 're right there.'

“'I thought so,' said she.”

“After all,” said Tony, in a half-dogged tone, “I don't see that the

speech had any reference to me, or to any peculiar delicacy of yours

with respect to me.”

“Ah, my poor Tony, you have a deal to learn about women and their ways!

By good luck fortune has given you a friend--the one man--I declare I

believe what I say--the one man in Europe that knows the whole thing; as

poor Balzac used to say, '_Cher_ Skeffy, what a fellow you would be if

you had my pen!' He was a vain creature, Balzac; but what he meant was,

if I could add his descriptive power to my own knowledge of life; for

you see, Tony, this was the difference between Balzac and me. He knew

Paris and the salons of Paris, and the women who frequent these salons.

I knew the human, heart. It was woman, as a creature, not a mere

conventionality, that she appeared to me.”

“Well, I take it,” grumbled out Tony, “you and your friend had some

points of resemblance too.”

“Ah! you would say that we were both vain. So we were, Tony,--so is

every man that is the depository of a certain power. Without this same

conscious thought, which you common folk call vanity, how should we come

to exercise the gift! The little world taunts us with the very quality

that is the essence of our superiority.”

“Had Bella perfectly recovered? was she able to be up and about?”

“Yes, she was able to take carriage airings, and to be driven about in a

small phaeton by the neatest whip in Europe.”

“Mr. Skeff Damer, eh?”

“The same. Ah, these drives, these drives! What delicious memories of

woodland and romance! I fell desperately in love with that girl, Tony--I

pledge you my honor I did. I 've thought a great deal over it all since

I started for Ireland, and I have a plan, a plan for us both.”

“What is it?”

“Let us marry these girls. Let us be brothers in law as well as in love.

You prefer Alice,--I consent. Take her, take her, Tony, and may you be

happy with her!” And as he spoke, he laid his hand on the other's head

with a reverend solemnity.

“This is nonsense, and worse than nonsense,” said Tony, angrily; but the

other's temper was imperturbable, and he went on: “You fancy this is

all dreamland that I 'm promising you: but that is because you, my dear

Tony, with many good qualities, are totally wanting in one,--you have

no imagination, and, like all fellows denied this gift, you never can

conceive anything happening to you except what has already happened.

You like to live in a circle, and you do live in a circle,--you are the

turnspits of humanity.”

“I am a troublesome dog, though, if you anger me,” said Tony, half

fiercely.

“Very possibly, but there are certain men dogs never attack.” And as

Skeffy said this, he threw forward his chest, held his head back, and

looked with an air of such proud defiance that Tony lay back in a chair

and laughed heartily.

“I never saw a great hulking fellow yet that was not impressed with the

greatness of his stature,” said Skeffy. “Every inch after five feet six

takes a foot off a man's intellectual standard. It is Skeff Darner says

it, Tony, and you may believe it.”

“I wish you 'd tell me about Tilney,” said Tony, half irritably.

“I appreciate you, as the French say. You want to hear that I am not

your rival,--you want to know that I have not taken any ungenerous

advantage of your absence. _Tonino mio_, be of good comfort,--I

preferred the sister; shall I tell you why?”

“I don't want to hear anything about it.”

“What a jealous dog it is, even after I have declared, on the word of a

Darner, that he has nothing to apprehend from me! It was a lucky day

led me down there, Tony. Don't you remember the old woman's note to me,

mentioning a hundred pounds, or something like it, she had forgotten to

enclose? She found the bank-note afterwards on her table, and after much

puzzling with herself, ascertained it was the sum she had meant to

remit me. Trifling as the incident was she thought it delicate, or

high-minded, or something or other, on my part. She said 'it was so nice

of me;' and she wrote to my uncle to ask if he ever heard such a pretty

trait, and my uncle said he knew scores of spendthrifts would have

done much the same; whereupon the old lady of Tilney, regarding me as

ill-used by my relatives, declared she would do something for me; but

as her good intentions were double-barrelled, and she wanted to do

something also for Bella, she suggested that we might, as the Oberland

peasants say, 'put our eggs in the same basket.' A day was named,

too, in which we were all to have gone over to Lyle Abbey, and open

negotiations with Sir Arthur, when came this confounded despatch

ordering me off to Naples! At first I determined not to go,--to

resign,--to give up public life forever. 'What's Hecuba to him?' said I;

that is, 'What signifies it to me how Europe fares? Shall I not think

of Skeff Darner and his fortunes?' Bowling down dynasties and setting

up ninepin princes may amuse a man, but, after all, is it not to the

tranquil enjoyments of home he looks for happiness? I consulted Bella,

but she would not agree with me. Women, my dear Tony, are more ambitious

than men,--I had almost said, more worldly. She would not, she said,

have me leave a career wherein I had given such great promise. 'You

might be an ambassador one day,' said she. 'Must be!' interposed

I,--'must be!' My unfortunate admission decided the question, and I

started that night.”

“I don't think I clearly understand you,” said Tony, passing his hand

over his brow. “Am I to believe that you and Bella are engaged?”

“I know what's passing in your mind, old fellow; I read you like large

print. You won't, you can't, credit the fact that I would marry out of

the peerage. Say it frankly; out with it.”

“Nothing of the kind; but I cannot believe that Bella--”

“Ay, but she did,” said Skeffy, filling up his pause, while he smoothed

and caressed his very young moustaches. “Trust a woman to find out the

coming man! Trust a woman to detect the qualities that insure supremacy!

I was n't there quite three weeks in all, and see if she did not

discover me. What's this? Here comes an order for you, Tony,” said he,

as he looked into the street and recognized one of the porters of the

Foreign Office. “This is the place, Trumins,” cried he, opening the

window and calling to the man. “You 're looking for Mr. Butler, are n't

you?”

“Mr. Butler on duty, Friday, 21,” was all that the slip of paper

contained. “There,” cried Skeffy, “who knows if we shall not cross the

Channel together to-night? Put on your hat and we 'll walk down to the

Office.”

CHAPTER XXXVII. TONY WAITING FOR ORDERS

Tony Butler was ordered to Brussels to place himself at the disposal of

the Minister as an ex-messenger. He crossed over to Calais with

Skeffy in the mail-boat; and after a long night's talking, for neither

attempted to sleep, they parted with the most fervent assurances of

friendship.

“I 'd go across Europe to thrash the fellow would say a hard word of

him,” muttered Tony; while Skeffy, with an emotion that made his lip

tremble, said, “If the world goes hard with you, I 'll turn my back

on it, and we 'll start for New Zealand or Madagascar, Tony, remember

that,--I give it to you as a pledge.”

When Tony presented himself at the Legation, he found that nobody

knew anything about him. They had some seven or eight months previous

requested to have an additional messenger appointed, as there were cases

occurring which required frequent reference to home; but the emergency

had passed over, and Brussels was once again as undisturbed by

diplomatic relations as any of the Channel Islands.

“Take a lodging and make yourself comfortable, marry, and subscribe to

a club if you like it,” said a gray-headed attaché, with a cynical face,

“for in all likelihood they'll never remember you're here.” The speaker

had some experiences of this sort of official forgetfulness, with the

added misfortune that, when he once had summoned courage to remonstrate

against it, they did remember him, but it was to change him from a first

to a second-class mission--in Irish phrase, promoting him backwards--for

his temerity.

Tony installed himself in a snug little quarter outside the town, and

set himself vigorously to study French. In Knickerbocker's “History of

New York,” we read that the sittings of the Council were always measured

and recorded by the number of pipes smoked by the Cabinet. In the same

way might it be said that Tony Butler's progress in Ollendorf was only

to be computed by the quantity of tobacco consumed over it. The pronouns

had cost two boxes of cigars; the genders a large packet of assorted

cavendish and bird's-eye; and he stood fast on the frontier of the

irregular verbs, waiting for a large bag of Turkish that Skeffy wrote to

say he had forwarded to him through the Office.

Why have we no statistics of the influence of tobacco on education? Why

will no one direct his attention to the inquiry as to how far the

Tony Butlers--a large class in the British Islands--are more moved to

exertion, or hopelessly muddled in intellect, by the soothing influences

of smoke?

Tony smoked on and on. He wrote home occasionally, and made three

attempts to write to Alice, who, despite his silence, had sent him a

very pleasant letter about home matters. It was not a neighborhood to

afford much news; and indeed, as she said, “they have been unusually

dull of late; scarcely any visitors, and few of the neighbors. We

miss your friend Skeff greatly; for, with all his oddities and

eccentricities, he had won upon us immensely by real traits of

generosity and high-mindedness. There is another friend of yours here

I would gladly know well, but she--Miss Stewart--retreats from all my

advances, and has so positively declined all our invitations to the

Abbey that it would seem to imply, if such a thing were possible, a

special determination to avoid us. I know you well enough, Master Tony,

to be aware that you will ascribe all my ardor in this pursuit to the

fact of there being an obstacle. As you once told me about a certain

short cut from Portrush, the only real advantage it had was a stiff

four-foot wall which must be jumped; but you are wrong, and you are

unjust,--two things not at all new to you. My intentions here were

really good. I had heard from your dear mother that Miss Stewart was in

bad health,--that fears were felt lest her chest was affected. Now, as

the doctors concurred in declaring that Bella must pass one winter, at

least, in a warm climate, so I imagined how easy it would be to extend

the benefit of genial air and sunshine to this really interesting girl,

by offering, to take her as a companion. Bella was charmed with my

project, and we walked over to the Burn-side on Tuesday to propose it in

all form.

“To the shame of our diplomacy we failed completely. The old minister,

indeed, was not averse to the plan, and professed to think it a most

thoughtful attention on our part; but Dolly,--I call her Dolly, for it

is by that name, so often recurring in the discussion, I associate

her best with the incident,--Dolly was peremptory in her refusal. I

wanted,--perhaps a little unfairly,--I wanted to hear her reasons. I

asked if there might not possibly be something in her objections to

which we could reply. I pressed her to reconsider the matter,--to take

a week, two if she liked, to think over it; but no, she would not listen

to my compromise; she was steady and resolute, and yet at the same time

much moved. She said 'No!' but she said it as if there was a reason she

should say so, while it was in direct violence to all her wishes. Mind,

this is mere surmise on my part. I am speaking of one of whose nature

and temperament I know nothing. I may just as easily be wrong as

right. She is, indeed, a puzzle to me; and one little trait of her has

completely routed all my conceit in my own power of reading character.

In my eagerness to overcome her objections, I was picturing the life

of enjoyment and interest Italy would open to her,--the charm of a land

that realizes in daily life what poets and painters can only

shadow forth; and in my ardor I so far forgot myself as to call her

Dolly,--'dear Dolly,' I said. The words overcame her at once. She grew

pale, so sickly pale that I thought she would have fainted; and as two

heavy tears stood in her eyes, she said in a cold quiet voice: 'I beg

you will not press me any more. I am very grateful to you; but I cannot

accept your offer.'

