There were few busier diplomatists in Europe during these eventful days of Naples than Skeffington Darner; and if England had not her share of influence, it was no fault of his. He sent off special messengers every day. He wrote to F. O. in a cipher, of which it was said no one had the key; and he telegraphed in mystical language to the Admiral at Malta, which went far to persuade the gallant seaman that his correspondent was a maniac. He besieged the Court and the ministerial offices, and went home to receive deputations from the wildest leaders of the extreme democracy. He was determined, as he said, to “know the truth,” and he surrounded himself for that purpose with a mass of inextricable perfidy and falsehood; and yet, with all these occupations, he passed his entire mornings with the Lyles, and dined with them every day.
It was a great pleasure, as Sir Arthur said, to be “behind the scenes;” and really the phrase did not ill represent their position, for they knew as much of what was going on upon the stage as people usually do who have only an occasional glimpse, and that from a wrong point of view. Sir Arthur, however, believed Skeffy to be the rising diplomatist, the embryo Talleyrand of Great Britain; and it was strange to see an old, crafty, case-hardened man of the world listening with implicit trustfulness to the hare-brained speculations of a young fellow, whose solitary pretensions were, that he sent off his daily balderdash marked “On Her Majesty's Service,” and sealed with the royal arms.
Lady Lyle only half believed in him; and as for Alice, she laughed at, but liked him; while Bella gave him all her confidence, and admired him greatly. And a very nice thing it is of young ladies, and never to be too much commended, how they will hang on the words, and store up the sayings, and repeat the opinions of the man who prefers them. It is not exactly Love, no more than gooseberry wine is champagne; but it effervesces and exhilarates, and I 'm not sure if it does not agree very well with weak constitutions.
Now Skeffy told Bella every morning in the most mysterious manner how he had checkmated Bresson, the French Minister, and outwitted Caraffa and the Cardinal Riario. They never could make out whence he had his information. The Queen had spent a fortune in paying spies to watch him, but he out-manoeuvred them all. Nobody knew—nobody ever could know—the resources of his craft; and, indeed, except Louis Napoleon, there was not a man in Europe had fathomed the depth of his astuteness. “I have to pretend,” would he say, “to be a light, flippant, volatile creature, given up to pleasure, fond of play, of the ballet, and all that sort of thing. I let them bear every day of the sums I have lost at lansquenet, and the enormous extravagance of my daily life, but they don't know what goes on here,” and he would tap his forehead; “they never suspect what plots and plans and machinations are at work within that brain they imagine to be abandoned to enjoyment. It will come out one of these days, dearest Bella; they'll know who 'did it' yet.” And this was a very favorite phrase with him, and Bella caught it up, and talked of the people who had not “done it,” and never could “do it,” and hinted at one whom an ignorant world would awake one morning to see had “done it,” and “done it” to perfection.
To hear him talk, you would say that he rather liked the mistaken estimate the world had formed of him; that it was one of those excellent jokes whose point lay in a surprise; and what a surprise would that be one of these days when he came forth in his true character, the great political genius of Europe! Bella believed it all; not that she was deficient in common sense, or wanting in discernment; but she liked him,—there was the secret. She had made her investment in a certain stock, and would persist in regarding it as a most profitable venture; and thus would they pass their mornings,—a strange way to make love, perhaps; but that passion, etherealize it how you may, trades on some one form or other of selfishness; and all these endearments were blended with the thought of how happy they should be when they were great people.
Skeffy would bring with him, besides, a whole bagful of papers, despatches, and “private and confidentials,” and such-like, and make Bella copy out pages for him of that dreary trash, which, like a bad tapestry, has served no other purpose than to employ the small mind that devised it. And he would sit there, with his eyes closed, and dictate to her endless “brief glances” at the present aspect of the Italian question, till the poor girl was half worn out between the importance of her task and its weariness.
“What's that you are poring over, Bella?” he asked, as she read over a somewhat lengthy letter.
