They were just in time; the train was actually in motion when they

got in, and, as the Colonel, who kept up a rapid conversation with the

station-master, informed Tony, nothing would have induced them to delay

but having seen himself. “They knew me,” said he; “they remembered my

coming down here last autumn with the Prince de Carignan and Cavour.”

And once more had Tony to thank his stars for having fallen into such

companionship.

As they glided along towards Turin, the Colonel told Tony that if he

found the “Weazle” gunboat at Genoa, as he expected, waiting for him,

he would set him, Tony, and his despatches, down safely at Naples, as

he passed on to Malta. “If it 's the 'Growler,'” said he, “I 'll not

promise you, because Hurton the commander is not in good-humor with

me. I refused to recommend him the other day to the First Lord for

promotion--say nothing about this to the fellows at the Legation;

indeed, don't mention anything about me, except to Damer--for the

dinner, you know.”

“I suppose I ought to go straight to the Legation at once?” said

Tony, as they entered Turin; “my orders are to deliver the bags before

anything else.”

“Certainly; let us drive there straight,--there's nothing like doing

things regularly; I 'm a martinet about all duty;” and so they drove

to the Legation, where Tony, throwing one large sack to the porter,

shouldered the other himself, and passed in.

“Holloa!” cried the Colonel; “I 'll give you ten minutes, and if you 're

not down by that time, I 'll go off and order breakfast at the inn.”

“All right,” said Tony; “this fellow says that Darner is at Naples.”

“I knew that,” muttered the Colonel to himself; and then added aloud,

“Be alive and come down as quick as you can,”--he looked at his watch as

he spoke; it wanted five minutes to eight,--“at five minutes past eight

the train should start for Genoa.”

He seized the small despatch-bag in his hand, and, telling the cabman

to drive to the Hotel Feder and wait for him there, he made straight for

the railroad. He was just in the nick; and while Tony was impatiently

pacing an anteroom of the Legation, the other was already some miles on

the way to Genoa.

At last a very sleepy-looking attaché, in a dressing-gown and slippers,

made his appearance. “Nothing but these?” said he, yawning and pointing

to the great sacks.

“No; nothing else for Turin.”

“Then why the----did you knock me up,--when it's only a shower-bath and

Greydon's boot-trees?”

“How the----did I know what was in them?” said

Tony, as angrily.

“You must be precious green, then. When were you made?”

“When was I made?”

“Yes; when were you named a messenger?”

“Some time in spring.”

“I thought you must be an infant, or you 'd know that it's only the

small bags are of any consequence.”

“Have you anything more to say? I want to get a bath and my breakfast”

“I 've a lot more to say, and I shall have to tell Sir Joseph you 're

here! and I shall have to sign your time bill, and to see if we have n't

got something for Naples. You 're for Naples, ain't you? And I want to

send Darner some cigars and a pot of caviare that's been here these two

months, and that he must have smelled from Naples.”

“Then be hasty, for heaven's sake, for I'm starving.”

“You're starving! How strange, and it's only eight o'clock! Why, we

don't breakfast here till one, and I rarely eat anything.”

“So much the worse for you,” said Tony, gruffly. “My appetite is

excellent, if I only had a chance to gratify it.”

“What's the news in town,--is there anything stirring?”

“Not that _I_ know.”

“Has Lumley engaged Teresina again?”

“Never heard of her.”

“He ought; tell him _I_ said so. She's fifty times better than La

Gradina. Our _chef_ here,” added he, in a whisper, “says she has better

legs than Pochini.”

“I am charmed to hear it. Would you just tell him that mine are getting

very tired here?”

“Will Lawson pay that handicap to George Hobart?”

Tony shook his head to imply total ignorance of all concerned.

“He needn't, you know; at least, Saville Harris refused to book up to

Whitemare on exactly the same grounds. It was just this way: here was

the winning-post--no, here; that seal there was the grand stand; when

the mare came up, she was second. I don't think you care for racing,

eh?”

“A steeple-chase; yes, particularly when I'm a rider. But what I care

most for just now is a plunge into cold water and a good breakfast.”

There was something actually touching in the commiserating look the

attaché gave Tony as he turned away and left the room. What was the

public service to come to if these were the fellows to be named as

messengers?

In a very few minutes he was back again in the room. “Where's Naples?”

asked he, curtly.

“Where's Naples? Where it always was, I suppose,” said Tony,

doggedly,--“in the Gulf of that name.”

“I mean the bag,--the Naples bag: it is under flying seal, and Sir

Joseph wants to see the despatches.”

“Oh, that is below in the cab. I 'll go down and fetch it;” and without

waiting for more, he hastened downstairs. The cab was gone. “Naturally

enough,” thought Tony, “he got tired waiting; he's off to order

breakfast.”

He hurried upstairs again to report that a friend with whom he travelled

had just driven away to the hotel with all the baggage.

“And the bags?” cried the other, in a sort of horror.

“Yes, the bags, of course; but I 'll go after him. What 's the chief

hotel called?”

“The Trombetta.”

“I don't think that was the name.”

“The Czar de Russie?”

“No, nor that”

“Perhaps Feder?”

“Yes, that's it. Just send some one to show me the way, and I 'll be

back immediately. I suspect my unlucky breakfast must be prorogued to

luncheon-time.”

“Not a bit of it!” cried a fine, fresh-looking, handsome man, who

entered the room with a riding-whip in his hand; “come in and take share

of mine.”

“He has to go over to Feder's for the bags, Sir Joseph,” whispered the

attaché, submissively.

“Send the porter,--send Jasper,--send any one you like. Come along,”

said he, drawing his arm within Tony's. “You 've not been in Italy

before, and your first impression ought to be favorable; so I 'll

introduce you to a Mont Cenis trout.”

“And I 'll profit by the acquaintance,” said Tony. “I have the appetite

of a wolf.”

CHAPTER XLV. A SHOCK FOR TONY

If Tony Butler took no note of time as he sat at breakfast with Sir

Joseph, he was only sharing the fortune of every man who ever found

himself in that companionship. From one end of Europe to the other

his equal could not be found. It was not alone that he had stores of

conversation for the highest capacities and the most cultivated minds,

but he possessed that thorough knowledge of life so interesting to men

of the world, and with it that insight into character which is so

often the key to the mystery of statecraft; and with all these he had

a geniality and a winning, grace of look, voice, and demeanor that

sent one from his presence with the thought that if the world could but

compass a few more like him, one would not change the planet for the

brightest in the firmament. Breakfast over, they smoked; then they had

a game at billiards; after that they strolled into the garden, and had

some pistol-firing. Here Tony acquitted himself creditably, and rose

in his host's esteem; for the minister liked a man who could do

anything--no matter what--very well. Tony, too, gained on him. His own

fine joyous nature understood at once the high-hearted spirit of a young

fellow who bad no affectations about him, thoroughly at his ease without

presumption; and yet, through that gentleman element so strong in him,

never transgressing the limits of a freedom so handsomely accorded him.

While the hours rolled over thus delightfully, a messenger returned

to say that he had been at each of the great hotels, but could find no

trace of Colonel Chamberlayne, nor of the missing bags.

“Send Moorcap,” said the minister. Moorcap was away two hours, and came

back with the same story.

“I suspect how it is,” said Tony. “Chamberlayne has been obliged to

start suddenly, and has carried off my bags with his own; but when he

discovers his mistake, he 'll drop them at Naples.”

Sir Joseph smiled,--perhaps he did not think the explanation very

satisfactory; and perhaps,--who knows?--but he thought that the loss of

a despatch-bag was not amongst the heaviest of human calamities. “At all

events,” he said, “we'll give you an early dinner, Butler, and you

can start by the late train to Genoa, and catch the morning steamer to

Naples.”

Tony asked no better; and I am afraid to have to confess that he engaged

at a game of “pool” with all the zest of one who carried no weighty care

on his breast.

When the time for leave-taking came, Sir Joseph shook his hand with

cordial warmth, telling him to be sure to dine with him as he came

through Turin. “Hang up your hat here, Butler; and if I should be from

home, tell them that you are come to dinner.”

Very simple words these. They cost little to him who spoke them, but

what a joy and happiness to poor Tony! Oh, ye gentlemen of high place

and station, if you but knew how your slightest words of kindness--your

two or three syllables of encouragement--give warmth and glow and vigor

to many a poor wayfarer on life's high-road, imparting a sense not alone

of hope, but of self-esteem, to a nature too distrustful of itself,

mayhap you might be less chary of that which, costing you so little,

is wealth unspeakable to him it is bestowed upon. Tony went on his way

rejoicing; he left that threshold, as many others had left it, thinking

far better of the world and its people, and without knowing it, very

proud of the notice of one whose favor he felt to be fame. “Ah,” thought

he, “if Alice had but heard how that great man spoke to me,--if Alice

only saw how familiarly he treated me,--it might show her, perhaps, that

others at least can see in me some qualities not altogether hopeless.”

If, now and then, some thought of that “unlucky bag”--so he called it to

himself--would invade, he dismissed it speedily, with the assurance that

it had already safely reached its destination, and that the Colonel

and Skeffy had doubtless indulged in many a hearty laugh over his

embarrassment at its loss. “If they knew but all,” muttered he; “I take

it very coolly. I 'm not breaking my heart over the disaster.” And so

far he was right,--not, however, from the philosophical indifference

that he imagined, but simply because he never believed in the calamity,

nor had realized it to himself.

When he landed at Naples, he drove off at once to the lodgings of his

friend Darner, which, though at a considerable height from the ground,

in a house of the St. Lucia Quarter, he found were dignified with the

title of British Legation; a written notice on the door informed all

the readers that “H. R. M.'s Chargé d'Affaires transacted business from

twelve to four every day.” It was two o'clock when Tony arrived, and,

notwithstanding the aforesaid announcement, he had to ring three times

before the door was opened. At length a sleepy-looking valet appeared to

say that “His Excellency”--he styled him so--was in his bath, and could

not be seen in less than an hour. Tony sent in his name, and speedily

received for answer that he would find a letter addressed to him in the

rack over the chimney, and Mr. Darner would be dressed and with him by

the time he had read it.

Poor Tony's eyes swam with tears as he saw his mother's handwriting, and

he tore open the sheet with hot impatience. It was very short, as were

all her letters, and so we give it entire:--

“My own darling Tony,--Your beautiful present reached me yesterday,

and what shall I say to my poor reckless boy for such an act of

extravagance? Surely, Tony, it was made for a queen, and not for a poor

widow that sits the day long mending her stockings at the window. But

ain't I proud of it, and of him that sent it! Heaven knows what it has

cost you, my dear boy, for even the carriage here from London, by the

Royal Parcel Company, Limited, came to thirty-two and fourpence.

Why they call themselves 'Limited' after that, is clean beyond my

comprehension. [If Tony smiled here, it was with a hot and flushed

cheek, for he had forgotten to prepay the whole carriage, and he was

vexed at his thoughtlessness.]