“Bella insisted on our going over to your mother, and enlisting her

advocacy in the cause. I did not like the notion, but I gave way. Your

dear mother, all kind as she ever is, went the same evening to the

Burnside; but a short note from her the next morning showed she had no

better success than ourselves.

“Naturally,--you at least will say so,--I am ten times more eager about

my plan now that it is pronounced impracticable. I have written to Dr.

Stewart. I have sent papa to him; mamma has called at the cottage.

I have made Dr. Reede give a written declaration that Miss Stewart's

case,--I quote him,--'as indicated by a distinct “Bronchoffany” in the

superior portion of the right lung, imperatively demands the benefit of

a warm and genial climate;' and with all these _pièces de conviction_ I

am beaten, turned out of court, and denied a verdict.

“Have you any explanation to offer about this, Master Tony? Dolly was an

old playfellow of yours, your mother tells me. What key can you give us

as to her nature? Is she like what she was in those old days; and when

did you cease to have these games together? I fancied--was it mere

fancy?--that she grew a little red when we spoke of you. Mind, sir, I

want no confessions. I want nothing from _you_ but what may serve to

throw light upon _her_. If you can suggest to me any means of overcoming

the objection she seems to entertain to our plan, do so; and if you

cannot, please to hold your peace on this matter ever after. I wrote

yesterday to Mark, who is now at Milan, to make some inquiries about

Italian villa life. I was really afraid to speak to your friend Skeff,

lest, as mamma said, he should immediately offer us one of the royal

palaces as a residence. No matter, he is a dear good fellow, and I have

an unbounded reliance on his generosity.

“Not, a word about yourself. Why are you at Brussels? Why are you a

fixed star, after telling us you were engaged as a planet? Are there any

mysterious reasons for your residence there? If so, I don't ask to hear

them; but your mother naturally would like to know something about you

a little more explanatory than your last bulletin, that said, 'I am here

still, and likely to be so.'

“I had a most amusing letter from Mr. Maitland a few days ago. I had put

it into this envelope to let you read it, but I took it out again, as I

remembered your great and very unjust prejudices against him. He seems

to know every one and everything, and is just as familiar with the great

events of politics as with the great people who mould them. I read

for your mother his description of the life at Fontainebleau, and the

eccentricities of a beautiful Italian Countess Castagnolo, the reigning

belle there; and she was much amused, though she owned that four changes

of raiment daily was too much even for Delilah herself.

“Do put a little coercion on yourself, and write me even a note. I

assure you I would write you most pleasant little letters if you showed

you merited them. I have a budget of small gossip about the neighbors,

no particle of which shall you ever see till you deserve better of your

old friend,

“Alice Trafford.”

It may be imagined that it was in a very varying tone of mind he

read through this letter. If Dolly's refusal was not based on her

unwillingness to leave her father,--and if it were, she could have said

so,--it was quite inexplicable. Of all the girls he had ever known, he

never saw one more likely to be captivated by such an offer. She had

that sort of nature that likes to invest each event of life with a

certain romance; and where could anything have opened such a vista for

castle-building as this scheme of foreign travel? Of course he could not

explain it; how should he? Dolly was only partly like what she used to

be long ago. In those days she had no secrets,--at least, none from him;

now she had long dreary intervals of silence and reflection, as though

brooding over something she did not wish to tell of. This was not the

Dolly Stewart he used to know so well. As he re-read the letter, and

came to that passage in which she tells him that if he cannot explain

what Dolly's refusal is owing to without making a confession, he need

not do so, he grew almost irritable, and said, “What can she mean by

this?” Surely it is not possible that Alice could have listened to any

story that coupled his name with Dolly's, and should thus by insinuation

charge him with the allegation? Lady Lyle had said to himself, “I heard

the story from one of the girls.” Was it this, then, that Alice referred

to? Surely she knew him better; surely she knew how he loved her, no

matter how hopelessly it might be. Perhaps women liked to give this sort

of pain to those whose heart they owned. Perhaps it was a species of

torture they were given to. Skeffy could tell if he were here. Skeffy

could resolve this point at once, but it was too much for _him_.

As to the passage about Maitland, he almost tore the paper as he read

it. By what right did he correspond with her at all? Why should he write

to her even such small matter as the gossip of a court? And what could

Alice mean by telling him of it, unless--and oh, the bitterness of this

thought!--it was to intimate by a mere passing word the relations that

subsisted between herself and Maitland, and thus convey to him the utter

hopelessness of his own pretensions?

As Tony walked up and down his room, he devised a very strong, it was

almost a fierce, reply to this letter. He would tell her that as to

Dolly he could not say, but she might have some of his own scruples

about that same position called companion. When he knew her long ago,

she was independent enough in spirit, and it was by no means impossible

she might prefer a less brilliant condition if unclogged with

observances that might savor of homage. At all events, _he_ was no fine

and subtle intelligence to whom a case of difficulty could be submitted.

As for Maitland, he hated him! he was not going to conceal it in any

way. His air of insolent superiority he had not forgotten, nor would he

forget till he had found an opportunity to retort it. Alice might think

him as amusing as she pleased. To himself the man was simply odious, and

if the result of all his varied gifts and accomplishments was only

to make up such a being as he was, then would he welcome the most

unlettered and uninformed clown that ever walked, rather than this mass

of conceit and self-sufficiency.

He sat down to commit these thoughts to paper, and though he scrawled

over seven sheets in the attempt, nothing but failure came of it.

Maitland came in, if not by name, by insinuation, everywhere; and, in

spite of himself, he found he had got into a tone not merely querulous,

but actually aggressive, and was using towards Alice an air of reproof

that he almost trembled at as he re-read it.

“This will never do,” cried he, as he tore up the scribbled sheets. “I

'll wait till to-morrow, and perhaps I shall do better.” When the morrow

came, he was despatched on duty, and Alice remained unanswered.

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE MAJOR'S MISSION

If my reader has been as retentive as I could wish him, he will have

borne in mind that on the evening when Major M'Caskey took a very

menacing leave of Norman Maitland at Paris, Count Caffarelli had

promised his friend to write to General Filangieri to obtain from the

King a letter addressed to Maitland in the royal hand by the title

of Count of Amalfi,--such a recognition being as valid an act of

ennoblement as all the declarations and registrations and emblazonments

of heralds and the colleges.

It had been originally intended that this letter should be enclosed to

Count Ludolf, the Neapolitan envoy at Turin, where Maitland would have

found it; but seeing the spirit which had now grown up between Maitland

and M'Caskey, and foreseeing well what would occur whenever these two

men should meet, Caffarelli, with that astuteness that never fails the

Italian, determined to avert the peril by a stratagem which lent its aid

to the object he had in hand. He begged the General would transmit the

letter from the King, not to Turin, but to the Castello di Montanara,

where Maitland had long resided, in a far-away part of Calabria, and

employ as the messenger M'Caskey himself; by which means this very

irritable and irritating individual might be, for a time at least,

withdrawn from public view, and an immediate meeting with Maitland

prevented.

It was not very difficult, without any breach of confidence, for

Caffarelli to convey to Filangieri that his choice of M'Caskey for this

mission was something stronger than a caprice, and that his real wish

was that this fiery personage should not be at Naples when they arrived

there.

A very brief note, which reached Caffarelli before he had left Paris,

informed him that all he had requested had been duly done. “He gave

it,”--it was of the King he spoke,--“he gave it at once, Carlo; only

saying, with a laugh, 'One of my brothers may dispute it with him some

of these days, for it gives some privilege; but whether it be to claim

the rights of the Church after high treason, or to have two wives in

Lower Calabria, I don't remember; but tell your friend to avoid both

murder and matrimony, at least till he returns to a more civilized

region.'

“I shall send the Irish Major with the despatch, as you wish. If I

understand you aright, you are not over-anxious he should come back

with the answer. But why not be more explicit? If you want----remember

Calabria is----Calabria,--you understand.”

At first Caffarelli had intended not to show this note to Maitland; but

the profound contempt which his friend exhibited for M'Caskey, proved

that no sense of a debt of honor outstanding between them would lessen

Maitland's satisfaction at hearing that this troublesome “cur”--so he

called him--should not be yelping at his heels through the streets of

Naples.

Maitland, in fact, declared that he knew of no misfortune in life so

thoroughly ruinous as to be confronted in a quarrel with a questionable

antagonist. From the ridicule of such a situation, he averred, the

only escape was in a fatal ending; and Maitland knew nothing so bad as

ridicule. Enmity in all its shapes he had faced, and could face again.

Give him a foe but worthy of him, and no man ever sprang into the lists

with a lighter heart; the dread of a false position was too much for

him.

Leaving these two friends then at Paris, to talk, amid their lives of

many dissipations, of plots and schemes and ambitions, let us

betake ourselves to a very distant spot, at the extreme verge of the

Continent,--a little inlet on the Calabrian coast below Reggio; where,

on a small promontory separating two narrow bays, stands the lone

castle of Montanara. It had been originally a convent, as its vast size

indicates, but was purchased and converted into a royal residence by a

former king of Naples, who spent incredible sums on the buildings and

the gardens. The latter, especially, were most costly, since they were

entirely artificial,--the earth having been carried from the vicinity of

Naples.

The castle itself was the most incongruous mass that could be conceived,

embracing the fortress, the convent, the ornate style of Venice, and the

luxurious vastness of an Oriental palace, all within its walls. It may

be imagined that no private fortune, however ample, could have kept in

perfect order a place of such immense size, the gardens alone requiring

above thirty men constantly at work, and the repairs of the sea-wall

being a labor that never ended.

The present occupant, Sir Omerod Butler, lived in one small block

called the “Biolo,” which projected into the sea at the very end of the

promontory, and was approachable on the land side by a beautiful avenue

of cedars. They were of great age, and, tradition said, had been brought

from Lebanon. If ruin and neglect and desolation characterized all

around, no sooner had the traveller entered this shady approach than all

changed to the most perfect care and culture,--flowery shrubs of every

kind, beds of gorgeous flowers, _pergolati_ of vines leading down to

the sea, and orange groves dipping their golden balls in the blue

Mediterranean at every step, till the ample gate was reached; passing

into which you entered a spacious court paved with variegated marble,

with a massive fountain in the centre. From this court, under a pillared

archway, led off all the lower rooms,--great spacious chambers, with

richly painted ceilings and tessellated floors. Into these was gathered

the most costly furniture of the whole palace; tables and consoles of

malachite and porphyry, gorgeously inlaid slabs of _lapis lazuli_ and

agate, cabinets of rare beauty, and objects of ancient art. Passing

through these again, you gained the rooms of daily habitation, arranged

with all the taste and luxury of modern refinement, and distinctively

marking that the cold splendor without could not attain to that sense of

comfort and voluptuous ease which an age of greater indulgence requires.

The outer gate of the castle, which opened by a draw-bridge over a deep

moat, on the Reggio road, was little less than a mile off; and it may

give some idea of the vast size of the place to state that, from that

entrance to the Molo, there was a succession of buildings of one kind or

other, only interrupted by areas of courtyard or garden.