“It is the complaint of an Englishman at being detained by the authorities, first at Palermo and again here: he was a mere traveller, he asserts, and not in any way engaged in political schemes. He says that this is his fourth appeal to you without an answer, and he declares that if this be not replied to, he will address the Chief Secretary at home.”
“Tell the fellow that a Darner is inaccessible to a menace; tell him that his stupid letter would be promptly referred back to me; and say that, so far as this peninsula is concerned, I am F. O., and to be propitiated by humility, and not outraged by a threat.”
“But if it be really true—if the poor fellow should be imprisoned for nothing, Skeff?”
“If so, I shall liberate him;” and as he spoke, he arose and walked the room with a haughty stride and a head erect “Write—
“'Sir,—I am directed by H. M.'s Chargé d'Affaires'—or rather say, 'The undersigned has to acknowledge the receipt of'—what's his name?”
“Samuel M'Gruder.”
“What a name!—'of Samuel M'Gruder's letter; and although he takes exception to the passages marked A and B, and requires explanation of the paragraph C, beginning at the words “nor can I,” and ending at “British subject”'—You 'll have to copy out the whole of this despatch, Bella, and then I shall mark the passages—Where was I?”
“'British subject.'”
“Yes, I remember. 'Yet that, conceding much to the feelings '—no, that is too familiar—'making allowances for an irritability—'”
“I don't think you can say that, Skeff. He has now been seven weeks in confinement.”
“'Lucky dog that he has not been seven weeks worked almost to a skeleton, like me, with the cares of a whole nation on my head, and the eyes of Europe upon me.”
“Just let me say that you will look into his case, and do your best to get him out of prison.”
“With all my heart. It is fearfully undignified; but let it go, and I'll send off a messenger to the Prefetto Lanzi to deliver up the prisoner M'Gruder to me to-morrow morning, and we will interrogate him here.”
The roll of a drum was now heard in the street without, and from the balcony could be seen an immense crowd of people moving in front of an infantry regiment, who marched past, travel-stained and disordered, and with an indescribable something in their air that indicated, it might be defeat, it might be disaffection.
“Here's strange news,” said Sir Arthur, as he joined them. “The landlord tells me Garibaldi has landed in Calabria, near Reggio, beaten the royal troops, and is in full march on Naples. The regiment that you see there were ordered off to reinforce the advanced guard, but cried out, 'Viva Garibaldi!' and have been now recalled, and are to be sent into the fortress.”
“Look!” cried Skeff; “here comes the Artillery after them, a strong proof that they don't trust these fellows. Bella, I must write off the news at once.”
“Let me first finish about M'Gruder,” said she, as she sat down to the table.
“I wish we were all safe back in England,” said Lady Lyle, as she came up.
“I was just thinking the very same thing,” said Sir Arthur.
“Have no fears,” interposed Skeffy; “I shall order up the fleet from Malta. You shall have a frigate—a line-of-battle ship, if you like it better.”
“I'd much rather we had post-horses and an escort,” said Lady Lyle.
“Would that be possible, Darner?”
“All is possible, Sir Arthur, to power properly exercised. I 'll go down at once to the War Office, and see what can be done.”
“If it were perfectly safe,” said Bella, “I should like to drive through the streets and see what is going on; and as Alice refuses to go out, we are just enough for one carriage.” The project was agreed to, all the more readily that Skeff assured them his presence was au aegis that all parties would know how to respect; he was, in fact, as he put it, a sort of emblematized British lion, who with folded paws was about to take an airing for his own amusement.
“As we drive along,” whispered he to Bella, “just watch the recognitions fellows will throw me,—a look, a gesture, a sign, scarcely perceptible, but enough to say, 'Your Excellency may depend upon us.'”
And Bella felt a certain elation at the thought that she was the chosen one of a man so eminent and so distinguished. And, oh dear, let us not be severe upon her for it! If we could not make occasional swans of our geese in this life, we should be very ill off in matters of ornithology. Away they drove down the Chiaja and up the Toledo, where, amidst wild yells and cries for the King, and at times for Garibaldi, a dense mass of people surged and swayed like a mighty monster awaking out of slumber and arousing to deeds of violence.