“As to my wearing it going to meeting, as you say, it's quite

impossible. The thought of its getting wet would be a snare to take my

mind off the blessed words of the minister; and I 'm not sure, my

dear Tony, that any congregation could sit profitably within sight of

what--not knowing the love that sent it--would seem like a temptation

and a vanity before men. Sables, indeed, real Russian sables, appear a

strange covering for these old shoulders.

“It was about two hours after it came that Mrs. Trafford called in to

see me, and Jeanie would have it that I'd go into the room with my grand

new cloak on me; and sure enough I did, Tony, trying all the while not

to seem as if it was anything strange or uncommon, but just the sort of

wrapper I 'd throw round me of a cold morning. But it would n't do, my

dear Tony. I was half afraid to sit down on it, and I kept turning out

the purple-satin lining so often that Mrs. Trafford said at last, 'Will

you forgive my admiration of your cloak, Mrs. Butler, but I never saw

one so beautiful before;' and then I told her who it was that sent it;

and she got very red and then very pale, and then walked to the window,

and said something about a shower that was threatening; though, sooth to

say, Tony, the only threat of rain I could see was in her own blue

eyes. But she turned about gayly and said, 'We are going away, Mrs.

Butler,--going abroad;' and before I could ask why or where, she told

me in a hurried sort of way that her sister Isabella had been ordered

to pass a winter in some warm climate, and that they were going to try

Italy. She said it all in a strange quick voice, as if she did n't like

to talk of it, and wanted it over; but she grew quite herself again

when she said that the gardener would take care that my flowers

came regularly, and that Sir Arthur and Lady Lyle would be more than

gratified if I would send up for anything I liked out of the garden.

'Don't forget that the melons were all of Tony's sowing, Mrs. Butler,'

said she, smiling; and I could have kissed her for the way she said it.

“There were many other kind things she said, and in a way, too, that

made them more than kind; so that when she went away, I sat thinking

if it was not a temptation to meet a nature like hers,--so sweet, so

lovely, and yet so worldly; for in all she spoke, Tony, there was never

a word dropped of what sinful creatures we are, and what a thorny path

it is that leads us to the better life before us.

“I was full of her visit, and everything she said, when Dr. Stewart

dropped in to say that they had been down again at the Burnside to try

and get him to let Dolly go abroad with them. 'I never liked the notion,

Mrs. Butler,' he said; 'but I was swayed here and swayed there by my

thoughts for the lass, what was best for her body's health, and that

other health that is of far more value; when there came a letter

to me,--it was anonymous,--saying, “Before you suffer your good and

virtuous daughter to go away to a foreign land, just ask the lady that

is to protect her if she still keeps up the habit of moonlight walks in

a garden with a gentleman for her companion, and if that be the sort of

teaching she means to inculcate.” Mrs. Trafford came to the door as I

was reading the letter, and I said, “What can you make of such a letter

as this?” and as she read it her cheek grew purple, and she said, “There

is an end of our proposal, Dr. Stewart. Tell your daughter I shall

importune her no more; but this letter I mean to keep: it is in a hand I

know well.” And she went back to the carriage without another word; and

tomorrow they leave the Abbey, some say not to come back again.'

“I cried the night through after the doctor went away, for what a world

it is of sin and misery; not that I will believe wrong of her, sweet and

beautiful as she is, but what for was she angry? and why did she show

that this letter could give her such pain? And now, my dear Tony, since

it could be no other than yourself she walked alone with, is it not your

duty to write to the doctor and tell him so? The pure heart fears not

the light, neither are the good of conscience afraid. That she is above

your hope is no reason that she is above your love. That I was your

father's wife may show that Above all, Tony, think that a Gospel

minister should not harbor an evil thought of one who does not deserve

it, and whose mightiest sin is perchance the pride that scorns a

self-defence.

“The poor doctor is greatly afflicted: he is sorry now that he showed

the letter, and Dolly cries over it night and day.

“Is it not a strange thing that Captain Graham's daughters, that never

were used to come here, are calling at the Burnside two or three times a

week?

“Write to me, my dear Tony, and if you think well of what I said, write

to the doctor also, and believe me your ever loving mother,

“Eleanor Butler.

“Dolly Stewart has recovered her health again, but not her spirits.

She rarely comes to see me, but I half suspect that her reason is her

dislike to show me the depression that is weighing over her. So is it,

dear Tony, go where you will; there is no heart without its weary load,

no spirit without that touch of sorrow that should teach submission.

Reflect well over this, dear boy; and never forget that though at times

we put off our troubles as a wayfarer lays down his pack, we must just

strap on the load again when we take to the road, for it is a burden we

have to bear to the journey's end.”

Not all the moral reflections of this note saved it from being crushed

passionately in his hand as he finished reading it. That walk, that

moonlight walk, with whom could it have been? with whom but Maitland?

And it was by her--by her that his whole heart was filled,--her image,

her voice, her gait, her smile, her faintest whisper, that made up the

world in which he lived. Who could love her as _he_ did? Others would

have their hopes and ambitions, their dreams of worldly success, and

such like; but he,--he asked none of these; _her_ heart was all he

strove for. With her he would meet any fortune. He knew she was above

him in every way,--as much by every gift and grace as by every accident

of station; but what did that signify? The ardor of his love glowed only

the stronger for the difficulty,--just as his courage would have mounted

the higher, the more hazardous the feat that dared it. These were his

reasonings,--or rather some shadowy shapes of these flitted through his

mind.

And was it now all over? Was the star that had guided him so long to

be eclipsed from him? Was he never again to ask himself in a moment of

difficulty or doubt, What will Alice say?--what will Alice think? As for

the scandalous tongues that dared to asperse her, he scorned them; and

he was indignant with the old minister for not making that very letter

itself the reason of accepting a proposal he had been until then averse

to. He should have said, “_Now_ there can be no hesitation,--Dolly must

go with you _now_.” It was just as his musings got thus far that Skeffy

rushed into the room and seized him by both hands.

“Ain't I glad to see your great sulky face again? Sit down and tell me

everything--how you came--when----how long you 're to stay--and what

brought you here.”

“I came with despatches,--that is, I ought to have had them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that some of the bags I left at Tarin; and one small fellow,

which I take to have been the cream of the correspondence, Chamberlayne

carried on here,--at least I hope so. Have n't you got it?”

“What infernal muddle are your brains in? Who is Chamberlayne?”

“Come, come, Skeffy, I 'm not in a joking mood;” and he glanced at the

letter in his hand as he spoke. “Don't worry me, old fellow, but say

that you have got the bag all right.”

“But I have not, I never saw it,--never heard of it.”

“And has the Colonel not been here?”

“Who is the Colonel?”

“Chamberlayne.”

“And who is Chamberlayne.”

“That _is_ cool, certainly; I think a man might acknowledge his

godfather.”

“Whose godfather is he?”

“Yours,--your own. Perhaps you 'll deny that you were christened after

him, and called Chamberlayne?”

Skeffy threw up his embroidered cap in the air at these words, and,

flinging himself on a sofa, actually screamed with laughter. “Tony,”

cried he at last, “this will immortalize you. Of all the exploits

performed by messengers, this one takes the van.”

“Look here, Damer,” said Tony, sternly; “I have told you already I 'm

in no laughing humor. I 've had enough here to take the jollity out of

me”--and he shook the letter in his hand--“for many a day to come; so

that whatever you have to say to me, bear in mind that you say it to

one little disposed to good-humor. Is it true that you have not received

these despatches?”

“Perfectly true.”

“Then how are we to trace him? His name is Colonel Moore Chamberlayne,

aide-de-camp to the Lord High Commissioner, Corfu.”

Skeffy bit his lip, and by a great effort succeeded in repressing the

rising temptation to another scream of laughter, and, taking down a

bulky red-covered volume from a shelf, began to turn over its pages.

“There,” said he at last,--“there is the Whole staff at Corfu: Hailes,

Winchester, Corbett, and Ainslie. No Chamberlayne amongst them.”

Tony stared at the page in hopeless bewilderment. “What do you know

of him? Who introduced you to each other? Where did you meet?” asked

Skeffy.

“We met at the foot of the Mont Cenis, where, seeing that I had

despatches, and no means to get forward, he offered me a seat in his

calèche. I accepted gladly, and we got on capitally; he was immense fun;

he knew everybody, and had been everywhere; and when he told me that he

was your godfather--”

“Stop, stop! for the love of Heaven, will you stop, or you 'll kill me!”

cried Skeffy; and, throwing himself on his back on the sofa, he flung

his legs into the air, and yelled aloud with laughter.

“Do you know, Master Darner, I'm sorely tempted to pitch you neck and

crop out of the window?” said Tony, savagely.

“Do so, do so, by all means, if you like; only let me have my laugh out,

or I shall burst a blood-vessel.”

Tony made no reply, but walked up and down the room with his brow bent

and his arms folded.

“And then?” cried Skeff,--“and then? What came next?”

“It is your opinion, then,” said Tony, sternly, “that this fellow was a

swindler, and not on the Staff at all?”

“No more than he was my godfather!” cried Darner, wiping his eyes.

“And that the whole was a planned scheme to get hold of the despatches?”

“Of course. Filangieri knows well that we are waiting for important

instructions here. There is not a man calls here who is not duly

reported to him by his secret police.”

“And why did n't Sir Joseph think of that when I told him what had

happened? All he said was, 'Be of good cheer, Butler; the world will go

round even after the loss of a despatch-bag.'”

“So like him,” said Skeffy; “the levity of that man is the ruin of him.

They all say so at the Office.”

“I don't know what they say at the Office; but I can declare that so

perfect a gentleman and so fine a fellow I never met before.”

Skeffy turned to the glass over the chimney, smoothed his moustaches,

and pointed their tips most artistically, smiling gracefully at himself,

and seeming to say, “You and I, if we were not too modest, could tell of

some one fully his equal.”

“And what's to be done,--what's to come of this?” asked Tony, after a

short silence.

“I 'll have to report you, Master Tony. I 'll have to write home: 'My

Lord,--The messenger Butler arrived here this morning to say that he

confided your Lordship's despatches and private instructions to a

most agreeable gentleman, whose acquaintance he made at St. Jean de

Maurienne; and that the fascinating stranger, having apparently not

mastered their contents up to the present--'”

“Go to the------”

“No, Tony, I shall not; but I think it not at all improbable that such

will be the destination his Lordship will assign assistant-messenger

Butler. The fact is, my boy, your career in our department is ended.”

“With all my heart! Except for that fine fellow I saw at Turin, I think

I never met such a set of narrow-minded snobs.”