When, at the close of a sultry day, Major M'Caskey presented himself at

this gate, summoning the porter with a vigorous pull of the bell, he was

not admitted till a very careful scrutiny showed that he was alone, and

did not, besides, exhibit anything very formidable in his appearance. He

was told, as he passed in, that he must leave his horse at the stables

beside the gate, and make the rest of his way on foot The Major was both

tired and hungry; he had been in the saddle since daybreak, had twice

missed his way, and tasted no food since he set out.

“Is there much more of this confounded way to go?” asked he of his

guide, as they now mounted a terrace, only to descend again.

“About a quarter of an hour will bring you to the Molo,” said the other,

just as ill-pleased to have the duty of escorting him. A quick glance

at the fellow's face showed the Major how hopeless it would be to

expect any information from him; and though he was burning to know who

inhabited this lonesome place, and why he lived there, he forebore all

questioning, and went along in silence.

“There!” said his guide, at last, as they reached a great archway

standing alone in a sort of lawn,--“there! you follow that road to the

little gate yonder, pass in, cross the garden, and you will be at the

side entrance of the Molo. I don't suppose you want to enter by the

grand gate?”

Major M'Caskey was not much in the habit of suffering an insolence to

pass unresented; but he seemed to control himself as he drew forth his

purse and took out a crown piece. “This is for your trouble, my worthy

fellow,” said he; “go and look for it yonder;” and he jerked the piece

of money over the low parapet, and sent it skimming along the sea a

hundred yards off.

Though the man's lips murmured in passion, and his dark eyes flashed

anger, one look at the face of his companion assured him that the safer

policy was to restrain his wrath, and, touching his hat in salute, he

retired without a word.

As though he felt in better temper with himself for having thus

discharged this little debt, the Major stepped more briskly forward,

gained the small postern, and entered a large and formal garden, the

chief avenue of which showed him the gate at the extremity. It lay open,

and he found himself in a large vaulted hall, from which doors led off.

In doubt which course to take, he turned to seek for a bell, but there

was none to be found; and after a careful search on every side, he

determined to announce himself by a stout knocking at one of the doors

before him.

The hollow clamor resounded through the whole building, and soon brought

down two men in faded livery, half terrified, half angry at the summons.

M'Caskey, at once assuming the upper hand, a habit in which practice

had made him proficient, demanded haughtily to see “the Count,” their

master.

“He is at dinner,” said they both together.

“I wish I were so too,” said the Major. “Go in and tell him that I am

the bearer of a royal despatch, and desire to see him immediately.”

They held counsel together in whispers for a few minutes, during which

the name Maria occurred frequently between them. “We will tell the

Signora Maria you are here,” said one, at last.

“And who may she be?” said M'Caskey, haughtily.

“She is the Cameriera of the Countess, and the chief of all the

household.”

“My business is not with a waiting-woman. I have come to see the Count

of Amalfi,” said the Major, sternly.

The men apparently knew their own duties best, and, civilly asking

him to follow, they led the way up a small flight of stairs, and after

traversing some scantily furnished rooms, showed him into a pretty

decorated little chamber, with two windows looking on the sea.

Having politely begged him to be seated, they left him. The Major,

besides being hungry and jaded, was irritable and angry. Filangieri had

told him his mission was one of importance and high trust; in fact, so

much so, that it could not be confided to one less known than himself.

And was this the way they received a royal envoy, sent on such an

errand? While he thus fumed and chafed, he heard a door open and

close, and shortly after the sweep of a woman's dress coming along the

corridor; and now the step came nearer, and the door opened, and a tall,

sickly-looking woman entered; but scarcely had she advanced one pace

within the room, when she uttered a faint scream and fainted.

The Major's first care was to turn the key in the lock; his second was

to lift up the almost lifeless figure, and place her on a sofa. As he

did so, any emotion that his features betrayed was rather of displeasure

than astonishment; and in the impatient way he jerked open the window

to let the fresh air blow on her, there was far more of anger than

surprise.

“So, then, you are the Signora Maria, it would seem,” were the first

words she heard as she rallied from her swoon.

“Oh, Miles!” cried she, with an intense agony, “why have you tracked me

here? Could you not have let me drag out my few years of life in peace?”

It was difficult to guess how these words affected him, or, rather, in

how many different ways; for though at first his eyes flashed angrily,

he soon gave a short jeering sort of laugh, and, throwing himself down

into a chair, he crossed his arms on his breast and gazed steadily at

her.

The look seemed to remind her of bygone suffering, for she turned her

head away, and then covered her face with her hands.

“Signora Maria,” said he, slowly,--“unless, indeed, you still desire I

should call you Mrs. M'Caskey.”

“No, no,--Maria,” cried she, wildly; “I am but a servant--I toil for

my bread; but better that than--” She stopped, and, after an effort to

subdue her emotion, burst into tears and sobbed bitterly.

“It matters little to me, madam, what the name. The chain that ties

us is just as irrevocable, whatever we choose to call ourselves. As

to anything else, I do not suppose you intend to claim _me_ as your

husband.”

“No, no, never,” cried she, impetuously.

“Nor am I less generous, madam. None shall ever hear from me that you

were my wife. The contract was one that brought little credit to either

of us.”

“Nothing but misery and misfortune to me!” said she, bitterly; “nothing

else,--nothing else!”

“You remind me, madam,” said he, in a slow, deliberate voice, as though

he were enunciating some long-resolved sentiment,--“you remind me much

of Josephine.”

“Who is Josephine?” asked she, quickly.

“I speak of the Empress Josephine, so you may perceive that I have

sought your parallel in high places. She, like you, deemed herself the

most unhappy of women, and all because destiny had linked her with a

greatness that she could not measure.”

Though her vacant stare might have assured him either that she did not

understand his words, or follow their meaning, never daunted, he went

on.

“Yes, madam; and, like _her_ husband, yours has had much to

bear,--levity, frivolity, and--worse.”

“What are you here for? Why have you come after me?” cried she, wildly.

“I swore to you before, and I swear it again, that I will never go back

to you.”

“Whenever you reduce that pledge to writing, madam, call on me to be

your security for its due performance; be it known to you, therefore,

that this meeting was an unexpected happiness to me.”

She covered her face, and rocked to and fro like one in the throes of a

deep suffering.

“I should be a glutton, madam, if I desired a repetition of such scenes

as these; they filled eight years--eight mortal years--of a life not

otherwise immemorable.”

“And what have they done for _me?_” cried she, roused almost to boldness

by his taunting manner.

“Made you thinner, paler, a trifle more aged, perhaps,” said he,

scanning her leisurely; “but always what Frenchmen would call a _femme

charmante_.”

The mockery seemed more than she could bear, for she sprang to her

feet, and, in a voice vibrating with passion, said, “Take care, Miles

M'Caskey,--take care; there are men here, if they saw me insulted, would

throw you over that sea-wall as soon as look at you.”

“Ring for your bravos, madam,--summon your condottieri at once,” said

he, with an impudent laugh; “they 'll have some warmer work than they

bargained for.”

“Oh, why not leave me in peace?--why not let me have these few years of

life without more of shame and misery?” said she, throwing herself on

her knees before him.

“Permit me to offer you a chair, madam,” said he, as he took her hands,

and placed her on a seat; “and let me beg that we talk of something

else. Who is the Count?--'The Onoratissimo e Pregiatissimo Signor

Conte,'” for he read now from the address of a letter he had drawn from

his pocket,--“'Signor Conte d'Amalfi,'--is that the name of the owner of

this place?”

“No; it is the Chevalier Butler, formerly minister at Naples, lives

here,--Sir Omerod Bramston Butler.”

“Ah, then, I perceive it is really meant for another person! I thought

it was a mode of addressing him secretly. The Count of Amalfi lives

here, perhaps?” “I never heard of him.” “Who lives here besides Sir

Omerod?” “My Lady,--that is, the Countess; none else.” “Who is the

Countess? Countess of what, and where?” “She is a Milanese; she was a

Brancaleone.” “Brancaleone, Brancaleone! there were two of them. One

went to Mexico with the Duke of Sommariva,--not his wife.”

“This is the other; she is married to Sir Omerod.” “She must be Virginia

Brancaleone,” said M'Caskey, trying to remember,--“the same Lord Byron

used to rave about.” She nodded an assent, and he continued,--“Nini

Brancaleone was a toast, I remember, with Wraxall and Trelawney, and

the rest of us. She was the 'reason fair' of many a good glass of claret

which Byron gave us, in those days before he became stingy.”

“You had better keep your memories to yourself in case you meet her,”

said she, warningly. “Miles M'Caskey, madam, requires very little advice

or admonition in a matter that touches tact or good breeding.” A sickly

smile of more than half-derision curled the woman's lip, but she did not

speak.

“And now let us come back to this Count of Amalfi, who is he? where is

he?”

“I have told you already I do not know.”

“There was a time, madam, you would have required no second intimation

that it was your duty to find out.”

“Ah, I remember those words but too well,” cried she, bitterly. “Finding

out was my task for many a year.”

“Well, madam, it was an exercise that might have put a fine edge on

your understanding, but, like some other advantages of your station, it

slipped by you without profit. I am generous, madam, and I forbear to

say more. Tell me of these people here all that you know of them, for

they are my more immediate interest at present.”

“I will tell you everything, on the simple condition that you never

speak to me nor of me again. Promise me but this, Miles M'Caskey, and I

swear to you I will conceal nothing that I know of them.”

“You make hard terms, madam,” said he, with a mock courtesy. “It is no

small privation to be denied the pleasure of your agreeable presence,

but I comply.”

“And this shall be our last meeting?” asked she, with a look of

imploring meaning.

“Alas, madam, if it must be!”

“Take care,” cried she, suddenly; “you once by your mockery drove me

to--”

“Well, madam, your memory will perhaps record what followed. I shot

the friend who took up your cause. Do you chance to know of another who

would like to imitate his fortune?”

“Gracious Heaven!” cried she, in an agony, “has nothing the power to

change your cruel nature; or are you to be hard-hearted and merciless to

the end?”

“I am proud to say, madam, that Miles M'Caskey comes of a house whose

motto is 'Semper M'Caskey'.”

A scornful curl of her lip seemed to show what respect she felt for the

heraldic allusion; but she recovered herself quickly, and said, “I can

stay no longer. It is the hour the Countess requires me; but I will

come back to-morrow, without you would let me buy off this meeting. Yes,

Miles, I am in earnest; this misery is too much for me. I have saved a

little sum, and I have it by me in gold. You must be more changed than

I can believe, or you will be in want of money. You shall have it all,

every ducat of it, if you only pledge me your word never to molest

me,--never to follow me,--never to recognize me again!”