The populace seemed intoxicated, but not with wine or with joy, but a sort of dare-devil recklessness which sought something—anything—to vent its passion upon. Lines of men linked arm in arm, and, filling the full breadth of the street, marched rapidly on, chanting wild songs; and it was strange to mark in these the old gray-headed feeble man coupled with the stalwart youth, or, perhaps, the mere boy. Here and there were groups listening to some street-orator, now greeting his words with a cheer, now with a burst of vociferous laughter; and through all these went other men, busily, eagerly whispering to this, conferring with that, now exerting every effort of persuasiveness, now seeming to employ incentives to vengeance.
Except the carriage where sat the Lyles, not another vehicle of any kind was to be seen; and as the horses moved slowly along through the dense crowd, many a rude jest and droll comment was passed upon thematti Inglesi,—the mad English,—who had taken such a time and place for a carriage airing. Nor was the courage of the act unrecognized, and twice or thrice a wild cheer proclaimed what they thought of a nation whose very ladies were above all fear and timidity.
The most striking, feature in all this tumult was that soldiers were seen everywhere mixed up with the civilians; not merely furloughed men in undress, but soldiers in full uniform and perfectly armed, but yet displaying, sometimes ostentatiously, by the way they carried their shakoes or their bayonets, or wore their coats open and unbuttoned, that they no longer respected the claims of discipline.
Patrols on foot or horseback would be met, too; but the men, under no restraint, would not only exchange words of greeting with the mob, but accept offers of wine or cigars; and it was seen that the officers were either powerless to prevent or unwilling to curb this indiscipline.
“What does all this portend, Damer?” asked Sir Arthur. “We hear cheers for the King; but all I see seems to threaten his downfall.”
Skeffy was puzzled, and a wiser man might have been puzzled; but his diplomatic instincts forbade such a humiliating avowal, and so he merely muttered something to the purport that “We” had not fully determined what was to be the issue; and that till “We” had made up our minds, all these signs and portents were mere street-noises.
If I am not perfectly just to him in this rendering of his explanation, I am, at least, merciful to my reader; and, leaving the party to follow out the exploration, I shall return to the drawing-room they had just quitted, and where Alice now sat alone, and deep in thought The yells and cries that filled the street outside, and the continual uproar that resounded through the city, were all unheeded by her; and so immersed was she in her reflection, that when a servant entered the room to present the card of a visitor, she was unaware of his presence till he had twice addressed her.
“It cannot be for us,” said she, looking at the name. “I do not know the Count d'Amalfi.”
“He hopes to be better remembered as Mr. Maitland,” said that gentleman, as, pushing wide the half-opened door, he approached her and made a low bow.
The servant had time to retire and shut the door before Alice had sufficiently recovered herself to ask Maitland to be seated. So coldly was the request conveyed, however, that if he was not determined on having an interview, he would have affected to make his call an offer of some sort of attention, and taken his leave almost on the instant Far different were his present intentions; and as he deposited his hat and cane, and took his place in front of her, there was a methodical slowness that indicated purpose.
“I am almost afraid to tell you, Mr. Maitland,” she began, “that I gave orders to be denied to all visitors. They have all gone out to drive, and—”
“It was for that reason that I took this opportunity to call, madam,” said he, very quietly, but in a tone of some decision. “I desired to see you all alone.”
“Not, surely, if you were aware that I did not receive?”
“Do not oblige me to convict myself, Mrs. Trafford; for I, too, shall be almost afraid to tell the truth;” and a very faint smile moved his mouth as he spoke.
“But, as I conjecture, you would like to meet my father—”
“My visit at present is for you,” said he, interrupting; “and as I cannot assure myself how long the opportunity may last, let me profit by it.”
She became very pale; some fear she certainly felt; but there was more of anger than fear in the thought that this man was, by his manner, almost asserting a right to see and speak with her.
“Mr. Maitland is too accomplished a man of the world to need being told that, when a person has declared an indisposition to receive, it is usually deemed enough to secure privacy.”