“Tony, Tony,” said the other, “when Moses, in the 'Vicar of

Wakefield,'--and I take it he is more familiar to you than the other of

that name,--was 'done' by the speculator in green spectacles, he never

inveighed against those who had unfortunately confided their interests

to his charge. Now, as to our department--”

“Confound the department! I wish I had never heard of it. You say it's

all up with me, and of course I suppose it is; and, to tell you the

truth, Skeffy, I don't think it signifies a great deal just now, except

for that poor mother of mine.” Here he turned away, and wiped his eyes

hurriedly. “I take it that all mothers make the same sort of blunder,

and never will believe that they can have a blockhead for a son till the

world has set its seal on him.”

“Take a weed, and listen to me,” said Skeffy, dictatorially, and he

threw his cigar-case across the table, as he spoke. “You have contrived

to make as bad a _début_ in your career as is well possible to

conceive.”

“What's the use of telling me that? In your confounded passion for

hearing yourself talk, you forget that it is not so pleasant for me to

listen.”

“Prisoner at the bar,” continued Skeffy, “you have been convicted--you

stand, indeed, self-convicted--of an act which, as we regard it, is

one of gross ignorance, of incredible folly, or of inconceivable

stupidity,--places you in a position to excite the pity of compassionate

men, the scorn of those severer moralists who accept not the extenuating

circumstances of youth, unacquaintance with life, and a credulity that

approaches childlike--”

“You 're a confounded fool, Skeffy, to go on in this fashion when a

fellow is in such a fix as I am, not to speak of other things that are

harder to bear. It's a mere toss-up whether he laughs at your nonsense

or pitches you over the banisters. I've been within an ace of one and

the other three times in the last five minutes; and now all my leaning

is towards the last of the two.”

“Don't yield to it, then, Tony. Don't, I warn you.”

“And why?”

“Because you 'd never forgive yourself, not alone for having injured a

true and faithful friend, but for the far higher and more irreparable

loss in having cut short the career of a man destined to be a light to

Europe. I say it in no vanity,--no boastfuluess. No, on my honor! if I

could--if the choice were fairly given to me, I 'd rather not be a man

of mark and eminence. I 'd rather be a commonplace, tenth-rate sort of

dog like yourself.”

The unaffected honesty with which he said this did for Tony what no

cajolery nor flattery could have accomplished, and set him off into a

roar of laughter that conquered all his spleen and ill-humor.

“Your laugh, like the laugh of the foolish, is ill-timed. You cannot see

that you were introduced, not to be stigmatized, but to point a moral.

You fancy yourself a creature,--you are a category; you imagine you are

an individuality,--you are not; you are a fragment rent from a primeval

rock.”

“I believe I ought to be as insensible as a stone to stand you. But stop

all this, I say, and listen to me. I 'm not much up to writing,--but you

'll help me, I know; and what I want said is simply this: 'I have been

tricked out of one of the bags by a rascal that if ever I lay hands on

I 'll bring bodily before the Office at home, and make him confess the

whole scheme; and I 'll either break his neck afterwards, or leave him

to the law, as the Secretary of State may desire.'”

Now, poor Tony delivered this with a tone and manner that implied he

thought he was dictating a very telling and able despatch. “I suppose,”

added he, “I am to say that I now resign my post, and I wish the devil

had me when I accepted it.”

“Not civil, certainly, to the man who gave you the appointment, Tony.

Besides, when a man resigns, he has to wait for the acceptance of his

resignation.”

“Oh, as for that, there need be no ceremony. They'll be even better

pleased to get rid of me than I to go. They got a bad bargain; and, to

do them justice, they seemed to have guessed as much from the first.”

“And then, Tony?”

“I 'll go to sea,--I 'll go before the mast; there must be many a vessel

here wants a hand, and in a few weeks' practice I'll master the whole

thing; my old yachting experiences have done that for me.”

“My poor Tony,” said Skeffy, rising and throwing his arms round him,

“I'll not listen to it. What! when you have a home here with me, are you

to go off and brave hardship and misery and degradation?”

“There's not one of the three,--I deny it. Coarse food and hard work

are no misery; and I 'll be hanged if there's any degradation in earning

one's bread with his hands when his head is not equal to it.”

“I tell you I 'll not suffer it. If you drive me to it, I 'll prevent it

by force. I am her Majesty's Charge d'Affaires. I 'll order the consul

to enroll you at his peril,--I 'll imprison the captain that takes

you,--I 'll detain the ship, and put the crew in irons.”

“Before you do half of it, let me have some dinner,” said Tony,

laughing, “for I came on shore very hungry, and have eaten nothing

since.”

“I'll take you to my favorite restaurant, and you shall have a regular

Neapolitan banquet, washed down by some old Capri. There, spell out that

newspaper till I dress and if any one rings in the mean while, say his

Excellency has just been sent for to Caserta by the King, and will not

be back before to-morrow.” As he reached the door he put his head in

again, and said, “Unless, perchance, it should be my godfather, when, of

course, you 'll keep him for dinner.”

CHAPTER XLVI. “THE BAG NO. 18”

Almost overlooking the terraced garden where Damer and Tony dined, and

where they sat smoking till a late hour of the night, stood a large

palace, whose vast proportions and spacious entrance, as well as

an emblazoned shield over the door, proclaimed it to belong to the

Government. It was the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; and here, now, in

a room projecting over the street beneath, and supported on arches,

sat the Minister himself, with our two acquaintances, Mait-land and

Caffarelli.

Maitland was still an invalid, and rested on a sofa, but he had

recovered much of his former looks and manner, though he was dressed

with less care than was his wont.

The Minister--a very tall thin man, stooped in the shoulders, and with

a quantity of almost white gray hair streaming on his neck and

shoulders--walked continually up and down the room, commenting and

questioning at times, as Maitland read forth from a mass of documents

which littered the table, and with which Caffarelli supplied him,

breaking the seals and tearing open the envelopes before he gave them to

his hand.

Though Maitland read with ease, there was yet that half-hesitation in

the choice of a word, as he went on, that showed he was translating;

and indeed once or twice the Prince-Minister stopped to ask if he had

rightly imparted all the intended force to a particular expression.

A white canvas bag, marked “F. O., No. 18,” lay on the table; and it

was of that same bag and its possible fortunes two others, not fully one

hundred yards off, were then talking: so is it that in life we are often

so near to, and so remote from, the inanimate object around which our

thoughts and hopes, and sometimes our very destinies, revolve.

“I am afraid,” said the Prince, at last, “that we have got nothing here

but the formal despatches, of which Ludolf has sent us copies already.

Are there no 'Private and Confidential'?”

“Yes, here is one for Sir Joseph Trevor himself,” said Caffarelli,

handing a square-shaped letter to Maitland. Maitland glanced hurriedly

over it, and muttered: “London gossip, Craddock's divorce case, the

partridge-shooting,--ah, here it is! 'I suppose you are right about the

expedition, but say nothing of it in the despatches. We shall be called

on one of these days for a blue-book, and very blue we should look, if

it were seen that amidst our wise counsels to Caraffa we were secretly

aware of what G. was preparing.'”

“It must be 'C. was preparing,'” broke in Caraffa; “it means Cavour.”

“No; he speaks of Garibaldi,” said Maitland.

“Garibaldi!” cried Caraffa, laughing. “And are there still _gobemouches_

in England who believe in the Filibuster?”

“I believe in him, for one,” said Maitland, fiercely, for the phrase

irritated him; “and I say, too, that such a Filibuster on our side would

be worth thirty thousand of those great hulking grenadiers you passed in

review this morning.”

“Don't tell the King so when you wait on him to-morrow, that's all!”

said the Minister, with a sneering smile.

“Read on,” broke in Caffarelli, who was not at all sure what the

discussion might lead to.

“Perhaps, too, you would class Count Cavour amongst these

_gobemouches_,” said Maitland, angrily; “for he is also a believer in

Garibaldi.”

“We can resume this conversation at Caserta to-morrow before his

Majesty,” said Caraffa, with the same mocking smile; “pray, now, let me

hear the remainder of that despatch.”

“'It is not easy to say,'” read he aloud from the letter, “'what France

intends or wishes. C. says--'”

“Who is C.?” asked Caraffa, hastily.

“C. means Cowley, probably,--'that the Emperor would not willingly see

Piedmontese troops at Naples; nor is he prepared to witness a new map of

the Peninsula. We, of course, will do nothing either way--'”

“Read that again,” broke in Caraffa.

“'We, of course, will do nothing either way; but that resolve is not to

prevent your tendering counsel with a high hand, all the more since the

events which the next few months will develop will all of them seem

of our provoking, and part and parcel of a matured and long meditated

policy.'”

“_Bentssimo!_” cried the minister, rubbing his hands in delight. “If we

reform, it is the Whigs have reformed us. If we fall, it is the Whigs

have crushed us.”

“'Caraffa, we are told,'” continued Maitland, “'sees the danger, but is

outvoted by the Queen-Dowager's party in the Cabinet,--not to say that,

from his great intimacy with Pietri, many think him more of a Muratist

than a Bourbon.'”

“_Per Bacco!_ when your countryman tries to be acute, there is nothing

too hazardous for his imagination; so, then, I am a French spy!”

“'What you say of the army,'” read on Maitland, “'is confirmed by our

other reports. Very few of the line regiments will be faithful to the

monarchy, and even some of the artillery will go over. As to the fleet,

Martin tells me they have not three seaworthy ships in the fifty-seven

they reckon, nor six captains who would undertake a longer voyage than

Palermo. Their only three-decker was afraid to return a salute to the

“Pasha,” lest her old thirty-two-pounders should explode; and this is

pretty much the case with the monarchy,--the first shock must shake it,

even though it only come of blank cartridge.

“'While events are preparing, renew all your remonstrances; press upon

Caraffa the number of untried prisoners, and the horrid condition of

the prisons. Ask, of course in a friendly way, when are these abuses

to cease? Say that great hopes of amelioration--speak generally--were

conceived here on the accession of the new King, and throw in our

regrets that the liberty of the press with us will occasionally lead to

strictures whose severities we deplore, without being able to arraign

their justice; and lastly, declare our readiness to meet any commercial

exchanges that might promise mutual advantage. This will suggest the

belief that we are not in any way cognizant of Cavour's projects.

In fact, I will know nothing of them, and hold myself prepared, if

questioned in the House, to have had no other information than is

supplied by the newspapers. Who is Maitland? None of the Maitlands here

can tell me.'” This sentence he read out ere he knew it, and almost

crushed the paper when he had finished in his passion.

“Go on,” said Caraffa, as the other ceased to read aloud, while his eyes

ran over the lines,--“go on.”

“It is of no moment, or, at least, its interest is purely personal.

His Lordship recommends that I should be bought over, but still left in

intimate relations with your Excellency.”

“And I see no possible objection to the plan.”

“Don't you, sir?” cried Maitland, fiercely; “then I do. Some little

honor is certainly needed to leaven the rottenness that reeks around

us.”