“Madam,” said he, severely, “this menial station you have descended to

must have blunted your sense of honor rudely, or you had never dared

to make me such a proposal. Let me see you to-morrow, and for the last

time.” And haughtily waving his hand, he motioned to her to leave; and

she turned away, with her hands over her face, and quitted the room.

CHAPTER XL. THE MAJOR'S TRIALS

Major Miles M'Caskey is not a foreground figure in this our story, nor

have we any reason to suppose that he possesses any attractions for

our readers. When such men--and there are such to be found on life's

highway--are met with, the world usually gives them what sailors call

a “wide berth and ample room to swing in,” sincerely trusting that they

will soon trip their anchor and sail off again. Seeing all this, I have

no pretension, nor indeed any wish, to impose his company any more

than is strictly indispensable, nor dwell on his sojourn at the Molo of

Montanara. Indeed, his life at that place was so monotonous and weary to

himself, it would be a needless cruelty to chronicle it.

The Major, as we have once passingly seen, kept a sort of brief journal

of his daily doings; and a few short extracts from this will tell us all

that we need know of him. On a page of which the upper portion was torn

away, we find the following:--

“Arrived at M----- on the 6th at sunset. Ruined old rookery.

Open at land side, and sea defences all carried away; never could

have been strong against artillery. Found Mrs. M'C. in the style of

waiting-woman to a Countess Butler, formerly Nini Brancaleone. A warm

interview; difficult to persuade her that I was not in pursuit of

herself,--a feminine delusion I tried to dissipate. She”--henceforth it

is thus he always designates Mrs. M'Caskey--“she avers that she knows

nothing of the Count d' Amalfi, nor has ever seen him. Went into a long

story about Sir Omerod Butler, of whom I know more myself. She pretends

that Nini is married to him--legally married; don't believe a word of it

Have my own suspicions that the title of Amalfi has been conferred on B.

himself, for he lives estranged from England and Englishmen. Will learn

all, however, before I leave.

“Roast pigeons, with tomato, a strange fish, and omelette, with Capri

to wash it down; a meagre supper, but they say it shall be better

to-morrow.

“_7th, Wednesday_.--Slept soundly and had a swim; took a sea view of the

place, but could see no one about. Capital breakfast--'_Frutti di mare_'

boiled in Rhine wine; fellow who waited said a favorite dish of his

Excellency's, meaning Sir. O. B. Best chocolate I ever tasted out of

Paris. Found the _menu_ for dinner on the table all right; the wine is

_au choix_, and I begin with La Rose and La Veuve Cliquot. A note from

her referring to something said last night; she is ill and cannot see

me, but encloses an order on Parodi of Genoa, in favor of the nobile

Signor il Maggiore M'Caskey, for three thousand seven hundred and

forty-eight francs, and a small tortoise-shell box, containing

eighty-six double ducats in gold, so that it would seem I have fallen

into a '_vrai Californie_' here. Reflected, and replied with a refusal;

a M'Caskey cannot stoop to this. Reproved her for ignoring the character

to whom she addressed such a proposal, and reiterated my remark of last

night, that she never rose to the level at which she could rightly take

in the native chivalry of my nature.

“Inquired if my presence had been announced to Sir O., and learned it

had. Orders given to treat me with distinguished consideration, but

nothing said of an audience.

“Pigeons again for supper, with apology; quails had been sent for to

Messina, and expected to-morrow. Shot at a champagne-flask in the sea,

and smoked. Sir O.'s tobacco exquisite, and the supply so ample, I am

making a _petite provision_ for the future.

“Full moon. Shot at the camellias out of my window. Knocked off

seventeen, when I heard a sharp cry,--a stray shot, I suppose. Shut the

casement and went to bed.

“_Thursday_.--Gardener's boy--flesh wound in the calf of the leg; hope

Sir O. may hear of it and send for me.

“A glorious capon for dinner, stuffed with oysters,--veritable oysters.

Drank Mrs. M'C.'s health in the impression that this was a polite

attention on her part. No message from Sir O.

“_Friday_.--A general fast; a lentil soup and a fish; good but meagre;

took it out in wine and tobacco. Had the gardener's boy up, and

introduced him to sherry-cobbler. The effect miraculous; danced

Tarantella till the bandage came off and he fainted.

“_Saturday_.--Rain and wind; macaroni much smoked; cook lays it on the

chimney, that won't draw with a Levant wind. Read over my instructions

again, and understand them as little as before: 'You will hold yourself

at the orders of the Count d'Amalfi till further instructions from this

department.' Vague enough all this; and for anything I see, or am likely

to see, of this Count, I may pass the autumn here. Tried to attract

Sir O.'s attention by knocking off the oranges at top of his wall, and

received intimation to fire in some other direction.

“_Sunday_.--Don Luigi something has come to say mass. Asked him to

dinner, but find him engaged to the Countess. A dry old cove, who

evidently knows everything but will tell nothing; has promised to lend

me a guitar and a book or two, in return for which I have sent down

three bottles of our host's champagne to his reverence.

“_Monday_.--Lobsters.

“_Tuesday_.--Somebody ill apparently; much ringing of bells and

disorder. My dinner an hour late. Another appeal from Mrs. M'C,

repeating her former proposal with greater energy; this feminine

insistence provokes me. I might tell her that of the three women who

have borne my name none but herself would have so far presumed, but

I forbear. Pity has ever been the weakness of my nature; I feel its

workings even as I write this. It may not carry me to the length of

forgiveness, but I can compassionate; I will send her this note:--

“'Madam,--Your prayers have succeeded; I yield. It would not be generous

in me to say what the sacrifice has cost me. When a M'Caskey bends, it

is an oak of the forest snaps in two. I make but one condition; I will

have no gratitude. Keep the tears that you would shed at my feet for the

hours of your solitary sorrow. You will, see, therefore, that we are to

meet no more.

“'One of the ducats is clipped on the edge, and another discolored as

by an acid; I am above requiring that they be exchanged. Nothing in this

last act of our intercourse shall prevent you remembering me as “Semper

M'Caskey.”'

“'Your check should have specified Parodi & Co., not Parodi alone. To a

man less known the omission might give inconvenience; this too, however,

I pardon. Farewell.'”

It was evident that the Major felt he had completed this task with

befitting dignity, for he stood up before a large glass, and, placing

one hand within his waistcoat, he gazed at himself in a sort of

rapturous veneration. “Yes,” said he, thoughtfully, “George Seymour and

D'Orsay and myself, we were men! When shall the world look upon our

like again? Each in his own style, too, perfectly distinct, perfectly

dissimilar,--neither of them, however, had this,--neither had this,”

cried he, as he darted a look of catlike fierceness from his fiery gray

eyes. “The Princess Metternich fainted when I gave her that glance. She

had the temerity to say, 'Qui est ce Monsieur M'Caskey?' Why not ask who

is Soult? Who is Wellington? Who is everybody? Such is the ignorance

of a woman! Madame la princesse,” added he, in a graver tone, “if it

be your fortune to turn your footsteps to Montpellier, walk into the

churchyard there, and see the tomb of Jules de Besançon, late major of

the 8th Cuirassiers, and whose inscription is in these few words,--'Tué

par M'Caskey.' I put up the monument myself, for he was a brave soldier,

and deserved his immortality.”

Though self-admiration was an attractive pastime, it palled on him at

last, and he sat down and piled up the gold double ducats in two tall

columns, and speculated on the various pleasures they might procure,

and then he read over the draft on Parodi, and pictured to his mind some

more enjoyments, all of which were justly his due, “for,” as he said to

himself aloud, “I have dealt generously by that woman.”

At last he arose, and went out on the terrace. It was a bright starlit

night, one of those truly Italian nights when the planets streak the

calm sea with long lines of light, and the very air seems weary with its

burden of perfume. Of the voluptuous enervation that comes of such

an hour he neither knew nor asked to know. Stillness and calm to him

savored only of death; he wanted movement, activity, excitement, life,

in fact,--life as he had always known and always liked it. Once or twice

the suspicion had crossed his mind that he had been sent on this distant

expedition to get rid of him when something of moment was being done

elsewhere. His inordinate vanity could readily supply the reasons for

such a course. He was one of those men that in times of trouble become

at once famous. “They call us dangerous,” said he, “just as Cromwell was

dangerous, Luther was dangerous, Napoleon was dangerous. But if we are

dangerous, it is because we are driven to it. Admit the superiority that

you cannot oppose, yield to the inherent greatness that you can only

struggle against, and you will find that we are not dangerous,--we are

salutary.”

“Is it possible,” cried he, aloud, “that this has been a plot,--that

while I am here living this life of inglorious idleness the great stake

is on the table,--the game is begun, and the King's crown being

played for?” M'Caskey knew that whether royalty conquered or was

vanquished,--however the struggle ended,--there was to be a grand scene

of pillage. The nobles or the merchants--it mattered very little which

to him--were to pay for the coming convulsion. Often and often, as he

walked the streets of Naples, had he stood before a magnificent palace

or a great counting-house, and speculated on the time when it should be

his prerogative to smash in that stout door, and proclaim all within it

his own. “_Spolia di_ M'Caskey,” was the inscription that he felt would

defy the cupidity of the boldest. “I will stand on the balcony,” said

he, “and declare, with a wave of my hand, These are mine: pass on to

other pillage.”

The horrible suspicion that he might be actually a prisoner all this

time gained on him more and more, and he ransacked his mind to think of

some great name in history whose fate resembled his own. “Could I only

assure myself of this,” said he, passionately, “it is not these old

walls would long confine me; I 'd scale the highest of them in half an

hour; or I 'd take to the sea, and swim round that point yonder,--it 's

not two miles off; and I remember there's a village quite close to it.”

Though thus the prospect of escape presented itself so palpably before

him, he was deterred from it by the thought that if no intention of

forcible detention had ever existed, the fact of his having feared

it would be an indelible stain upon his courage. “What an indignity,”

thought he, “for a M'Caskey to have yielded to a causeless dread!”

As he thus thought, he saw, or thought he saw, a dark object at some

short distance off on the sea. He strained his eyes, and, though long in

doubt, at last assured himself it was a boat that had drifted from her

moorings, for the rope that had fastened her still hung over the stern,

and trailed in the sea. By the slightly moving flow of the tide towards

shore she came gradually nearer, till at last he was able to reach her

with the crook of his riding-whip, and draw her up to the steps.

Her light paddle-like oars were on board; and M'Caskey stepped in,

determined to make a patient and careful study of the place on its

sea-front, and see, if he could, whether it were more of chateau or

jail.

With noiseless motion he stole smoothly along, till he passed a little

ruined bastion on a rocky point, and saw himself at the entrance of a

small bay, at the extremity of which a blaze of light poured forth, and

illuminated the sea for some distance. As he got nearer, he saw that the

light came from three large windows that opened on a terrace, thickly

studded with orange-trees, under the cover of which he could steal on

unseen, and take an observation of all within; for that the room was

inhabited was plain enough, one figure continuing to cross and recross

the windows as M'Caskey drew nigh.