“Usually,—yes; but there are occasions which are not in this category.”
“And do you mean to say this is one of them, sir?” said she, haughtily.
“Most certainly, madam, this is one of them!” As Mait-land said this, he saw the color mount to her face; and he saw, too, how, now that her proud spirit was, as it were, challenged, she would not think of retreat, but brave him, whatever might come of it.
“Indeed!” said she, with a scornful laugh,—“indeed!” and the last syllable was drawn out in an accent of most insolent irony.
“Yes, madam,” he continued, in a tone perfectly calm and un impassioned; “our last relations together fully warrant me to say so much; and however presumptuous it might have been in me to aspire as I did, the gracious favor with which I was listened to seemed to plead for me.”
“What favor do you speak of, sir?” said she, with evident agitation.
“I must not risk the faint hope that remains to me, by recalling what you may not wish to remember; but I may at least ask you to bring to mind a certain evening—a certain night—when we walked together in the garden at Tilney.”
“I do not think I am likely to forget it, sir; some anonymous slanderer has made it the pretext of a most insolent calumny. I do not, I need not say, connect you in any way with this base scandal; but it is enough to make the incident the reverse of a pleasant memory.”
“And yet it was the happiest of my whole life.”
“It is unfortunate, sir, that we should look back to an event with feelings so diametrically opposite.”
Maitland gave no heed to the irony of her tone, but went on: “If I was conscious of my own unworthiness, I had certain things in my favor which served to give me courage,—not the least of these was your brother's friendship.”
“Mark was always proud of being Mr. Maitland's friend,” said she, rather touched by this haughty man's humility.
“That friendship became very precious to me when I knew his sister. Indeed, from that hour I loved him as a brother.”
“Forgive me, sir, if I interrupt you. At the time to which you allude we would seem to have been living in a perfect realm of misconceptions. Surely it is not necessary to revive them; surely, now that we have awoke, we need not take up the clew of a dream to assist our reflections.”
“What may be the misconceptions you refer to?” said he, with a voice much shaken and agitated.
“One was, it would appear, that Mr. Maitland made me certain professions. Another, that he was—that he had—that is, that he held—I cannot say it, sir; and I beg you to spare me what a rash temper might possibly provoke me to utter.”
“Say all that you will; I loved you, Alice.”
“You will force me to leave you, sir, if you thus forget yourself.”
“I loved you, and I love you still. Do not go, I beg, I implore you. As the proof of how I love you, I declare that I know all that you have heard of me, all that you have said of me,—every harsh and cruel word. Ay, Alice, I have read them as your hand traced them, and through all, I love you.”
“I will not stoop to ask how, sir; but I will say that the avowal has not raised you in my estimation.”
“If I have not your love, I will never ask for your esteem; I wanted your affection as a man wants that which would make his life a reality. I could have worked for you; I could have braved scores of things I have ever shrunk from; and I had a right to it.”
“A right!—what right?”
“The right of him who loved as I did, and was as ready to prove his love. The man who has done what I have is no adventurer, though that fair hand wrote him one. Remember that, madam; and remember that you are in a land where men accept no such slights as this you would pass upon me.” His eyes glared with passion as he spoke, and his dark cheeks grew purple. “You are not without those who must answer for your levity.”
“Now, sir, I leave you,” said she, rising.
“Not yet. You shall hear me out. I know why you have treated me thus falsely. I am aware who is my rival.”
“Let me pass, sir.”
He placed his back to the door, and folded his arms on his breast; but though he made an immense effort to seem calm, his lip shook as he spoke. “You shall hear me out. I tell you, I know my rival, and I am ready and prepared to stake my pretensions against his.”
“Go on, sir, go on; very little more in this strain will efface any memory I preserved of what you first appeared to me.”
“Oh, Alice!” cried he, in a voice of deep anguish. “It is despair has brought me to this. When I came, I thought I could have spoken with calm and self-restraint; but when I saw you—saw what I once believed might have been mine—I forgot all—all but my misery.”