“_Caro Signor Conte_,” said the Prince, in an insinuating voice, but of

which insincerity was the strong characteristic, “do not be angry with

my Ultramontane morality. I was not reared on the virtuous benches of a

British Parliament; but if there is anything more in that letter, let me

hear it.”

“There is only a warning not to see the Count of Syracuse, nor any of

his party, who are evidently waiting to see which horse is to win. Ah,

and here is a word for your address, Carlo! 'If Caffarelli be the man we

saw last season here, I should say, Do not make advances to him; he is a

ruined gambler, and trusted by no party. Lady C--------believes in him,

but none else!'”

This last paragraph set them all a-laughing, nor did any seem to enjoy

it more than Caffarelli himself.

“One thing is clear,” said Caraffa, at last,--“England wishes us every

imaginable calamity, but is not going to charge herself with any part of

the cost of our ruin. France has only so much of good-will towards us

as is inspired by her dislike of Piedmont, and she will wait and watch

events. Now, if Bosco be only true to his word, and can give us a 'good

account' of his treatment of Garibaldi, I think all will go well.”

“When was Garibaldi to set out?” asked Caffarelli.

“Brizzi, but he is seldom correct, said the 18th.”

“That Irish fellow of ours, Maitland, is positive it will be by the 13th

at latest. By the way, when I asked him how I could reward this last

piece of service he rendered us in securing these despatches, his reply

was, 'I want the cordon of St. Januarius.' I, of course, remonstrated,

and explained that there were certain requisites as to birth and family,

certain guarantees as to nobility of blood, certain requirements of

fortune. He stopped me abruptly, and said, 'I can satisfy them all; and

if there be any delay in according my demand, I shall make it in person

to his Majesty.'”

“Well,” cried Caffarelli,--“well, and what followed?”

“I yielded,” said the Prince, with one of his peculiar smiles. “We are

in such a perilous predicament that we can't afford the enmity of such a

consummate rascal; and then, who knows but he may be the last knight of

the order!” In the deep depression of the last words was apparent their

true sincerity, but he rallied hastily, and said, “I have sent the

fellow to Bosco with despatches, and said that he may be usefully

employed as a spy, for he is hand-and-glove with all the Garibaldians.

Surely he must have uncommon good luck if he escapes a bullet from one

side or the other.”

“He told me yesterday,” said Caffarelli, “that he would not leave Naples

till his Majesty passed the Irish Legion in review, and addressed them

some words of loyal compliment.”

“Why did n't he tell you,” said the Prince, sarcastically, “that seventy

of the scoundrels have taken service with Garibaldi, some hundreds have

gone to the hills as brigands, and Castel d'Ovo has got the remainder;

and it takes fifteen hundred foot and a brigade of artillery to watch

them?”

“Did you hear this, Maitland?” cried Caffarelli; “do you hear what his

Excellency says of your pleasant countrymen?”

Maitland looked up from a letter that he was deeply engaged in, and

so blank and vacant was his stare that Caffarelli repeated what the

Minister had just said. “I don't think you are minding what I say. Have

you heard me, Maitland?”

“Yes; no--that is, my thoughts were on something that I was reading

here.”

“Is it of interest to us?” asked Caraffa.

“None whatever. It was a private letter which got into my hands open,

and I had read some lines before I was well aware. It has no bearing

on politics, however;” and, crushing up the note, he placed it in his

pocket, and then, as if recalling his mind to the affairs before him,

said: “The King himself must go to Sicily. It is no time to palter.

The personal daring of Victor Emmanuel is the bone and sinew of the

Piedmontese movement. Let us show the North that the South is her equal

in everything.”

“I should rather that it was from _you_ the advice came than from _me_,”

said Caraffa, with a grin. “I am not in the position to proffer it.”

“If I were Prince Caraffa, I should do so, assuredly.”

“You would not, Maitland,” said the other, calmly. “You would not, and

for this simple reason, that you would see that, even if accepted, the

counsel would be fruitless. If it were to the Queen, indeed--”

“Yes, _per Bacco!_” broke in Caffarelli, “there is not a gentleman in

the kingdom would not spring into the saddle at such a call.”

“Then why not unfold this standard?” asked Maitland. “Why not make one

effort to make the monarchy popular?”

“Don't you know enough of Naples,” said Caraffa, “to know that the cause

of the noble can never be the cause of the people; and that to throw

the throne for defence on the men of birth is to lose the 'men of the

street'?”

He paused, and with an expression of intense hate on his face, and a

hissing passionate tone in his voice, continued, “It required all

the consummate skill of that great man, Count Cavour, to weld the two

classes together, and even he could not elevate the populace; so that

nothing was left to him but to degrade the noble.”

“I think, meanwhile, we are losing precious time,” said Maitland, as he

took up his hat “Bosco should be reinforced. The squadron, too,

should be strengthened to meet the Sardinian fleet; for we have sure

intelligence that they mean to cover Garibaldi's landing; Persano avows

it.”

“All the better if they do,” said Caraffa. “The same act which

would proclaim their own treachery would deliver into our hands this

hare-brained adventurer.”

“Your Excellency may have him longer in your hands than you care

for,” said Maitland, with a saucy smile. The Prince bowed a cold

acknowledgment of the speech, and suffered them to retire without a

word.

“It is fated, I believe,” said Caffarelli, as they gained the street,

“that the Prince and you are never to separate without anger; and

you are wrong, Maitland. There is no man stands so high in the King's

favor.”

“What care I for that, Carlo mio? the whole thing has ceased to interest

me. I joined the cause without any love for it; the more nearly I saw

its working, the more I despised myself for acting with such associates;

and if I hold to it now, it is because it is so certain to fail. Ay,

my friend, it is another Bourbon bowled over. The age had got sick of

vested interests, and wanted to show what abuses they were; but you

and I are bound to stand fast; we cannot rescue the victim, but we must

follow the hearse.”

“How low and depressed you are to-night! What has come over you?”

“I have had a heavy blow, mio Carlo. One of those papers whose envelopes

you broke and handed to me was a private letter. It was from Alice

Trafford to her brother; and the sight of my own name in it tempted me

to see what she said of me. My curiosity has paid its price.” He paused

for some minutes, and then continued: “She wrote to refuse the villa I

had offered her,--to refuse it peremptorily. She added: 'The story of

your friend's duel is more public than you seem to know. It appeared in

the “Patrie” three weeks ago, and was partly extracted by “Galignani.”

The provocation given was an open declaration that Mr. Maitland was

no Maitland at all, but the illegitimate son of a well-known actress,

called Brancaleone, the father unknown. This outrage led to a meeting,

and the consequences you know of. The whole story has this much of

authenticity, that it was given to the world with the name of the other

principal, who signs himself Milo M'Caskey, Lieut.-Col. in the service

of Naples, Count, and Commander of various orders.' She adds,” continued

Maitland, in a shaken voice, and an effort, but yet a poor one, to

smile,--“she adds: 'I own I am sorry for him. All his great qualities

and cultivation seemed to suit and dignify station; but now that I know

his condition to have been a mere assumption, the man himself and his

talents are only a mockery,--only a mockery!' Hard words these, Carlo,

very hard words!

“And then she says: 'If I had only known him as a passing acquaintance,

and thought of him with the same indifference one bestows on

such,-perhaps I would not now insist so peremptorily as I do on our

ceasing to know him; but I will own to you, Mark, that he did interest

me greatly. He had, or seemed to have,'--this, that, and t' other,” said

he, with an ill-tempered haste, and went on. “'But now, as he stands

before me, with a borrowed name and a mock rank--' There is half a page

more of the same trash; for this gentle lady is a mistress of fierce

words, and not over-merciful, and she ends thus: 'I think, if you are

adroit, you can show him, in declining his proffered civility, that we

had strong reasons for our refusal, and that it would be unpleasant to

renew our former acquaintance.' In fact, Carlo, she means to cut me.

This woman, whose hand I had held in mine while I declared my love, and

who, while she listened to me, showed no touch of displeasure, affects

now to resent the accident of my birth, and treat me as an impostor!

I am half sorry that letter has not reached its destination; ay, and,

strange as you will think it, I am more than half tempted to write and

tell her that I have read it The story of the stolen despatch will soon

be a newspaper scandal, and it would impart marvellous interest to her

reading it when she heard that her own 'private and confidential' was

captured in the same net.”

“You could not own to such an act, Maitland.”

“No. If it should not lead to something further; but I do yearn to repay

her. She is a haughty adversary, and well worth a vengeance.”

“What becomes of your fine maxim, 'Never quarrel with a woman,'

Maitland?”

“When I uttered it, I had never loved one,” muttered he; and they walked

on now in silence.

Almost within earshot--so close, indeed, that had they not been

conversing in Italian, some of their words must have been overheard

by those behind--walked two other friends, Darner and Tony, in close

confab.

“I most telegraph F. O,” said Skeffy, “that bag is missing, and that

Messenger Butler has gone home to make his report Do you hear me?”

A grunt was the reply.

“I 'll give you a letter to Howard Pendleton, and he 'll tell what is

the best thing to be done.”

“I suspect I know it already,” muttered Tony.

“If you could only persuade my Lord to listen to you, and tell him the

story as you told it to me, he 'd be more than a Secretary of State if

he could stand it.”

“I have no great desire to be laughed at, Skeffy.”

“Not if it got you out of a serious scrape,--a scrape that may cost you

your appointment?”

“Not even at that price.”

“I can't understand that; it is quite beyond me. They might put _me_

into 'Joe Miller' to-morrow, if they 'd only gazette me Secretary of

Embassy the day after. But here's the hotel; a good sleep will set you

all right; and let me see you at breakfast as jolly as you used to be.”

CHAPTER XLVII. ADRIFT

The dawn was scarcely breaking as Tony Butler awoke and set off to visit

the ships in the port whose flags proclaimed them English. There were

full thirty, of various sizes and rigs; but though many were deficient

in hands, no skipper seemed disposed to accept a young fellow who, if he

was stalwart and well grown, so palpably pertained to a class to which

hard work and coarse usage were strangers.

“You ain't anything of a cook, are you?” asked one of the very few who

did not reject his demand at once.

“No,” said he, smiling.

“Them hands of yours might do something in the caboose, but they ain't

much like reefing and clewing topsails. Won't suit _me_.” And, thus

discouraged, he went on from one craft to the other, surprised and

mortified to discover that one of the resources he had often pictured

to his mind in the hours of despondency was just as remote, just as much

above him, as any of the various callings his friends had set before

him.

“Not able to be even a sailor! Not fit to serve before the mast! Well,

perhaps I can carry a musket; but for _that_ I must return to England.”

He fell to thinking of this new scheme, but without any of that hope

that had so often colored his projects. He owed the service a grudge.