Stilly and softly, without a ripple behind him, he glided on till the

light skiff stole under the overhanging boughs of a large acacia, over a

branch of which he passed his rope to steady the boat, and then standing

up he looked into the room, now so close as almost to startle him.

CHAPTER XLI. EAVESDROPPING

If M'Caskey was actually startled by the vicinity in which he suddenly

found himself to the persons within the room, he was even more struck by

the tone of the voice which now met his ear. It was Norman Maitland

who spoke, and he recognized him at once. Pacing the large room in

its length, he passed before the windows quite close to where M'Caskey

stood,--so close, indeed, that he could mark the agitation on his

features, and note the convulsive twitchings that shook his cheek.

The other occupant of the room was a lady; but M'Caskey could only

see the heavy folds of her dark velvet dress as she sat apart, and so

distant that he could not hear her voice.

“So, then, it comes to this!” said Maitland, stopping in his walk and

facing where she sat: “I have made this wearisome journey for nothing!

Would it not have been as easy to say he would not see me? It was no

pleasure to me to travel some hundred miles and be told at the end of it

I had come for nothing.”

She murmured something inaudible to M'Caskey, but to which Maitland

quickly answered: “I know all that; but why not let _me_ hear this from

his own lips, and let _him_ hear what I can reply to it? He will tell

_me_ of the vast sums I have squandered and the heavy debts I have

contracted; and I would tell _him_ that in following his rash counsels I

have dissipated years that would have won me distinction in any land of

Europe.”

Again she spoke; but before she uttered many words he broke suddenly

in with, “No, no, no! ten thousand times no! I knew the monarchy was

rotten--rotten to the very core; but I said, Better to die in the street

_à cheval_ than behind the arras on one's knees. Have it out with the

scoundrels, and let the best man win,--that was the advice _I_ gave.

Ask Caraffa, ask Filangieri, ask Acton, if I did not always say, 'If the

king is not ready to do as much for his crown as the humblest peasant

would for his cabin, let him abdicate at once.'”

She murmured something, and he interrupted her with: “Because I never

did--never would--and never will trust to priestcraft. All the intrigues

of the Jesuits, all the craft of the whole College of Cardinals, will

not bring back confidence in the monarchy. But why do I talk of these

things to you? Go back and ask him to see me. Say that I have many

things to tell him; say”--and here the mockery of his voice became

conspicuous--“that I would wish much to have his advice on certain

points.--And why not?” cried he aloud to something she said; “has my new

nobility no charm for him? Well, then, I am ready to strike a bargain

with him. I owe Caffarelli two hundred and eighty thousand francs, which

I mean to pay, if I take to the highway to do it. Hush! don't interrupt

me. I am not asking he should pay this for me,--all I want is that he

will enable me to sell that villa which he gave me some years ago beyond

Caserta. Yes, the Torricelia; I know all that,--it was a royal present.

It never had the more value in my eyes for that; and perhaps the day is

not far distant when the right to it may be disputed. Let him make out

my title, such as it is, so that I can sell it. There are Jews who will

surely take it at one-half its worth. Get him to consent to this, and I

am ready to pledge my word that he has seen the last of me.”

“He gave it to you as a wedding-present, Norman,” said she, haughtily;

and now her deep-toned voice rung out clear and strong; “and it will be

an unpardonable offence to ask him this.”

“Have I not told you that I shall not need forgiveness,--that with this

act all ends between us?”

“I will be no party to this,” said she, haughtily; and she arose

and walked out upon the terrace. As she passed, the lamplight flared

strongly on her features, and M'Caskey saw a face he had once known

well; but what a change was there! The beautiful Nini Brancaleone, the

dark-haired Norma, the belle that Byron used to toast with an enthusiasm

of admiration, was a tall woman advanced in years, and with two masses

of snow-white hair on either side of a pale face. The dark eyes, indeed,

flashed brightly still, and the eyebrows were dark as of yore; but the

beautifully formed mouth was hard and thin-lipped, and the fair brow

marked with many a strong line of pain.

“You forget, perhaps,” said she, after a short pause,--“you forget

that it is from this villa I take my title. I am Brancaleone della

Torricella, and I forfeit the name when it leaves our hands.”

“And do you hold to this, mother?” asked he, in a voice of sorrow,

through which something of scorn was detectable.

“Do I hold to it? Of course I hold to it! You know well the value it

has in his eyes. Without it he never would have consented--” She stopped

suddenly, and seemed to catch herself in time to prevent the utterance

of some rash avowal. “As it is,” added she, “he told me so late as

yesterday that he has no rest nor peace, thinking over his brother's

son, and the great wrong he has done him.”

“Let him think of the greater wrong he has done me!--of my youth that

he has wasted, and my manhood lost and shipwrecked. But for him and

his weak ambition, I had belonged to a party who would have prized

my ability and rewarded my courage. I would not find myself at thirty

brigaded with a set of low-hearted priests and seminarists, who have

no other weapons than treachery, nor any strategy but lies. If I have

squandered his fortune, he has beggared me in reputation. He does not

seem to remember these things. As to him whom he would prefer to me and

make his heir, I have seen him.”

“You have seen him, Norman! When?--where?--how?” cried she, in wild

impatience.

“Yes, I even had a plan to let the uncle meet his promising nephew.

I speculated on bringing together two people more made for mutual

detestation than any other two in Europe.”

“It would have been a rash venture,” said she, fiercely; “If you mean

for _me_, that was the very reason I thought of it. What other game than

the rash one is open to a mau like _me?_”

“Who ever had the safer road to fortune if he could have walked with the

commonest prudence?” said she, bitterly.

“How can you say that? Talk of prudence to the man who has no fortune,

no family, not even a name,--no!” cried he, fiercely; “for by the first

Maitland I met I might be challenged to say from what stock I came. He

could have saved me from all this. Nothing was ever easier. You yourself

asked,--ay, begged this. You told me you begged it on your knees; and I

own, if I never forgave him for refusing, I have never forgiven you for

the entreaty.”

“And I would do it again to-day!” cried she, passionately. “Let him but

acknowledge you, Norman, and he may turn me out upon the world houseless

and a beggar, and I will bless him for it!”

“What a curse is on the bastard,” broke he ont, in a savage vehemence,

“if it robs him of every rightful sentiment, and poisons even a mother's

love! Do not talk to me this way, or you will drive me mad!”

“Oh, Norman! my dear, dear Norman!” cried she, passionately; “it is not

yet too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“Not too late to gain back his favor. When he saw the letter in the

King's hand, calling you Count of Amalfi, he said: 'This looks ill for

the monarchy. I have a Scotch earldom myself in my family granted by

another king the day after he had lost his own crown.' Try, then, if you

cannot rally to the cause those men who are so much under your influence

that as you have often told me they only wanted to be assured of

your devotion to pledge their own. If _he_ could believe the cause

triumphant, there is nothing he would not do to uphold it.”

“Yes,” said he, thoughtfully, “there never lived the man who more

worshipped success! The indulgences that he heaped upon myself were

merely offerings to a career of insolent triumph.”

“You never loved him, Norman,” said she, sadly.

“Love had no share in the compact between us. He wanted to maintain a

cause which, if successful, must exclude from power in England the men

who had insulted him, and turned him out of office. I wanted some one

who could afford to pay my debts, and leave me free to contract more.

But why talk to you about these intrigues?--Once more, will he see me?”

She shook her bead slowly in dissent. “Could you not write to him,

Norman?” said she at last.

“I will not write to a man under the same roof as myself. I have some

news for him,” added be, “if he cares to buy it by an audience; for I

suppose he would make it an audience;” and the last word he gave with

deep scorn.

“Let me bring him the tidings.”

“No, he shall bear them from myself, or not hear them at all. I want

this villa!” cried be, passionately,--“I want the title to sell it, and

pay off a debt that is crushing me. Go, then, and say I have something

of importance enough to have brought me down some hundred miles to tell

him, something that deeply concerns the cause he cares for, and to which

his counsel would be invaluable.”

“And this is true?”

“Did I ever tell you a falsehood, mother?” asked he, in a voice of deep

and sorrowful meaning.

“I will go,” said she, after a few moments of thought, and left the

room. Maitland took a bottle of some essenced water from the table and

bathed his forehead. He had been more agitated than he cared to confess;

and now that he was alone, and, as he believed unobserved, his features

betrayed a deep depression. As he sat with his bead leaning on both

hands, the door opened. “Come,” said she, gently,--“come!” He arose, and

followed her. No sooner was all quiet around than M'Caskey rowed swiftly

back to his quarters, and, packing up hastily his few effects, made with

all speed for the little bay, where was the village he had passed on his

arrival, and through which led the road to Reggio. That something was

“up” at Naples he was now certain, and he resolved to be soon on the

field; whoever the victors, they would want _him_.

On the third evening he entered the capital, and made straight for

Caffarelli's house. He met the Count in the doorway. “The man I wanted,”

said he, as he saw the Major. “Go into my study and wait for me.”

“What has happened?” asked M'Caskey, in a whisper. “Everything. The King

is dead.”

CHAPTER XLII. MARK LYLE'S LETTER

The following letter was received at Lyle Abbey shortly after the events

recorded in our last chapter had happened. It was from Mark Lyle to his

sister, Mrs. Trafford:--

“Hotel Victoria, Naples.

“My dear Alice,--While I was cursing my bad luck at being too late for

the P. and O. steamer at Marseilles, your letter arrived deciding me to

come on here. Nothing was ever more fortunate: first of all, I shall

be able to catch the Austrian Lloyds at Anevna, and reach Alexandria in

good time for the mail; and, secondly, I have perfectly succeeded--at

least I hope so--in the commission you gave me. For five mortal days I

did nothing but examine villas. I got a list of full fifty, but in the

course of a little time the number filtered down to ten possible, and

came at last to three that one could pronounce fairly habitable. To

have health in this climate--that is to say, to escape malaria--you must

abjure vegetation; and the only way to avoid tertian is to book yourself

for a sunstroke. These at least were my experiences up to Tuesday last,

for all the salubrious spots along the seashore had been long since

seized on either by the King or the Church, and every lovely point of

view was certain to be crowned by a royal villa or a monastery. I was

coming back then on Tuesday, very disconsolate indeed from a long day's

fruitless search, when I saw a perfect gem of a place standing on the

extreme point of a promontory near Caserta. It was of course 'royal'--at

least it belonged to a Count d'Amalfi, which title was borne by some

younger branch of the Bourbons; yet as it was untenanted, and several

people were working in the gardens, I ventured in to have a look at

it. I will not attempt description, but just say that both within and

without it realizes all I ever dreamed or imagined of an Italian villa.

Marble and frescos and fountains, terraces descending to the sea, and

gardens a wilderness of orange and magnolia, and grand old rooms, the

very air of which breathed splendor and magnificence; but _à quoi

bon?_ dear Alice. It was a _palazzotto reale_, and one could only gaze

enviously at delights they could not hope to compass.