“Suffer me to pass out, sir,” said she, coldly. He moved back, and opened the door wide, and held it thus as she swept past him, without a word or a look.
Maitland pressed his hat deep over his brow, and descended the stairs slowly, one by one. A carriage drove to the door as he reached it, and his friend Caffarelli sprang out and grasped his hand.
“Come quickly, Maitland!” cried he. “The King has left the palace. The army is moving out of Naples to take up a position at Capua. All goes badly. The fleet is wavering, and Garibaldi passed last night at Salerno.”
“And what do I care for all this? Let me pass.”
“Care for it! It is life or death,caro mio!In two hours more the populace will tear in pieces such men as you and myself, if we 're found here. Listen to those yells,Morte ai Reali!Is it with 'Death to the Royalists!' ringing in our ears we are to linger here?”
“This is as good a spot to die in as another,” said Maitland; and he lighted his cigar and sat down on the stone bench beside the door.
“The Twenty-fifth of the Line are in open revolt, and the last words of the King were, 'Give them to Maitland, and let him deal with them.'”
Maitland shrugged his shoulders, and smoked on.
“Genario has hoisted the cross of Savoy over the fort at Baia,” continued the other, “and no one can determine what is to be done. They all say, 'Ask Maitland.'”
“Imitate him! Do the same over the Royal Palace!” said the other, mockingly.
“There, there! Listen to that cry! The mob are pouring down the Chiaja. Come away.”
“Let us look at the scoundrels,” said Maitland, taking his friend's arm, and moving into the street Caffarelli pushed and half lifted him into the carriage, and they drove off at speed.
When the Lyles returned from their drive, it was to find that Alice was too ill to come down to dinner. She had, she said, a severe headache, and wished to be left perfectly quiet and alone. This was a sore disappointment to Bella, brimful of all she had seen and heard, and burning with impatience to impart how Skeffy had been sent for by the King, and what he said to his Majesty, and how the royal plans had been modified by his sage words; and, in fact, that the fate of the Neapolitan kingdom was at that moment in the hands of that “gifted creature.”
It was such she called him; and I beg my kind reader not to think the less of her that she so magnified her idol. The happiest days of our lives are the least real, just as the evils which never befall us are the greatest.
Bella was sincerely sorry for her sister's headache; but with all that, she kept stealing every now and then into her room to tell what Skeff said to Caraffa, and the immense effect it produced. “And then, dearest,” she went on, “we have really done a great deal to-day. We have sent off three 'formal despatches,' and two 'confidential,' and Skeff has told my Lord B., Secretary of State though he be, a piece of his mind,—he does write so ably when he is roused; and he has declared that he will not carry out his late instructions. Few men would have had courage to say that; but they know that, if Skeff liked, he has only to go into Parliament: there are scores of boroughs actually fighting for him; he would be positively terrible in opposition.”
A deep wearied sigh was all Alice's response.
“Yes, dearest, I 'm sure I am tiring you; but I must tell how we liberated Mr. M'Gruder. He has been, he says, fifty-three days in prison, and really he looks wretched. I might have felt more for the man, but for the cold good-for-nothing way he took all Skeff's kindness. Instead of bursting with gratitude, and calling him his deliverer, all he said was, 'Well, sir, I think it was high time to have done this, which, for aught I see, might just as easily have been done three or, perhaps, four weeks ago.' Skeff was magnificent; he only waved his hand, and said, 'Go; you are free!' 'I know that well enough,' said he, in the same sturdy voice; 'and I intend to make use of my freedom to let the British people know how I have been treated. You 'll see honorable mention of it all, and yourself, too, in the “Times,” before ten days are over.'”
“My dear Bella, my head is racking; would you just wet that handkerchief and lay it on my forehead?”
“My poor sweet Alice! and I so cruel, with all my stupid stories; but I thought you 'd like to hear about Tony.”
“Tony!—what of Tony?” asked she, raising herself on one elbow and looking up.
“Well, dearest, it was while in search after Tony that M'Grader got imprisoned. They were sworn friends, it seems. You know, dear, Tony was never very particular in his choice of friends.”