His father had not been fairly treated in it So, at least, from his very

childhood, had his mother taught him to believe, and, in consequence,

vehemently opposed all his plans to obtain a commission. Hard necessity,

however, left no room for mere scruples; something he must do, and that

something was narrowed to the one single career of a soldier.

He was practical enough in a certain sense, and he soon resolved on his

line of action; he would reserve just so much as would carry him back to

England, and remit the remainder of what he had to his mother.

This would amount to nigh eighty pounds,--a very considerable sum to one

whose life was as inexpensive as hers. The real difficulty was how to

reconcile her to the thought of his fallen condition, and the hardships

she would inevitably associate in her mind with his future life. “Ain't

I lucky,” cried he in his bitterness, and trying to make it seem like a

consolation,--“ain't I lucky, that, except my poor dear mother, I have

not one other in the whole world to care what comes to me,--none other

to console, none other before whom I need plead or excuse myself! My

failure or my disgrace are not to spread a widecast sorrow. They will

only darken one fireside, and one figure in the corner of it.”

His heart was full of Alice all the while, but he was too proud to utter

her name even to himself. To have made a resolve, however, seemed to

rally his courage again; and when the boatman asked him where he should

go next, he was so far away in his thoughts that he had some difficulty

to remember what he had been actually engaged in.

“Whereto?”

“Well, I can't well tell you,” said he, laughing. “Isn't that schooner

English,--that one getting underway yonder? Shove me aboard of her.”

“She's outward bound, sir.”

“No matter, if they 'll agree to take me,” muttered he to himself.

The craft was “hauling short” on the anchor as Tony came alongside

and learned that she was about to sail for Leghorn, having failed in

obtaining a freight at Naples; and as by an accident one of the crew

had been left on shore, the skipper was too willing to take Tony so far,

though looking, as he remarked, far more like a swell landsman than an

ordinary seaman.

Once outside the bay, and bowling along with a smart breeze and a calm

sea, the rushing water making pleasant music at the bow, while the helm

left a long white track some feet down beneath the surface, Tony felt,

what so many others have felt, the glorious elation of being at sea. How

many a care “blue water” can assuage, how many a sorrow is made bearable

by the fresh breeze that strains the cordage, and the laughing waves we

cleave through so fast!

A few very eventful days, in which Tony's life passed less like reality

than a mere dream, brought them to Leghorn; and the skipper, who had

taken a sort of rough liking to the “Swell,” as he still called him,

offered to take him on to Liverpool, if he were willing to enter himself

regularly on the ship's books as one of the crew.

“I am quite ready,” said Tony, who thought by the time the brief voyage

was completed he should have picked up enough of the practice and the

look of a sailor to obtain another employment easily.

Accompanied by the skipper, he soon found himself in the consul's

office, crowded with sailors and other maritime folk, busily engaged in

preferring complaints or making excuses, or as eagerly asking for relief

against this or that exaction on the part of the foreign government.

The consul sat smoking his cigar with a friend at a window, little

heeding the turmoil around, but leaving the charge of the various

difficulties to his clerks, who only referred to him on some special

occasions.

“Here's a man, sir,” cried one of the clerks, “who wishes to be entered

in the ship's books under an assumed name. I have told him it can't be

done.”

“Why does he ask it? Is he a runaway convict?” asked the consul.

“Not exactly,” said Tony, laughing; “but as I have not been brought up

before the mast, and I have a few relatives who might not like to hear

of me in that station--”

“A scamp, I take,” broke in the consul, “who, having done his worst on

shore, takes to the sea for a refuge?”

“Partly right,--partly wrong,” was the dry answer.

“Well, my smart fellow, there 's no help for it. You must give your

name and your birthplace; and if they should prove false ones, take any

consequences that might result.”

“What sort of consequences might these be?” asked Tony, calmly; and the

consul, having either spoken without any distinct knowledge attached

to his words, or provoked by the pertinacity of the question, half

irritably answered: “I 've no time to throw away in discussing

casualties; give your name or go your way.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured the skipper. “Who knows anything about you down

here?--Just sign the sheet and let's be moving.”

The sort of good-humored tone and look that went with the words decided

Tony, and he took the pen and wrote “Tony Butler, Ireland.”

The consul glanced at the writing, and said, “What part of Ireland? Name

a town or a village.”

“I cannot; my father was a soldier, quartered in various places, and I

'm not sure in what part of the island I was born.”

“Tony Butler means Anthony Butler, I suppose?”

“Tony Butler!” cried the consul's friend, suddenly starting up, and

coming forward; “did _you_ say your name was Tony Butler?”

“Yes; that is my name.”

“And are you from the North of Ireland,--near the Causeway?”

Tony nodded, while a flush of shame at the recognition covered his face.

“And do you know Dr. Stewart, the Presbyterian minister in that

neighborhood?”

“I should think so. The Burnside, where he lives, is not above a mile

from us.”

“That's it,--the Burnside,--that's the name of it. I'm as glad as fifty

pounds in my pocket to see you, Mr. Butler,” cried he, grasping Tony's

hand in both his own. “There 's not a man from this to England I 'd as

soon have met as yourself. I 'm Sam M'Grader, Robert M'Grader's brother.

You have n't forgot _him_, I hope?”

“That I haven't,” cried Tony, warmly returning the honest pressure of

the other's hand. “What a stupid dog I have been not to remember that

you lived here! and I have a letter for you, too, from your brother!”

“I want no letter of introduction with you, Mr. Butler; come home with

me. You 're not going to sea this time;” and, taking a pen, he drew a

broad line of ink across Tony's name; and then turning, he whispered a

few words in the consul's ear.

“I hope,” said the consul, “Mr. Butler is not offended at the freedom

with which I commented on him.”

“Not in the least,” said Tony, laughing. “I thought at the time, if

you knew me you would not have liked to have suggested my having been

a runaway convict; and now that you _do_ know me, the shame you feel is

more than enough to punish you.”

“What could have induced you to go before the mast, Mr. Butler?” said

M'Gruder, as he led Tony away.

“Sheer necessity. I wanted to earn my bread.”

“But you had got something,--some place or other?”

“I was a messenger, but I lost my despatches, and was ashamed to go home

and say so.”

“Will you stop with me? Will you be a clerk?” asked the other; and a

certain timidity in his voice showed that he was not quite assured as he

spoke. “My business is like my brother's,--we 're 'in rags.'”.

“And so should I be in a few days,” laughed out Tony, “if I had n't met

you. I 'll be your clerk, with a heart and a half,--that is, if I be

capable; only don't give me anything where money enters, and as little

writing as possible, and no arithmetic, if you can help it.”

“That will be a strange sort of clerkship,” said M'Gruder, with a smile;

“but we 'll see what can be done.”

CHAPTER XLVIII. “IN RAGS”

If Tony Butler's success in his new career only depended on his zeal,

he would have been a model clerk. Never did any one address himself to

a new undertaking with a stronger resolution to comprehend all its

details, and conquer all its difficulties. First of all, he desired to

show his gratitude to the good fellow who had helped him; and secondly,

he was eager to prove, if proven it could be, that he was not utterly

incapable of earning his bread, nor one of those hopeless creatures who

are doomed from their birth to be a burden to others.

So long as his occupation led him out of doors, conveying orders here

and directions there, he got on pretty well. He soon picked up a sort of

Italian of his own, intelligible enough to those accustomed to it;

and as he was alert, active, and untiring, he looked, at least, a most

valuable assistant. Whenever it came to indoor work and the pen, his

heart sank within him; he knew that his hour of trial had come, and he

had no strength to meet it. He would mistake the letter-book for the

ledger or the day-book; and he would make entries in one which should

have been in the other, and then, worst of all, erase them, or append an

explanation of his blunder that would fill half a page with inscrutable

blottedness.

As to payments, he jotted them down anywhere, and in his anxiety to

compose confidential letters with due care, he would usually make three

or four rough drafts of the matter, quite sufficient to impart the

contents to the rest of the office.

Sam M'Gruder bore nobly up under these trials. He sometimes laughed at

the mistakes, did his best to remedy,--never rebuked them. At last,

as he saw that poor Tony's difficulties, instead of diminishing, only

increased with time, inasmuch as his despair of himself led him into

deeper embarrassments, M'Gruder determined Tony should be entirely

employed in journeys and excursions here and there through the

country,--an occupation, it is but fair to own, invented to afford him

employment, rather than necessitated by any demands of the business.

Not that Tony had the vaguest suspicion of this. Indeed, he wrote to his

mother a letter filled with an account of his active and useful labors.

Proud was he at last to say that he was no longer eating the bread of

idleness. “I am up before dawn, mother, and very often have nothing to

eat but a mess of Indian corn steeped in oil, not unlike what Sir Arthur

used to fatten the bullocks with, the whole livelong day; and sometimes

I have to visit places there are no roads to; nearly all the villages

are on the tops of the mountains; but, by good luck, I am never beat by

a long walk, and I do my forty miles a day without minding it.

“If I could only forget the past, dearest mother, or think it nothing

but a dream, I 'd never quarrel with the life I am now leading; for I

have plenty of open air, mountain walking, abundance of time to myself,

and rough fellows to deal with, that amuse me; but when I am tramping

along with my cigar in my mouth, I can't help thinking of long ago,--of

the rides at sunset on the sands, and all the hopes and fancies I used

to bring home with me, after them. Well! it is over now,--just as much

done for as if the time had never been at all; and I suppose, after a

while, I 'll learn to bear it better, and think, as you often told me,

that 'all things are for the best.'

“I feel my own condition more painfully when I come, back here, and have

to sit a whole evening listening to Sam M'Gruder talking about Dolly

Stewart and the plans about their marriage. The poor fellow is so full

of it all that even the important intelligence I have for him he won't

hear, but will say, 'Another time, Tony, another time,--let us chat

about Dolly.' One thing I 'll swear to, she 'll have the honestest

fellow for her husband that ever stepped, and tell her I said so. Sam

would take it very kindly of you if you could get Dolly to agree to

their being married in March.

“It is the only time he can manage a trip to England,--not but, as he

says, whatever time Dolly consents to shall be his time.

“He shows me her letters sometimes, and though he is half wild with

delight at them, I tell you frankly, mother, they would n't satisfy _me_

if I was her lover. She writes more like a creature that was resigned

to a hard lot, than one that was about to marry a man she loved. Sam,

however, does n't seem to take this view of her, and so much the better.

“There was one thing in your last letter that puzzled me, and puzzles me

still. Why did Dolly ask if I was likely to remain here? The way you put

it makes me think that she was deferring the marriage till such time

as I was gone. If I really believed this to be the case, I'd go away

tomorrow, though I don't know well where to, or what for, but it is hard

to understand, since I always thought that Dolly liked me, as certainly

I ever did, and still do, _her_.