“Seeing my intense admiration of the place, the man who showed me around

it said, as I was coming away, that it was rumored that the Count would

not be indisposed to sell the property. I know enough of Italians to be

aware that when a stranger supposed to be rich: all English are in this

category--is struck with anything--picture, house, or statue--the owner

will always part with it at tenfold its value. Half out of curiosity,

half to give myself the pretext for another morning's ramble over the

delicious place, I asked where I could learn any details as to the

value, and received an address as follows: 'Count Carlo Caffarelli,

Villino del Boschetto, Chiaja, Naples.' Caffarelli I at once remembered

as the name of Maitland's friend, and in this found another reason

for calling on him, since I had totally failed in all my attempts to

discover M. either in London, Paris, or even here.

“The same evening I went there, and found Count Caffarelli in one of

those fairy-tale little palaces which this country abounds in. He had

some friends at dinner, but on reading my name, recognized me, and came

out with a most charming politeness to press me to join his party. It

was no use refusing; the Italian persuasiveness has that element of the

irresistible about it that one cannot oppose; and I soon found myself

smoking my cigar in a company of half a dozen people who treated me as

an intimate friend.

“I may amuse you some day by some of the traits of their _bonhomie_.

I must now confine myself to our more immediate interests. Caffarelli,

when he found that I wanted some information about the villa, drew

his arm within my own, and, taking me away from the rest, told me in

strictest confidence that the villa was Maitland's,--Maitland being the

Conte d'Amalfi,--the title having been conferred by the late King, one

of the very last acts of his life.

“'And Maitland,' said I, scarcely recovering from my astonishment;

'where is he now?'

“'Within a few yards of you,' said he, turning and pointing to the

closed jalousies of a room that opened on a small separately enclosed

garden; 'he is there.'

“There was something like secrecy, mystery at least, in his manner as

he said this, that prevented my speaking for a moment, and he went on:

'Yes, Maitland is in that room, stretched on his bed, poor fellow; he

has been severely wounded in a duel which, had I been here, should

never have been fought. All this, remember, is in confidence; for it is

needless to tell you Maitland is one of those men who hate being made

gossip of; and I really believe that his wound never gave him one-half

the pain that he felt at the bare possibility of his adventure being

made town-talk. So well have we managed hitherto, that of the men you

see here to-night--all of them intimate with him--one only knows that

his illness is not a malaria fever.'

“'But can you answer for the same prudence and reserve on the part of

the other principal?'

“'We have secured it, for the time at least, by removing him from

Naples; and as the laws here are very severe against duelling, his own

safety will suggest silence.'

“'Do you think Maitland would see me?'

“'I suppose he will be delighted to see you; but I will ascertain that

without letting him know that I have already told you he was here.

Remember, too, if he should receive you, drop nothing about the duel or

the wound. Allude to his illness as fever, and leave to himself entirely

the option of telling you the true story or not.'

“After a few more words of caution--less needed, if he only had known

how thoroughly I understood his temper and disposition--he left me. He

was back again in less than five minutes, and, taking me by the arm, led

me to Maitland's door. 'There,' said he, 'go in I he expects you.'

“It was only after a few seconds that I could see my way through the

half-darkened room, but, guided by a weak voice saying, 'Come on--here,'

I approached a bed, on the outside of which, in a loose dressing-gown,

the poor fellow lay.

“'You find it hard to recognize me, Lyle,' said he, with an attempt to

smile at the amazement which I could not by any effort repress; for he

was wasted to a shadow, his brown cheeks were sunken and sallow, and his

dark flashing eyes almost colorless.

“'And yet,' added he, 'the doctor has just been complimenting me on

my improved looks. It seems I was more horrible yesterday.' I don't

remember what I said, but he thanked me and pressed my hand,--a great

deal from him, for he is not certainly demonstrative; and then he

pressed me to tell about you all,--how you were, and what doing. He

inquired so frequently, and recurred so often to Bella, that I almost

suspected something between them,--though, after all, I ought to have

known that this was a conquest above Bella's reach,--the man who might

any day choose from the highest in Europe.

“'Now a little about yourself, Maitland,' said I. 'How long have you

been ill?'

“'This is the seventeenth day,' said he, sighing. 'Caffarelli of course

told you fever--but here it is;' and he turned on his side and showed

me a great mass of appliances and bandages. 'I have been wounded. I went

out with a fellow whom none of my friends would consent to my meeting,

and I was obliged to take my valet Fenton for my second, and he, not

much versed in these matters, accepted the Neapolitan sword instead of

the French one. I had not touched one these eight years. At all events,

my antagonist was an expert swordsman,--I suspect, in this style of

fencing, more than my equal; he certainly was cooler, and took a thrust

I gave him through the fore-arm without ever owning he was wounded till

he saw me fall.'

“'Plucky fellow,' muttered I.

“'Yes, pluck he has, unquestionably; nor did he behave badly when all

was over, for though it was as much as his neck was worth to do it, he

offered to support me in the carriage all the way back to Naples.'

“'That was a noble offer,' said I.

“'And there never was a less noble antagonist!' cried Maitland, with

a bitter laugh. 'Indeed, if it ever should get abroad that I crossed

swords with him, it would go near to deny me the power of demanding a

similar satisfaction from one of my own rank to-morrow. Do not ask me

who he is, Lyle; do not question me about the quarrel itself. It is the

thinking, the brooding over these things as I lie here, that makes

this bed a torture to me. The surgeon and his probes are not pleasant

visitors, but I welcome them when they divert my thoughts from these

musings.'

“I did my best to rally him, and get him to talk of the future, when

he should be up and about again. I almost thought I had done him some

little good, when Caffarelli came in to warn me that the doctors were

imperative against his receiving any visitors, and I had been there then

full two hours!

“'I have told Lyle, said he, as we were leaving the room, 'that you must

let him come and see me to-morrow; there are other things I want to talk

over with him.'

“It was high time I should have left him, for his fever was now coming

on, and Caffarelli told me that he raved throughout the whole night, and

talked incessantly of places which, even in a foreign pronunciation, I

knew to be in our own neighborhood in Ireland. The next day I was not

admitted to see him. The day after that I was only suffered to pass a

few minutes beside his bed, on condition, too, that he should not be

allowed to speak; and to-day, as it is my last in Naples, I have been

with him for above an hour. I am certain, my dear Alice, that there is

something at least in my suspicion about Bella, from what took place

to-day. Hearing that I was obliged to leave to-night to catch the

steamer at Ancona, he said, 'Lyle, I shall want a few minutes with you,

alone, though, before you leave.' He said this because either the doctor

or Caffarelli, or both, have been with us since our first meeting.

'Don't look gloomy, old fellow,' he added; 'I 'm not going to speak

about my will. It is rather of life I mean to talk, and what to do with

life to make it worth living for. Meanwhile Caffarelli has been telling

me of your hunt after a villa. There is mine,--the Torricella,--take it.

Carlo says you were greatly struck with it; and as it is really pretty,

and inhabitable too,--a thing rare enough with villas,--I insist upon

your offering it to your family. There's a sort of summer-house or

“Belvedere” on the extreme point of the rock, with half a dozen little

rooms; I shall keep that for myself; but tell Lady Lyle I shall not be

a troublesome visitor. It will be the rarest of all events to see me

there, for I shall not be long in Italy.' I was eager to ask why, or

whither he was turning his steps, but he was never one to stand much

questioning, and in his present state it would have been dangerous to

cross him. By way of saying something--anything at the moment--I asked

how were things going on here politically. He laughed his usual little

quiet laugh, and called out to Caffarelli, who stood in the window.

'Come here, Carlo, and tell Lyle how we are getting on here. He wants to

know if the ammunition has been yet served out for the bombardment;

or are you waiting for the barricades?' He jumped up in his bed as he

spoke, and then fell back again. The doctor ran hastily over, and cried,

out, 'That's exactly what I said would come of it. There 's hemorrhage

again.' And so we were turned out of the room, and the other doctors

were speedily summoned, and it was only an hour ago I heard that he was

going on favorably; but that in future a strict interdict should be put

upon all visits, and none admitted to him but his physicians. Seeing

this, there was no use deferring my departure, which would, besides,

place my commission in jeopardy. I have already outstayed my leave by

two mails.

“Caffarelli is to write to you about the villa, and take all your

directions about getting it in order for your arrival. He says that

there is only too much furniture; and as there are something like eighty

odd rooms,--it is called Palazzotto, a grand word for palace,--the

chances are that even you will have space enough for what you call 'to

turn round in.' I am in no dread of your being disappointed in it, and I

repeat once more, it is the most exquisitely beautiful spot I ever saw.

I would rather own it than its larger brother, the great kingly palace

on the opposite side of the bay.

“I left my card at the Legation for your friend Mr. Darner, but he has

not returned my visit. I own I had no peculiar anxiety to know him.

Maitland could only say that he 'was not an ill-natured fellow, and

perhaps a shade smarter than his colleagues.'

“Caffarelli promises to keep you informed about, poor Maitland, of whom,

notwithstanding all the doctors say, I do not augur too favorably. On

every account, whether you really avail yourself of it or not, do not

refuse his offer of the villa; it would give him the deepest pain and

mortification, knowing how I had fixed upon it before I heard of his

being the owner. I am very sorry to leave him, and sorrier that I have

not heard what he was so eager to tell me. I shall be very impatient

till I hear from you, and know whether you concur in my conjecture or

not.

“The King sent twice to-day to inquire after M., and has already

announced his intention to come in person, so soon as the doctors deem

such a visit safe. To see the names that were left to-day with the

porter you would say it was one of the first men in Europe was causing

all this public anxiety.

“I trust, my dear Alice, you will be satisfied with this long-winded

epistle,--the last probably you will get from me till I reach Calcutta.

I had intended to have given you all the gossip of this pleasant place,

which, even on the verge, as some think, of a revolution, has time and

to spare for its social delinquencies; but Maitland has so engrossed my

thoughts that he has filled my letter; and yet I have not told you one

tithe of what I have heard about him from his friend Caffarelli.

Indeed, in his estimation, M. has no equal living; he is not alone the

cleverest, boldest, and most accomplished of men, but the truest and the

best-hearted. I sat late into the night last night listening to traits

of his generosity,--the poor people he had helped, the deserving

creatures he had succored, and the earnest way he had pressed claims on

the Ministry for wretched families who had been friendless without him.

I was dying to ask other questions about him, but I did not venture, and

yet the man puzzles me more than ever. Once, indeed, Caffarelli seemed

on the verge of telling me something. I had asked what Maitland meant

by saying that he should probably soon quit Italy? 'Ah,' replied

Caffarelli, laughing, 'then he has told you of that mad scheme of his;

but of all things in the world, why go into the service of a Bey of

Tunis?' 'A Bey of Tunis!' cried I, in such evident astonishment as

showed I had heard of the project for the first time. 'Of course it was

but a jest,' said Caffarelli, catching himself up quickly. 'The present

Bey and Maitland lived together in Paris in their early days; and I

have seen scores of letters entreating Maitland to come to Tunis,

and offering him the command of a division, the place of a

Minister,--anything, in fact, that might be supposed to tempt him. You

may imagine yourself how likely it is that a man with all Europe at his

feet would consent to finish his life in an African banishment.'