“But what of him,—where is he?”
“I'll tell you everything, if you'll only have a little patience. Tony, who was living with M'Grader in Leghorn,—a partner, I think, in some odious traffic,—cast-off clothes, I believe,—grew tired of it, or got into debt, or did something that brought him into trouble, and he ran away and joined that mad creature Garibaldi.”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, he had not been gone more than ten days or so, when a lawyer came out from England to say that his uncle, Sir Somebody Butler, had died and left him all he had,—a fine estate, and I don't know how much money. When Mr. M'Grader was quite satisfied that all this was true,—and, like a canny Scotchman, he examined it thoroughly,—he set off himself to find Tony and tell him his good news; for, as he said, it would have been a terrible thing to let him go risk his life for nothing, now that he had a splendid fortune and large estate. Indeed, you should have heard Mr. M'Gruder himself on this theme. It was about the strangest medley of romance and worldliness I ever listened to. After all, he was a stanch friend, and he braved no common dangers in his pursuit. He had scarcely landed, however, in Sicily, when he was arrested and thrown into prison.”
“And never met Tony?”
“Never,—of course not; how could he? He did not even dare to speak of one who served under Garibaldi till he met Skeffy.”
“But where is Tony? Is he safe? How are we to hear of him?” asked Alice, hurriedly.
“Skeff has undertaken all that, Alice. You know how he has relations with men of every party, and is equally at home with the wildest followers of Mazzini and the courtiers about the throne. He says he 'll send off a confidential messenger at once to Garibaldi's camp with a letter for Tony. Indeed, it was all I could do to prevent him going himself, he is so attached to Tony, but I begged and implored him not to go.”
“Tony would have done as much for him,” said Alice, gloomily.
“Perhaps he would; but remember the difference between the men, Alice. If anything should befall Skeffy, who is there to replace him?”
Alice, perhaps, could not satisfactorily answer this, for she lay back on her bed, and covered her face with her hands.
“Not, indeed, that he would listen to me when I made that appeal to him, but he kept on repeating, 'Tony is the finest, truest-hearted fellow I ever met.He'd never have left a friend in the lurch; he'd never have thought of himself if another was in danger; and help him I must and will:' and that's the reason we are waiting dinner, dear, for he would go off to the Minister of War or the President of the Council; and he told papa, as he shook hands, on no account to wait for him, for he might be detained longer than he expected.”
As she spoke, a tap came to the door, and a servant announced dinner.
“Has Mr. Damer arrived?” asked Bella, eagerly.
“No, ma'am, but Sir Arthur has just got a note from him.”
“I must see what he says!” cried she, and left the room.
Sir Arthur was reading the letter when she entered.
“Here's Skeff gone off to what he calls the 'front;' he says that Tony Butler has joined the insurgents, and he must get him out of their hands at any price.”
“But of course, papa, you 'll not permit it; you 'll forbid him peremptorily,” broke in Bella.
“I 'm not so sure of that, Bella; because, amongst other reasons, I 'm not so sure he 'd mind me. Our gifted friend is endowed with considerable self-will.”
“Immense determination, I should rather call it, papa; but, pray, try to stop this mad freak. He is not certainly called on to expose such a life as his, and at such a moment.”
“What am I to do?”
“Go over to him at once; declare that you have the right to speak on such a subject. Say that if he is pleased to overlook the necessity of his presence here at this crisis, he ought to remember his position with regard to us,—ought to think ofme,” said she, with a burst of grief that ended in a shower of tears, and drove her from the room.
Sir Arthur was far more disposed to sit down to his dinner than go off on this mission of affection; but Lady Lyle took the same view of the case as her daughter, and there was no help for it. And although the bland butler repeated, “Soup is served, sir,” the poor man had to step downstairs to his carriage and drive off to the Legation.
On arriving there, he learned that his Excellency had gone to see the Prime Minister. Sir Arthur set off in the pursuit, which led him from one great office of the state to another, always to discover that the object of his search had just left only five minutes before; till, at length, his patience became exhausted on hearing that Mr. Darner was last seen in company with an officer of rank on the road to Castelamare, whither, certainly, he determined not to follow him.