“Try and clear up this for me in your next. I suppose it was by way of

what is called 'sparing me,' you said nothing of the Lyles in your

last, but I saw in the 'Morning Post' all about the departure for the

Continent, intending to reside some years in Italy.

“And that is more than I 'd do if I owned Lyle Abbey, and had

eighteen blood-horses in my stable, and a clipper cutter in the Bay of

Curryglass. I suppose the truth is, people never do know when they're

well off.”

The moral reflection, not arrived at so easily or so rapidly as the

reader can imagine, concluded Tony's letter, to which in due time came

a long answer from his mother. With the home gossip we shall not

burden the reader, nor shall we ask of him to go through the short

summary--four close pages--of the doctor's discourses on the text, “I

would ye were hot or cold,” two sensations that certainly the mere sight

of the exposition occasioned to Tony. We limit ourselves to the words of

the postscript.

“I cannot understand Dolly at all, and I am afraid to mislead you as to

what you ask. My impression is--but mind, it is mere impression--she has

grown somewhat out of her old friendship for you. Some stories possibly

have represented you in a wrong light, and I half think you may be

right, and that she would be less averse to the marriage if she knew you

were not to be in the house with them. It was, indeed, only this morning

the doctor said, 'Young married folk should aye learn each other's

failings without bystanders to observe them,'--a significant hint I

thought I would write to you by this post.”

When Tony received his epistle, he was seated in his own room, leisurely

engaged in deciphering a paragraph in an Italian newspaper, descriptive

of Garibaldi's departure from a little bay near Genoa to his Sicilian

expedition.

Nothing short of a letter from his mother could have withdrawn his

attention from a description so full of intense interest to him; and

partly, indeed, from this cause, and partly from the hard labor of

rendering the foreign language, the details stuck in his mind during all

the time he was reading his mother's words.

“So that 's the secret, is it?” muttered he. “Dolly wishes to be alone

with her husband,--natural enough; and I'm not the man to oppose it.

I hope she'll be happy, poor girl; and I hope Garibaldi will beat the

Neapolitans. I 'm sure Sam is worthy of a good wife; but I don't know

whether these Sicilian fellows deserve a better government. At all

events, my course is clear,--here I mustn't stay. Sam does not know that

I am the obstacle to his marriage; but _I_ know it, and that is enough.

I wonder would Garibaldi take me as a volunteer? There cannot be much

choice at such a time. I suppose he enrolls whoever offers; and they

must be mostly fellows of my own sort,--useless dogs, that are only fit

to give and take hard knocks.”

He hesitated long whether he should tell Sam M'Gruder of his project; he

well knew all the opposition he should meet, and how stoutly his friend

would set himself against a plan so fatal to all habits of patient

industry. “And yet,” muttered Tony to himself, “I don't like to tell

him that I hate 'rags,' and detest the whole business. It would be so

ungrateful of me. I could say my mother wanted to see me in Ireland;

but I never told him a lie, and I can't bear that our parting should be

sealed with a falsehood.”

As he pondered, he took out his pistols and examined them carefully;

and, poising one neatly in his hand, he raised it, as marksmen sometimes

will do, to take an imaginary aim. As he did so, M'Gruder entered, and

cried out, laughing, “Is he covered,--is he dead?”

Tony laid down the weapon, with a flush of shame, and said, “After all,

M'Gruder, the pistol is more natural to me than the pen; and it was just

what I was going to confess to you.”

“You 're not going to take to the highways, though?”

“Something not very unlike it; I mean to go and have a turn with

Garibaldi.”

“Why, what do you know about Garibaldi or his cause?”

“Perhaps not a great deal; but I've been spelling out these newspapers

every night, and one thing is clear, whether he has right or wrong on

his side, the heavy odds are all against him. He's going in to fight

regular troops, with a few hundred trampers. Now I call that very

plucky.”

“So do I; but courage may go on to rashness, and become folly.”

“Well, I feel as if a little rashness will do me a deal of good. I am

too well off here,--too easy,--too much cared for. Life asks no effort,

and I make none; and if I go on a little longer, I 'll be capable of

none.”

“I see,” said the other, laughing, “Rags do not rouse your ambition,

Tony.”

“I don't know what would,--that is, I don't think I _have_ any ambition

now;” and there was a touch of sorrow in the last word that gave all the

force to what he said.

“At all events, you are tired of this sort of thing,” said the other,

good-humoredly, “and it's not to be much wondered at. You began life at

what my father used to call 'the wrong end.' You started on the sunny

side of the road, Tony, and it is precious hard to cross over into the

shade afterwards.”

“You 're right there, M'Gruder. I led the jolliest life that ever man

did till I was upwards of twenty; but I don't believe I ever knew how

glorious it was till it was over; but I must n't think of that now. See!

this is what I mean to do. You 'll find some way to send that safely to

my mother. There's forty-odd pounds in it, and I 'd rather it was not

lost I have kept enough to buy a good rifle--a heavy Swiss one, if I can

find it--and a sword-bayonet, and with these I am fully equipped.”

“Come, come, Tony, I'll not hear of this; that you are well weary of the

life you lead here is not hard to see, nor any blame to you either, old

fellow. One must be brought up to Rags, like everything else, and

_you_ were not. But my brother writes me about starting an American

agency,--what do you say to going over to New York?”

“What a good fellow you are!” cried Tony, staring at him till his eyes

began to grow clouded with tears; “what a good fellow! you 'd risk

your ship just to give me a turn at the tiller! But it must n't be,--it

cannot be; I 'm bent on this scheme of mine,--I have determined on it.”

“Since when? since last night?”

“Well, it's not very long, certainly, since I made up my mind.”

The other smiled. Tony saw it, and went on: “I know what you mean. You

are of old Stewart's opinion. When he heard me once say I had made up

my mind, he said, 'It does n't take long to make up a small parcel;' but

every fellow, more or less, knows what he can and what he cannot do. Now

I cannot be orderly, exact, and punctual,--even the little brains I have

I can't be sure of keeping them on the matter before me; but I defy a

horse to throw me; I 'll bring you up a crown-piece out of six fathoms

water, if it 's clear; I'll kill four swallows out of six with a ball;

and though these are not gifts to earn one's bread by, the man that has

them need n't starve.”

“If I thought that you had really reflected well over this plan,--given

it all the thought and consideration it required--”

“I have given it just as much consideration as if I took five weeks to

it. A man may take an evening over a pint of ale, but it's only a pint,

after all,--don't you see that?”

M'Gruder was puzzled; perhaps there was some force in the illustration.

Tony looked certainly as if he thought he had said a clever thing.

“Well, Tony,” said the other, after a moment of grave thought, “you 'll

have to go to Genoa to embark, I suppose?”

“Yes; the committee sits at Genoa, and every one who enrolls must appear

before them.”

“You could walk there in four days.”

“Yes; but I can steam it in one.”

“Ay, true enough; what I mean to ask of you is this, that you will go

the whole way on foot; a good walker as you are won't think much of

that; and in these four days, as you travel along,--all alone,--you 'll

have plenty of time to think over your project. If by the time you reach

Genoa you like it as well as ever, I 've no more to say; but if--and

mark me, Tony, you must be honest with your own heart--if you really

have your doubts and your misgivings; if you feel that for your poor

mother's sake--”

“There, there! I've thought of all that,” cried Tony, hurriedly. “I 'll

make the journey on foot, as you say you wish it, but don't open the

thing to any more discussion. If I relent, I 'll come back. There's my

hand on it!”

“Tony, it gives me a sad heart to part with you;” and he turned away,

and stole out of the room.

“Now, I believe it's all done,” said Tony, after he had packed his

knapsack, and stored by in his trunk what he intended to leave behind

him. There were a few things there, too, that had their own memories!

There was the green silk cap, with its gold tassel, Alice had given him

on his last steeple-chase. Ah, how it brought back the leap--a bold leap

it was--into the winning field, and Alice, as she stood up and waved her

handkerchief as he passed! There was a glove of hers; she had thrown it

down sportively on the sands, and dared him to take it up in full career

of his horse; he remembered they had a quarrel because he claimed the

glove as a prize, and refused to restore it to her. There was an evening

after that in which she would not speak to him. He had carried a heavy

heart home with him that night! What a fund of love the heart must be

capable of feeling for a living, sentient thing, when we see how it can

cling to some object inanimate and irresponsive. “I'll take that glove

with me,” muttered Tony to himself; “it owes me some good luck; who

knows but it may pay me yet?”

CHAPTER XLIX. MET AND PARTED

Tony went on his way early next morning, stealing off ere it was yet

light, for he hated leave-takings, and felt that they weighed upon him

for many a mile of a journey. There was enough on the road he travelled

to have interested and amused him, but his heart was too full of its own

cares, and his mind too deep in its own plans, to dispose him to such

pleasures, and so he passed through little villages on craggy eminences

and quaint old towers on mountain-tops, scarcely observing them. Even

Pisa, with its world-known Tower, and the gem-like Baptistery beside

it, scarce attracted notice from him, though he muttered as he passed,

“Perhaps on some happier day I 'll be able to come back here and admire

it” And so onward he plodded through the grand old ruined Massa and the

silent Sarzana, whose palaces display the quarterings of old crusading

knights, with many an emblem of the Holy War; and by the beauteous Bay

of Spezia he went, not stopping to see poor Shelley's home, and the

terrace where his midnight steps had almost worn a track. The road

now led through the declining ridges of the Apennines, gorgeous in

color,--such color as art would have scarce dared to counterfeit, so

emerald the dark green of the waving pines, so silver-like the olive, so

gloriously purple the great cliffs of porphyry; and then through many a

riven cleft, through feathery foliage and broad-leaved fig-trees, down

many a fathom low the sea!--the blue Mediterranean, so blue as to seem

another sky of deeper meaning than the one above it.

He noticed little of all these; he felt none of them! It was now the

third day of his journey, and though he had scarcely uttered a word, and

been deeply intent on his own fate, all that his thinking had done was

to lead, as it were, into some boundless prairie, and there desert him.

“I suppose,” muttered he to himself, “I am one of those creatures that

must never presume to plan anything, but take each day's life as I find

it. And I could do this. Ay, I could do it manfully, too, if I were not

carrying along with me memories of long ago. It is Alice, the thought

of Alice, that dashes the present with a contrast to the past, and makes

all I now attempt so poor and valueless.”

As the road descends from Borghetto, there is a sudden bend, from which,

through a deep cleft, the little beach and village of Levanto are seen

hundreds of feet beneath, but yet in that clear still atmosphere so near

that not only the white foam of the breaking wave could be seen, but its

rhythm-like plash heard as it broke upon the beach. For the first time

since he set out had the charm of scenery attracted him, and, descending

a few feet from the road, he reached a large square rock, from which he

could command the whole view for miles on every side.

He took out his bread and cheese and a melon he had bought that morning,

and disposed himself to eat his dinner. He had often partaken of a more

sumptuous meal, but never had he eaten with so glorious a prospect at

his feet.