“If I could only have one week more here, I feel certain that Caffarelli

would tell me everything that I want to learn, but I must up and away.

My servant is already hurrying down my baggage, and I have not more time

than to send my loves to you all.

“Yours always,

“Mark Lyle.

“P. S. Caff is just the fellow to be made very useful, and likes it;

so don't scruple to write to him as fully as you please. He has already

told me of a first-rate chief-servant, a Maestro di Casa, for you; and,

in fact, only commission him, and he'll improvise you a full household

ready for your arrival. _Addio!_”

CHAPTER XLIII. THE MAJOR AT BADEN

“You will please to write your name there, sir,” said a clerk from

behind a wooden railing to a fierce-looking little man in a frogged coat

and a gold-banded cap, in the busy bank-room of Parodi at Genoa.

“And my qualities?” asked the other, haughtily.

“As you please, sir.”

The stranger took the pen, and wrote “Milo M'Caskey, Count of the two

Sicilies, Knight of various orders, and Knight-postulate of St. John of

Jerusalem, &c. &c.”

“Your Excellency has not added your address,” said the clerk,

obsequiously.

“The Tuileries when in Paris, Zarkoe-Zeloe when in Russia. Usually

incog, in England, I reside in a cottage near Osborne. When at this side

of the Alps, wherever be the royal residence of the Sovereign in

the city I chance to be in.” He turned to retire, and then, suddenly

wheeling round, said, “Forward any letters that may come for me to my

relative, who is now at the Trombetta, Turin.”

“Your Excellency has forgotten to mention his name.”

“So I have,” said he, with a careless laugh. “It is somewhat new to me

to be in a town where I am unknown. Address my letters to the care

of his Highness the Duke of Lauenburg-Gluckstein;” and with a little

gesture of his hand to imply that he did not exact any royal honors at

his departure, he strutted out of the bank and down the street.

Few met or passed without turning to remark him, such was the contrast

between his stature and his gait; for while considerably below the

middle size, there was an insolent pretension in his swagger, a defiant

impertinence in the stare of his fiery eyes, that seemed to seek a

quarrel with each that looked at him. His was indeed that sense

of overflowing prosperity that, if it occasionally inclines the

right-minded to a feeling of gratitude and thankfulness, is just as

certain to impel the men of a different stamp to feats of aggressiveness

and insolence. Such was indeed his mood, and he would have hailed as the

best boon of Fate the occasion for a quarrel and a duel.

The contempt he felt for the busy world that moved by, too deep in its

own cares to interpret the defiance he threw around him, so elevated him

that he swaggered along as if the flagway were all his own.

Was he not triumphant? What had not gone well with him? Gold in his

pocket, success in a personal combat with a man so highly placed that

it was a distinction to him for life to have encountered; the very

peremptory order he received to quit Naples at once, was a recognition

of his importance that actually overwhelmed him with delight; and he saw

in the vista before him, the time when men would stop at the windows of

printshops to gaze on the features of “Le fameux M'Caskey.”

There was something glorious in his self-conceit, for there was nothing

he would not dare to achieve that estimation which he had already

conceived of his own abilities. At the time I now speak of, there was a

momentary lull in the storm of Italian politics caused by Count Cavour's

crafty negotiations with the Neapolitan Government,--negotiations solely

devised to induce that false sense of security which was to end in

downfall and ruin. Whether M'Caskey had any forebodings of what was to

come or not, he knew well that it was not the moment for men like

himself to be needed. “When the day of action comes, will come the

question, 'Where is M'Caskey?' Meanwhile I will be off to Baden. I feel

as though I ought to break the bank.”

To Baden he went. How many are there who can recall that bustling,

pretentious, over-dressed little fellow, who astonished the

pistol-gallery by his shooting, and drove the poor _maître d'armes_ to

the verge of despair by his skill with the rapier, and then swaggered

into the play-room to take the first chair he pleased, only too happy if

he could provoke any to resent it. How he frowned down the men and ogled

the women; smiling blandly at the beauties that passed, as though in

recognition of charms their owners might well feel proud of, for they

had captivated a M'Caskey!

How sumptuous, too, his dinner; how rare and curious his wines; how

obsequious were they who waited on him; what peril impended over the man

that asked to be served before him!

Strong men,--men in all the vigor of their youth and strength,--men

of honor and men of tried courage, passed and repassed, looked at, but

never dreamed of provoking him. Absurd as he was in dress, ridiculous in

his overweening pretension, not one ventured on the open sneer at what

each in his secret heart despised for its vulgar insolence. And what a

testimony to pluck was there in all this! for to what other quality in

such a man's nature had the world consented to have paid homage?

Not one of those who made way for him would have stooped to know him.

There was not a man of those who controlled his gravity to respect a

degree of absurdity actually laughable, who would have accepted his

acquaintance at any price; and yet, for all that, he moved amongst them

there, exacting every deference that was accorded to the highest, and

undeniably inferior to none about him.

What becomes of the cant that classes the courage of men with the

instincts of the lowest brutes in presence of a fact like this? or must

we not frankly own that in the respect paid to personal daring we read

the avowal that, however constituted men may be, courage is a quality

that all must reverence?

Not meeting with the resistance he had half hoped for, denied none

of the claims he preferred, M'Caskey became bland and courteous. He

vouchsafed a nod to the croupier at the play-table, and manifested, by a

graceful gesture as he took his seat, that the company need not rise as

he deigned to join them..

In little more than a week after his arrival he had become famous; he

was splendid, too, in his largesses to waiters and lackeys; and it is

a problem that might be somewhat of a puzzle to resolve, how far the

sentiments of the very lowest class can permeate the rank above them,

and make themselves felt in the very highest; for this very estimation,

thus originating, grew at last to be at least partially entertained by

others of a very superior station. It was then that men discussed with

each other who was this strange Count,--of what nation? Five modern

languages had he been heard to talk in, without a flaw even of accent.

What country he served? Whence and what his resources? It was when

newspaper correspondents began vaguely to hint at an interesting

stranger, whose skill in every weapon was only equalled by his success

at play, &c, that he disappeared as suddenly as he had come, but not

without leaving ample matter for wonder in the telegraphic despatch he

sent off a few hours before starting, and which, in some form more or

less garbled, was currently talked of in society. It was addressed to

M. Mocquard, Tuileries, Paris, and in these words: “Tell E. I shall meet

him at the Compiègne on Saturday.”

Could anything be more delightfully intimate? While the crafty idlers

of Baden were puzzling their heads as to who he might be who could thus

write to an imperial secretary, the writer was travelling at all speed

through Switzerland, but so totally disguised in appearance that not

even the eye of a detective could have discovered in the dark-haired,

black-bearded, and sedate-looking Colonel Chamberlayne the fiery-faced

and irascible Count M'Caskey.

A very brief telegram in a cipher well known to him was the cause of his

sudden departure. It ran thus: “Wanted at Chambéry in all haste.” And at

Chambéry, at the Golden Lamb, did he arrive with a speed which few save

himself knew how to compass. Scarcely had he entered the arched doorway

of the inn, than a traveller, preceded by his luggage, met him.

They bowed, as people do who encounter in a passage, but without

acquaintance; and yet in that brief courtesy the stranger had time to

slip a letter into M'Cas-key's hand, who passed in with all the ease

and unconcern imaginable. Having ordered dinner, he went to his room to

dress, and then, locking his door, he read:--

“The Cabinet courier of the English Government will pass Chambéry on

the night of Saturday the 18th, or on the morning of Sunday the 19th. He

will be the bearer of three despatch-bags, two large and one small one,

bearing the letters F. O. and the number 18 on it. You are to possess

yourself of this, if possible--the larger bags are not required. If you

succeed, make for Naples by whatever route you deem best and speediest,

bearing in mind that the loss may possibly be known at Turin within a

brief space.

“If the contents be as suspected, and all goes well, you are a made man.

“C. C.”

M'Caskey read this over three several times, dwelling each time on the

same places, and then he arose and walked leisurely up and down the

room. He then took out his guide-book and saw that a train started for

St. Jean de Maurienne at six, arriving at eight,--a short train, not

in correspondence with any other; and as the railroad ended there, the

remainder of the journey, including the passage of Mont Cenis, must be

performed by carriage. Of course, it was in this short interval the feat

must be accomplished, if at all.

The waiter announced “his Excellency's” dinner while he thus cogitated,

and he descended and dined heartily; he even ordered a bottle of very

rare chambertin, which stood at eighteen francs in the _carte_. He

sipped his wine at his ease; he had full an hour before the train

started, and he had time for reflection as well as enjoyment.

“You are to possess yourself of this,” muttered he, reading from a

turned-down part of the note. “Had you been writing to any other man in

Europe, Signor Conte Caffarelli, you would have been profuse enough of

your directions; you would have said, 'You are to shoot this fellow; you

are to waylay him; you are to have him attacked and come to his rescue,'

and a-score more of such-like contrivances; but--to me--to me--there was

none of this. It was just as Buonaparte said to Desaix at Marengo, 'Ride

through the centre,'--he never added how. A made man! I should think so!

The man has been made some years since, sir. Another bottle, waiter, and

mind that it be not shaken. Who was it--I can't remember--stopped a

Russian courier with despatches for Constantinople? Ay, to be sure, it

was Long Wellesley; he told me the story himself. It was a clumsy trick,

too; he upset his sledge in the snow, and made off with the bags, and

got great credit for the feat at home.”

“The train will start in a quarter of an hour, sir,” said the waiter.

“Not if I am not ready, my good fellow,” said the Major,--“though now I

see nothing to detain me, and I will go.”

Alone in his first-class, he had leisure to think over his plans. Much

depended on who might be the courier. He knew most of them well, and

speculated on the peculiar traits of this or that. “If it be Bromley,

he will have his own _calèche_; Airlie will be for the cheap thing, and

take the diligence; and Poynder will be on the look-out for some one to

join him, and pay half the post-horses and all the postilions. There

are half a dozen more of these fellows on this 'dodge,' but I defy

the craftiest of them to know me now;” and he took out a little

pocket-glass, and gazed complacently at his features. “Colonel Moore

Chamberlayne, A.D.C., on his way to Corfu, with despatches for the Lord

High Commissioner. A very soldierlike fellow, too,” added he, arranging

his whiskers, “but, I shrewdly suspect, a bit of a Tartar. Yes,

that's the ticket,” added he, with a smile at his image in the

glass,--“despatches of great importance for Storks at Corfu.”