It was near nine o'clock when he got home to report himself unsuccessful, to meet dark looks from his wife and daughter, and sit down alone to a comfortless dinner, chagrined and disconcerted.
Lady Lyle tried to interest him by relating the news of Tony Butler's accession to fortune; but the re-heated mutton and the half-coldentréeswere too trying to leave any portion of his nature open to such topics, and he sulkily muttered something about the folly of “having snubbed the young fellow,”—a taunt Lady Lyle resented by rising and leaving him to his own reflections.
And now to turn to Skeff Darner. I am forced to confess, and I do not make the confession without a certain pain, that our gifted friend had not that amount of acceptance with the Ministers of the King that his great talents and his promise might be supposed to have inspired; nor had he succeeded in acquiring for the country he represented the overwhelming influence he believed to be her due. When, therefore, he drove to Caraffa's house, the Prince frankly told him, what certainly was true, that he had affairs far too weighty on his mind to enter upon that small question H. M.'s Chargé d'Affaires desired to discuss. “Try Carini,” said he, “the Minister of Grace and Justice; he looks after the people who break the law.” Skeff grew angry, and the Minister bowed him out. He went in succession to some five or six others, all occupied, all overwhelmed with cares, troubles, and anxieties. At last, by a mere accident, he chanced upon Filangieri going off to wait on the King; he was accompanied by a small man, in a very gorgeous uniform, studded over with stars and decorations.
In a few hurried words Skeff told how his friend, a man of rank and fortune, had been seduced by some stupid representations to take service with Garibaldi, and that it was all-important to rescue him from such evil associations, and restore him at once to his friends and country.
“Where is he?”
“Wherever Garibaldi may be,—I can't tell.”
“He's nearer than we like,” said the other, with a faint smile. “Are you sure your friend will return with you, even if you should track him out?”
“I think I can answer for him. I am almost certain that I can.”
“Can you answer for Garibaldi, too?—willhegive him up?”
“I believe Garibaldi cares a great deal for the good opinion of England; and when he sees me, her Majesty's—”
“Yes, yes, I can understand that. Well, I have no time to give you for more consideration of the matter; but I 'll do better. I'll give you this gentleman,—my aide-decamp, Colonel the Count M'Caskey; he'll pass you through our lines, and go, as flag of truce, to the head-quarters of the rebels. The whole thing is a blunder, and I am doing exceedingly wrong; but here we are, making one mistake after another every day, and all regularity and order are totally forgotten.” Turning to M'Caskey, he took him aside for a few seconds and spoke eagerly and rapidly to him, and then, once more shaking Skeff's hand, he wished him well through his adventure and drove off.
“Whenever you have all in readiness, sir,” said M'Cas-key, slightly raising his hat,—“and I hope your carriage is a comfortable one,—take me up at the Aquila d' Oro, two doors from the Café di Spagno;” uttering the words in a tone of such positive command that Skeffy had only to accede; and, coldly bowing to each other, they separated.
By heavy bribery and much cajolery, Skeff Darner secured a carriage and horses, and presented himself at the Café di Spagna a little before midnight. It was not, however, till he had summoned M'Caskey for the third time that the gallant Colonel arose and joined him.
“I suspect that waiter did not tell you I was here, and waiting for you?” said Skeff, somewhat irritated.
“I rather apprehend,” replied M'Caskey, “that you were not aware I was at supper.”
With this brief passage of arms each sank back into his corner, and nothing more was said.
For a long while the way led through that long suburb of Naples that lies on the south of the city, and the tramp of the horses over the pavement would have made any conversation difficult to hear. At length, however, they gained the smooth road, and then Skeff discovered, from the long-drawn breathings of his companion, that he was sound asleep.