A little lateen-sailed boat stole out from beneath the olives and gained

the sea; and as Tony watched her, he thought if he would only have been

a fisherman there, and Alice his wife, how little he could have envied

all that the world has of wealth and honors and ambitions. His friend

Skeffy could not do this, but _he_ could. _He_ was strong of limb and

stout of heart; he could bear hardships and cold; and it would be so

fine to think that, born gentleman as he was, he never flinched from the

hardest toil, or repined at the roughest fare, he and Alice treasuring

up their secret, and hoarding it as a miser hoards his gold.

Ay, down there, in that little gorge, with the pine-wood behind and the

sea before, he could have passed his life, with never a longing thought

for the great world and its prizes. As he ran on thus in fancy, he never

heard the sound of footsteps on the road above, nor noticed the voices

of persons talking.

At last he heard, not the words, but the tone of the speakers, and

recognized them to be English. There is that peculiar sound in English

utterance that at once distinguishes it from all other speech; and Tony,

quite forgetting that his high-peaked Calabrian hat and massive beard

made him far more like an Italian brigand than a British gentleman, not

wishing to be observed, never turned his head to look at them. At last

one said, “The little fishing-village below there must be Levante. John

Murray tells us that this is the land of the fan palm and the cactus, so

that at length we are in Italy.”

“Do you know--shall I confess it,” said the other, “that I am not

thinking of the view, beautiful as it is? I am envying that peasant with

his delicious melon on the rock there. I am half tempted to ask him to

share it with me.”

“Ask him, by all means,” said the first speaker, laughing.

“You are jesting,” replied the other, “but I am in sober earnest. I can

resist no longer. Do you, however, wait here, or the carriage may pass

on and leave us behind.”

Tony heard nothing of these words; but he heard the light footsteps, and

he heard the rustle of a woman's dress as she forced her way, through

bramble and underwood, till at last, with that consciousness so

mysterious, he felt there was some one standing close behind him. Half

vexed to think that his isolation should be invaded, he drew his hat

deeper over his eyes, and sat steadfastly gazing on the sea below him.

“Is that Levante I see beneath that cliff?” asked she, in Italian,--less

to satisfy her curiosity than to attract fris attention.

Tony started. How intensely had his brain been charged with thoughts of

long ago, that every word that met his ears should seem impregnated with

these memories! A half-sulky “Si” was, however, his only rejoinder.

“What a fine melon you have there, my friend!” said she; and now her

voice thrilled through him so strangely that he sprang to his feet and

turned to face her. “Is my brain tricking me?--are my senses wandering?”

muttered he to himself. “Alice, Alice!”

“Yes, Tony,” cried she. “Who ever heard of so strange a meeting? How

came you here? Speak, or I shall be as incredulous as yourself!” But

Tony could not utter a word, but stood overwhelmed with wonder, silently

gazing on her.

“Speak to me, Tony,” said she, in her soft winning voice,--“speak to me;

tell me by what curious fortune you came here. Let us sit down on this

bank; our carriage is toiling up the hill, and will not be here for some

time.”

[Illustration: 482]

“So it is not a dream!” sighed he, as he sat down beside her. “I have so

little faith in my brain that I could not trust it.”

It was easy to see that his bewilderment still remained; and so, with a

woman's tact, she addressed herself to talking of what would gradually

lead his thoughts into a collected shape. She told how they were all

on their way to the South,--Naples or Palermo, not certain

which,--somewhere for climate, as Isabella was still delicate. That her

father and mother and sister were some miles behind on the road, she

having come on more rapidly with a lighter carriage. “Not all alone,

though, Master Tony; don't put on that rebukeful face. The lady you see

yonder on the road is what is called my companion,--the English word for

duenna; and I half think I am scandalizing her very much by this conduct

of mine, sitting down on the grass with a brigand chief, and, I was

going to say, sharing his breakfast, though I have to confess it never

occurred to him to offer it. Come, Tony, get up, and let me present

you to her, and relieve her mind of the terrible thoughts that must be

distressing her.”

“One moment, Alice,--one moment,” said he, taking her hand. “What is

this story my mother tells me?” He stopped, unable to go on; but she

quickly broke in, “Scandal travels quickly, indeed; but I scarcely

thought your mother was one to aid its journey.”

“She never believed it,” said he, doggedly.

“Why repeat it, then? Why give bad money currency? I think we had better

join my friend. I see she is impatient.”

The coldness with which she spoke chilled him like a wintry blast; but

he rallied soon, and with a vigorous energy said, “My mother no more

believed ill of you than I did; and when I asked you what the slander

meant, it was to know where I could find the man to pay for it.”

“You must deny yourself the pleasure this time, Tony,” said she,

laughing. “It was a woman's story,--a disappointed woman,--and so, not

so very blamable as she might be; not but that it was true in fact.”

“True, Alice,--true?”

“Yes, sir. The inference from it was the only falsehood; but, really, we

have had too much of this. Tell me of yourself,--why are you here? Where

are you now going?”

“You 've heard of my exploits as a messenger, I suppose,” said Tony,

with a bitter laugh.

“I heard, as we all heard with great sorrow, that you left the service,”

said she, with a hesitation on each word.

“Left it? Yes; I left to avoid being kicked out of it I lost my

despatches, and behaved like a fool. Then I tried to turn sailor, but

no skipper would take me; and I _did_ turn clerk, and half ruined the

honest fellow that trusted me. And now I am going--in good truth, Alice,

I don't exactly know where, but it is somewhere in search of a pursuit

to fit a fellow who begins to feel he is fit for nothing.”

“It is not thus your friends think of you, Tony,” said she, kindly.

“That's the worst of it,” rejoined he, bitterly; “I have all my life

been trying to justify an opinion that never should have been formed of

me,--ay, and that I well knew I had no right to.”

“Well, Tony, come back with us. I don't say with me, because I must be

triple discreet for some time to come; but come back with papa; he 'll

be overjoyed to have you with us.”

“No, no,” muttered Tony, in a faint whisper; “I could not, I could not.”

“Is that old grudge of long ago so deep that time has not filled it up?”

“I could not, I could not,” muttered he, evidently not hearing the words

she had just spoken.

“And why not, Tony? Just tell me why not?”

“Shall I tell you, Alice?” said he; and his lip shook and his cheek grew

pale as he spoke,--“shall I tell you?”

She nodded; for she too was moved, and did not trust herself to speak.

“Shall I tell you?” said he; and he looked into her eyes with a meaning

so full of love, and yet of sorrow, that her cheek became crimson, and

she turned away in shame.

“No, Tony,” whispered she, faintly, “better not say--what might pain us

both, perhaps.”

“Enough, if you know,” said he, faintly.

“There, see, my friend has lost all patience; come up to the road, Tony.

She must see that my interview has been with an English gentleman, and

not a brigand chief. Give me your arm, and do not look so sulky.”

“You women can look any way you will,” mumbled he, “no matter what you

may feel; that is, if you _do_ feel.”

“You are the same old savage, Tony, as ever,” said she, laughing. “I

never got my melon, after all, Miss Lester; the sight of an old friend

was, however, better. Let me present him to you,--Mr. Butler.”

“Mr. Tony Butler?” asked she, with a peculiar smile; and though she

spoke it low, he heard her, and said, “Yes; I am Tony Butler.”

“Sir Arthur will be charmed to know you are here. It was but yesterday

he said he 'd not mind taking a run through Calabria if we only had you

with us.”

“I have said all that and more to him, but he does n't mind it,” said

Alice.

“Is this fair, Alice?” whispered he.

“In fact,” resumed she, “he has nowhere particular to go to, provided it

be not the same road that we are taking.”

“Is this kind, Alice?” whispered he, again.

“And though I have told him what pleasure it would give us all if he

would turn back with us--”

“You 'll drive me to say it,” muttered he, between his teeth.

“If you dare, sir,” said she, in a low but clear whisper; and now

she stepped into the carriage, and affected to busy herself with her

mufflers. Tony assisted Miss Lester to her place, and then walked round

to the side where Alice sat.

“You are not angry with me, Alice?” said he, falteringly.

“I certainly am not pleased,” said she, coldly. “There was a time I had

not to press a wish,--I had but to utter it.”

“And yet, Alice,” said he, leaning over, and whispering so close that

she felt his breath on her face,--“and yet I never loved you then as I

love you now.”

“You have determined that I should not repeat my invitation,” said she,

leaning back in the carriage; “I must--I have no help for it--I must say

good-bye!”

“Good-bye,” said he, pressing her hand, from which he had just drawn off

the glove, to his lips. She never made any effort to withdraw it, but

leaned forward as though to conceal the action from her companion.

“Good-bye, dearest Alice,” said he, once more.

“Give me my glove, Tony. I think it has fallen,” said she, carelessly,

as she leaned back once more.

“There it is,” muttered he; “but I have another here that I will never

part with;” and he drew forth the glove she had thrown on the strand for

him to pick up--so long ago!

“You will see papa, Tony?” said she, drawing down her veil; “you can't

fail to meet him before night. Say you saw us. Good-bye.”

And Tony stood alone on the mountain, and watched the cloud of dust that

rose behind the carriage, and listened to the heavy tramp of the horses

till the sounds died off in the distance.

“Oh if I could trust the whisper at my heart!” cried he. “If I could--if

I could--I 'd be happier than I ever dared to hope for.”

CHAPTER L. THE SOLDIER OF MISFORTUNE

The little flicker of hope--faint enough it was--that cheered up Tony's

heart, served also to indispose him to meet with Lady Lyle; for he

remembered, fresh as though it had been the day before, the sharp lesson

that lady had read him on the “absurd pretensions of certain young

gentlemen with respect to those immeasurably above them in station.”

“I am not in a humor to listen to the second part of the homily, which

certainly would not be the less pointed, seeing that I am a wayfarer on

foot, and with my knapsack strapped behind me.” It gave him no sense

of shame that Alice should have seen him thus poor and humble. He never

blushed for his pack or his hobnailed shoes. If _she_ could not think of

him apart from the accidents of his condition, it mattered very little

what he wore or how he journeyed. And as he cheered himself with these

thoughts he gained a high peak, from which he could see the pine-clad

promontory of Sestri, some thousand feet down below him. He knew the

spot from description, and remembered that it was to be one of his

resting-places for a night. It was no new thing for Tony to strike out

his own line across country--his was a practised eye--to mark the course

by which a certain point was to be reached, and to know, by something

like instinct, where a ravine--where a river must lie--where the

mountain-side would descend too precipitously for human footsteps--where

the shelving decline would admit of a path--all these were his; and in

their exercise he had that sort of pride a man feels in what he deems a

gift.