Arrived at St Jean, he learned that the mail train from France did not

arrive until 11.20, ample time for all his arrangements. He also learned

that the last English messenger had left his _calèche_ at Susa, and,

except one light carriage with room for only two, there was nothing on

that side of the mountain but the diligence. This conveyance he at once

secured, ordering the postilion to be in the saddle and ready to start,

if necessary, when the mail train came in. “It is just possible,” said

he, “that the friend I am expecting may not arrive, in which case I

shall await the next train; but if he comes you must drive your best, my

man, for I shall want to catch the first train for Susa in the morning.”

Saying this, he retired to his room, where he had many things to do,--so

many, indeed, that he had but just completed them when the shriek of the

engine announced that the train was coming; the minute after, the long

line dashed into the station and came to a stand.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE MESSENGER'S FIRST JOURNEY

As the train glided smoothly into the station, M'Caskey passed down the

platform, peering into each carriage as if in search of an unexpected

friend. “Not come,” muttered he, in a voice of displeasure, loud enough

to be heard by the solitary first-class passenger, who soon after

emerged with some enormous bags of white linen massively sealed, and

bearing addresses in parchment.

“I beg pardon,” said M'Caskey, approaching and touching his hat in

salute. “Are you with despatches?”

“Yes,” said the other, in some astonishment at the question.

“Have you a bag for _me?_” and then suddenly correcting himself with a

little smile at the error of his supposing he must be universally known,

added, “I mean for the Hon. Colonel Chamberlayne.”

“I have nothing that is not addressed to a legation,” said the other,

trying to pass on.

“Strange! they said I should receive some further instructions by the

first messenger. Sorry to have detained you,--good-evening.”

The young man--for he was young--was already too deep in an attempt

to inquire in French after a carriage, to hear the last words, and

continued to ask various inattentive bystanders certain questions about

a _calèche_ that ought to have been left by somebody in somebody's care

for the use of somebody else.

“Is it true, can you tell me?” said he, running after M'Caskey. “They

say that there is no conveyance here over the mountain except the

diligence.”

“I believe it is quite true,” said the “Colonel,” gravely.

“And they say, too, that the diligence never, at this season, arrives in

time to catch the early train at--I forget the place.”

“At Susa?”

“Yes, that's it.”

“They are perfectly correct in all that; and knowing it so well, and

as my despatches are urgent, I sent on my own light carriage here from

Geneva.”

“And have you despatches too?” asked the other, whom we may as well

announce to the reader as Tony Butler. “Have you despatches too?” cried

he, in great delight at meeting something like a colleague.

“Yes; I take out orders for the Lord High Commissioner to Corfu. I am

the head of the Staff there.”

Tony bowed in recognition of the announced rank, and said quietly: “My

name is Butler. I am rather new to this sort of thing, and never crossed

the Alps in my life.”

“I 'll give you a lift, then, for I have a spare place. My servant

has gone round with my heavy baggage by Trieste, and I have a seat to

spare.”

“This is most kind of you, but I scarcely dare put you to such

inconvenience.”

“Don't talk of that. We are all in the same boat. It 's my luck to have

this offer to-day; it will be yours tomorrow. What 's your destination?”

“First Turin, then Naples; but I believe I shall have no delay at Turin,

and the Naples bags are the most urgent ones.”

“Is there anything going on down there, then?” asked M'Caskey,

carelessly.

“I suspect there must be, for three of our fellows have been sent

there,--I am the fourth within a fortnight.”

“A country that never interested me. Take a cigar. Are you ready, or do

you want to eat something?”

“No, I am quite ready, and only anxious not to be late for this first

train. The fact is, it's all a new sort of life to me, and as I am a

wretchedly bad Frenchman, I don't get on too well.”

“The great secret is, be peremptory, never listen to excuses, tolerate

no explanations. That's my plan. I pay liberally, but I insist on having

what I want.”

They were now seated, and dashing along at all the speed and with all

the noise of four wiry posters, and M'Caskey went on to describe how,

with that system of united despotism and munificence, he had travelled

over the whole globe with success. As for the anecdotes he told,

they embraced every land and sea; and there was scarcely an event of

momentous importance of the last quarter of a century of which he had

not some curious private details. He was the first man to discover

the plans of Russia on the Pruth. It was he found out Louis Philippe's

intrigue about the Spanish marriages. “If you feel interest in this sort

of thing,” said he, carelessly, “just tell the fellows at home to show

you the blue-book with Chamberlayne's correspondence. It is private

and confidential; but, as a friend of mine, you can see it” And what

generosity of character he had! he had let Seymour carry off all the

credit of that detection of Russia. “To be sure,” added he, “one can't

forget old times, and Seymour was my fag at Eton.” It was he, too,

counselled Lord Elgin to send off the troops from China to Calcutta to

assist in repressing the mutiny. “Elgin hesitated; he could n't make up

his mind; he thought this at one moment and that the next; and he sent

for me at last, and said, 'George, I want a bit of advice from you.'

'I know what you mean,' said I, stopping him; 'send every man of

them,--don't hold back a drummer.' I will say,” he added, “he had

the honesty to own from whom he got that counsel, and he was greatly

provoked when he found I could not be included in the vote of thanks of

the House. 'Confound their etiquette,' said he; 'it is due to George,

and he ought to have it.' You don't know why I 'm in such haste to Corfu

now?”

“I have not the faintest notion.”

“I will tell you: first, because a man can always trust a gentleman;

secondly, it will be matter of table-talk by the time you get back. The

Tories are in need of the Radicals, and to buy their support intend to

offer the throne of Greece, which will be vacant whenever we like, to

Richard Cobden.”

“How strange! and would he accept it?”

“Some say no; _I_ say yes; and Louis Napoleon, who knows men thoroughly,

agrees with me. 'Mon cher Cham,'--he always called me Cham,--'talk as

people will, it is a very pleasant thing to sit on a throne, and it goes

far towards one's enjoyment of life to have so many people employed

all day long to make it agreeable.'” If Tony thought at times that his

friend was a little vainglorious, he ascribed it to the fact that any

man so intimate with the great people of the world, talking of them as

his ordinary every-day acquaintances, might reasonably appear such to

one as much removed from all such intercourse as he himself was. That

the man who could say, “Nesselrode, don't tell me,” or “Rechberg, my

good fellow, you are in error there!” should be now sitting beside

him, sharing his sandwich with him, and giving him to drink from his

sherry-flask; was not that glory enough to turn a stronger head than

poor Tony's? Ah, my good reader, I know well that _you_ would not have

been caught by such blandishments. You have “seen men and cities.”

You have been at courts, dined beside royalties, and been smiled on by

serene highnesses; but Tony has not had your training; he has had none

of these experiences; he has heard of great names just as he has heard

of great victories. The illustrious people of the earth are no more

within the reach of his estimation than are the jewels of a Mogul's

turban; but it is all the more fascinating to him to sit beside one who

“knows it all.”

Little wonder, then, if time sped rapidly, and that he never knew

weariness. Let him start what theme he might, speak of what land, what

event, what person he pleased, the Colonel was ready for him. It was

marvellous, indeed,--so very marvellous that to a suspicious mind it

might have occasioned distrust,--with how many great men he had been at

school, what shoals of distinguished fellows he had served with. With

a subtle flattery, too, he let drop the remark that he was not usually

given to be so frank and communicative. “The fact is,” said he, “young

men are, for the most part, bad listeners to the experiences of men

of my age; they fancy that they know life as well, if not better, than

ourselves, and that our views are those of 'bygones.' _You_, however,

showed none of this spirit; you were willing to hear and to learn from

one of whom it would be false modesty were I not to say, Few know more

of men and their doings.”

Now Tony liked this appreciation of him, and he said to himself, “He

_is_ a clever fellow,--not a doubt of it; he never saw me till this

evening, and yet he knows me thoroughly well.” Seeing how the Colonel

had met with everybody, he resolved he would get from him his opinion

of some of his own friends, and, to lead the way, asked if he was

acquainted with the members of the English Legation at Turin.'

“I know Bathurst,--we _were_ intimate,” said he; “but we once were in

love with the same woman,--the mother of an empress she is now,--and as

I rather 'cut him out,' a coldness ensued, and somehow we never resumed

our old footing. As for Croker, the Secretary, it was I got him that

place.”

“And Damer,--Skeff Damer,--do you know him?”

“I should think I do. I was his godfather.”

“He's the greatest friend I have in the world!” cried Tony, in ecstasy

at this happy accident.

“I made him drop Chamberlayne. It was his second name, and I was vain

enough to be annoyed that it was not his first. Is he here now?”

“Yes, he is attached to the Legation, and sometimes here, sometimes at

Naples.”

“Then we 'll make him give us a dinner to-day, for I shall refuse

Bathurst: he is sure to ask me; but you will tell Darner that we are

both engaged to _him_.”

Tony only needed to learn the tie that bound his newly made acquaintance

with his dearest friend, to launch freely out about himself and his new

fortunes; he told all about the hard usage his father had met with,--the

services he had rendered his country in India and elsewhere, and the

ungenerous requital he had met for them all. “That is why you see me

here a messenger, instead of being a soldier, like all my family for

seven generations back. I won't say I like it,--that would n't be true;

but I do it because it happens to be one of the few things I _can_ do.”

“That's a mistake, sir,” said the Colonel, fiercely; “a mistake

thousands fall into every day. A man can make of life whatever he likes,

if only--mark me well--if only his will be strong enough.”

“If wishing would do it--”

“Hold! I'm not talking of wishing; schoolboys wish, pale-cheeked

freshmen at college, goggle-eyed ensigns in marching regiments wish.

Men, real men, do not wish; they will,--that's all the difference.

Strong men make a promise to themselves early in life, and they feel

it a point of honor to keep it. As Rose said one day in the club at

Calcutta, speaking of me, 'He has got the Bath, just because he said he

would get it.'”

“The theory is a very pleasant one.”

“You can make the practice just as pleasant, if you like it. Whenever

you take your next leave,--they give you leave, don't they?”

“Yes, three months; we might have more, I believe, if we asked for it.”

“Well, come and spend your next leave with me at Corfu. You shall have

some good shooting over in Albania, plenty of mess society, pleasant

yachting, and you 'll like our old Lord High; he's stiff and cold at

first, but, introduced by me, you 'll be at once amongst the 'most

favored nations.'”

“I can't thank you enough for so kind a proposal,” began Tony; but the

other stopped him with, “Don't thank me, but help me to take care of

this bag. It contains the whole fate of the Levant in its inside. Those

sacks of yours,--I suppose you know what they have for contents?”

“No; I have no idea what's in them.”

“Old blue-books and newspapers, nothing else; they 're all

make-believes,--a farce to keep up the notion that great activity

prevails at the Foreign Office, and to fill up that paragraph in

the newspapers, 'Despatches were yesterday sent off to the Lord High

Commissioner of the Bahamas,' or 'Her Majesty's Minister at Otaheite.'

Here we are at the rail now,--that's Susa. Be alive, for I see the

smoke, and the steam must be up.”