This same pride and his hope together lightened the way, and he went

forward almost happy; so that once or twice he half asked himself if

fortune was not about to turn on him with a kindlier look than she had

yet bestowed? When about a mile from the high-road, a dull rumbling

sound, like far-away thunder, caught his ear: he looked up, and saw the

great massive carriage of the wealthy Sir Arthur rolling ponderously

along, with its six horses, and followed by a dense “wake” of dust for

half a mile behind. “I am glad that we have not met,” muttered he: “I

could have wished to see Bella, and speak to her. She was ever my fast

friend; but that haughty old woman, in the midst of all the pride of

her wealth, would have jarred on me so far that I might have forgotten

myself. Why should my poverty provoke _her_ to slight me? My poverty

is mine, just as much as any malady that might befall me, and whose

sufferings I must bear as I may, and cannot ask another to endure for

me. It may try _me_ to stand up against, but surely it is no burden

to her; and why make it seem as a gulf between us?” Ah, Master Tony!

subtler heads than yours have failed to untie this knot. It was dusk

when he reached Sestri, and found himself in the little vine-clad porch

of the “Angelo d' Oro,” a modest little inn for foot-travellers on the

verge of the sea. He ordered his supper to be served in the open

air, under the fresh foliage, and with the pleasant night-wind gently

stirring the leaves.

As the landlord arranged the table, he informed Tony that another

traveller had come a short time before, but so ignorant of the language

was he that he was only served by means of signs; and he seemed so poor,

too, that they had scruples about giving him a bed, and were disposed to

let him pass the night under the porch.

Tony learned that the traveller had only tasted a glass of wine and

a piece of bread, and then, as if overcome by fatigue and exhaustion,

dropped off asleep. “I will see him,” said he, rising, without partaking

of the soup that was just placed before him; “the poor fellow may

perhaps be ill.” The landlord led the way to the end of the house,

where, on a heap of chestnut leaves, the usual bedding of the cattle

in these regions, a large strongly built man, poorly clad and

travel-stained, lay sound asleep. Tony took the lantern and held it to

his face. How was it he knew the features? He knew them, and yet not the

man. He was sure that the great massive brow and that large strong cheek

were not seen by him for the first time, and though he was sorry to

disturb the poor fellow's slumber, he could not control his impatience

to resolve the doubt; and, stooping down, he shook him gently by the

shoulder.

“What is it?” cried the man, starting up to a sitting posture; “what is

it now?”

“You are a countryman of mine,” said Tony, “and I'm trying to think if

we have not met before.”

The man rose to his feet, and, taking the lantern from Tony's hand,

held it up to his face. “Don't you know me, sir,” cried he; “don't you

remember me?”

“I do, and I do not,” muttered Tony, still puzzled.

“Don't you mind the day, sir, that you was near been run over in London,

and a man pulled you out just as the horses was on top o' you?”

“And are you the man? Are you the poor fellow whose bundle I carried

off?”--but he stopped, and, grasping the man's hand, shook it cordially

and affectionately. “By what chance do I find you here?”

The man looked about, as if to see that he was not overheard; and Tony,

marking the caution of the gesture, said, “None can understand us here.

Don't be afraid to say what you like; but first of all, come and share

my supper with me.”

It was not without a modest reluctance that the poor fellow took his

seat at the table; and, indeed, for some time so overcome was he by the

honor accorded him, that he scarcely ate at all. If Tony Butler was no

finished conversationalist, able to lead the talk of a dinner-table, yet

in the tact that pertains to making intercourse with an inferior

easy and familiar he had not many his equal; and before the meal was

finished, he slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and said, “Rory

Quin, here's your health, and a long life to you!”

“How did you know my name, sir?” asked the poor fellow, whose face

glowed with delight at the flattery of such a recognition.

“At first I did not trust my memory, Rory, for I wrote it down in a

note-book I have; and after a while I learned to think of you so often,

and to wish I might meet you, that I had no need of the writing. You

don't seem to remember that I am in your debt, my good fellow. I carried

off your bundle, and, what was worse, it fell overboard and was lost.”

“It could n't have any but bad luck,” said Rory, thoughtfully; “and

maybe it was just the best thing could happen it.”

There was a touch of sorrow in what he said that Tony easily saw; a

hidden grief had been removed, and after a little inducement he led him

on to tell his story; and which, though, narrated in Rory's own words,

it occupied hours, may, happily for my readers, be condensed into a very

few sentences.

Rory had been induced, partly by the glorious cause itself, partly

through the glittering promises of personal advancement, to enlist for

foreign service. A certain Major M'Caskey--a man that, as Rory said,

would wile the birds off the trees--came down to the little village he

lived in at the foot of the Galtee Mountains; and there was not one,

young or old, was not ready to follow him. To hear him talk, as Rory

described, was better than a play. There wasn't a part of the world he

hadn't seen, there was n't a great man in it he did n't know; and “what

beat all,” as Rory said, “was the way he had the women on his side.” Not

that he was a fine-looking man, or tall, or handsome,--far from it; he

was a little “crith of a cray-ture,” not above five feet four or five,

and with red whiskers and a beard, and a pair of eyes that seemed on

fire; and he had a way of looking about him as he went, as much as to

say, “Where's the man that wants to quarrel with me? for I'm ready and

willin'.”

“I won't say,” added Rory, with a touch of humility, “that one like your

honor would have thought so much of him as we did. I won't say that all

the fine people he knew, and all the wonderful things he did, would

have made your honor admire him, as I, and others like me, did. Maybe,

indeed, you 'd have found out it was lies from beginning to end.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” muttered Tony; “there are plausible fellows

of that sort that take in men of the world every day!” And Tony sat back

in his chair and puffed his cigar in silence, doubtless recalling one

such adept in his own experience.

“Faix, I'm proud to hear your honor say that!” cried Rory. “I 'm as glad

as a pound-note to know that even a gentleman might have been 'taken in'

by the Major.”

“I 'll not go that far, perhaps,” remarked Tony, “as regards your Major;

but I repeat that there are certain fellows of his kind who actually

_have_ imposed on gentlemen,--yes, on gentlemen who were no fools,

either. But how was it he tricked you?”

Now were the floodgates of Rory's eloquence thrown open, and for above

an hour did he revel, as only an Irishman or an Italian can, in a

narrative of cruel wrongs and unmerited hardships; sufferings on land

and sufferings at sea; short rations, bad language, and no pay. Rory was

to have been an officer,--a captain, at least; and when they landed at

Ancona, he was marched away hundreds of miles, with a heavy musket, and

a heavier pack, as a common soldier, and given nothing but beans and oil

for his food, and told he 'd be shot if he grumbled. But what he felt

most of all was, that he never knew whose service he was in, and what he

was going to fight for. Now it was the Holy Father,--Rory was ready to

die for him and the Blessed Virgin; now it was the King of Naples and

Saint Somebody, whose name he couldn't remember, and that Rory felt no

enthusiasm for. At one moment he was told the Pope was going to bless

the whole battalion, and sprinkle them with his own hand; and then it

was the Queen--and purty she was, no doubt--was to lead them on, God

knows where! “And that's the way we were living in the mountains for six

weeks, and every time they paraded us--about once a week--there would be

thirty or forty less of us; some gone off to be sailors, some taking to

the highway as robbers, and a few selling whatever they had and making

for home. At last the Major himself came down to inspect us,--he was

Colonel then, and covered with gold, and all over stars and crosses. We

were drawn up in a square of a little town they call Loretto, that has

houses on three sides of it, and a low sea-wall with a drop of about

twenty feet to the sea. I 'll not forget the place to my dying day.

“There was four hundred and twenty-seven of us out of two thousand and

sixty,--the rest ran away; and when the Major heard the roll called, I

thought he 'd go out of his mind; and he walked up and down in front

of us, gnashing his teeth and blaspheming as never I heard before. 'Ye

scoundrels,' he said at last, 'you 've disgraced me eternally, and I 'll

go back to the Holy Father and tell him it's curses and not blessings he

'd have to give you.'

“This was too much to bear, and I cried out, 'You'd better not!'

“'Who says that?' cries he. 'Where 's the cowardly rascal that has n't

the courage to step forward and repeat these words?' and with that I

advanced two paces, and, putting my gun to my shoulder, took a steady

aim at him. I had him covered. If I pulled the trigger, he was a dead

man; but I could n't do it,--no, if I got the whole world for it, I

could n't; and do you know why?--here it is, then: It was the way he

stood up, bould and straight, with one hand on his breast, and the other

on the hilt of his sword, and he cried out, 'Fire! you scoundrel, fire!'

Bad luck to me if I could; but I walked on, covering him all the while,

till I got within ten paces of the wall, and then I threw down my

musket, and with a run I cleared it, and jumped into the sea. He fired

both his pistols at me, and one ball grazed my head; but I dived and

swam and dived till he lost sight of me; and it was half an hour before

they got out a boat, and before that I was snug hiding between the

rocks, and so close to him that I could hear him swearing away like mad.

When it was dark I crept out, and made my way along the shore to

Pesaro, and all the way here. Indeed, I had only to say anywhere I was

a deserter, and every one was kind to me. And do you know, sir, now that

it's all over, I'm glad I didn't shoot him in cold blood?”

“Of course you are,” said Tony, half sternly.

“But if I am,” rejoined the other,--“if I am glad of it, it's a'most

breaking my heart to think I 'm going back to Ireland without a chance

of facing him in a fair fight.”

“You could do that, too, if you were so very anxious for it,” said Tony,

gravely.

“Do you tell me so? And how, sir?”

“Easy enough, Rory. I 'm on my way now to join a set of brave fellows

that are going to fight the very soldiers your Major will be serving

with. The cause that he fights for, I need not tell you, can't be a very

good one.”

“Indeed, it oughtn't,” said Rory, cautiously.

“Come along with me, then; if it's only fighting you ask for, there 's a

fellow to lead us on that never balked any one's fancy that way. In four

days from this we can be in the thick of it I don't want to persuade

you in a hurry, Rory. Take a day--take two--three days, if you like, to

think of it.”

“I won't take three minutes. I'll follow your honor to the world's end!

and if it gives me a chance to come up with the Major, I 'll bless the

hour I met you.”

Tony now told him--somewhat more ambiguously, I 'm afraid, than

consisted with perfect candor--of the cause they were going to fight

for. He made the most of those magical words so powerful to the Celtic

heart,--oppression, cruelty, injustice; he imparted a touch of repeal

to the struggle before them; and when once pressed hard by Rory with the

home question, “Which side is the Holy Father?” he roughly answered, “I

don't think he has much to say to it one way or other.”

“Faix, I 'm ashamed of myself,” said Rory, flushing up; “and I ought to

know that what's good enough for your honor to fight for is too good for

me.”

They drained the last glasses of their flask in pledge of their compact,

and, resolving to keep their resting-time for the sultry heat of the

day, started by the clear starlight for Genoa.

CHAPTER LI. A PIECE OF GOOD TIDINGS