By the small wax taper with which he lighted his cigar, Skeff examined the features of the man; and, brief as was the inspection, there was enough seen to show him that he was not a subject for either dictation or raillery. The hard, stern, thin-lipped mouth, the knitted brows, the orbits marked with innumerable wrinkles, and an ugly scar, evidently from a sabre, that divided one whisker, and reached from nigh the ear to the chin, presented enough to show that he might easily have chanced upon a more genial fellow-traveller.
Skeff knew that the Neapolitan service had for some years back attracted adventurers from various countries. Poles, Americans, with Irish and Hungarian refugees, had flocked to the scene of what they foresaw must be a struggle, and taken their side with the Royalists or against them as profit or inclination prompted. Now this man's name, M'Caskey, proclaimed him as Irish or Scotch; and the chances were, in either case, if a renegade from his own country, he would not be over well disposed towards one who represented the might and majesty of England.
“If I could only let him see,” thought Skeff, “that I am one of those fellows who have done everything and know every one, a thorough man of the world, and no red-tapist, no official pendant, we should get on all the better.” He puffed away at his cigar as he thus mused, turning over in his mind by what species of topic he should open acquaintance with his companion.
“That's good tobacco,” said M'Caskey, without opening his eyes. “Who's smoking the cheroot?”
“I am. May I offer you one?”
“A dozen if you like,” said the Colonel, giving himself a shake, and sitting bolt upright.
Skeff held out his cigar-case, and the other coolly emptied it, throwing the contents into his hat, which lay on the cushion in front of him.
“When old Olozaga was Captain-General of Cuba, he always supplied me with havannahs; but when O'Donnell's party came into power, I came down to cheroots, and there I have been ever since. These are not bad.”
“They are considered particularly good, sir,” said Skeff, coldly.
“ThatI will not say; but I own I am not easy to please either in wine, women, or tobacco.”
“You have had probably large experiences of all three?”
“I should like much to meet the man who called himself my equal.”
“It might be presumptuous in me, perhaps, to stand forward on such ground; but I, too, have seen something of life.”
“You! you!” said M'Caskey, with a most frank impertinence in his tone.
“Yes, sir, I, I,—Mr. Skeffington Darner, Her Majesty's Representative and Chargé d'Affaires at this Court.”
“Where the deuce was it I heard your name? Darner—Darner—Skeff—Skeffy—I think they called you? Who could it be that mentioned you?”
“Not impossibly the newspapers, though I suspect they did not employ the familiarity you speak of.”
“Well, Skeff, what's all this business we're bent on? What wildgoose chase are we after here?”
Darner was almost sick with indignation at the fellow's freedom; he nearly burst with the effort it cost him to repress his passion; but he remembered how poor Tony Butler's fate lay in the balance, and that if anything should retard his journey by even an hour, that one hour might decide his friend's destiny.
“Might I take the liberty to observe, sir, that our acquaintance is of the very shortest; and until I shall desire, which I do not anticipate, the privilege of addressing you by your Christian name—”
“I am called Milo,” said M'Caskey; “but no man ever called me so but the late Duke of Wellington; and once, indeed, in a moment of enthusiasm, poor Byron.”
“I shall not imitate them, and I desire that you may know me as Mr. Damer.”
“Damer or Skeffy—I don't care a rush which—only tell me where are we going, and what are we going for?”
Skeff proceeded in leisurely fashion, but with a degree of cold reserve that he hoped might check all freedom, to explain that he was in search of a young countryman, whom he desired to recall from his service with Garibaldi, and restore to his friends in England.
“And you expect me to cross over to Garibaldi's lines?” asked M'Caskey, with a grin.
“I certainly reckon on your accompanying me wherever I deem it essential to proceed in furtherance of my object. Your General said as much when he offered me your services.”
“No man disposes of M'Caskey but the Sovereign he serves.”
“Then I can't see what you have come for!” cried Skeff, angrily.
“Take care, take care,” said the other, slowly.
“Take care of what?”
“Take care of Skeffington Darner, who is running his head into a very considerable scrape. I have the most tenacious of memories; and there's not a word—not a syllable—falls from you, I 'll not make you accountable for hereafter.”
“If you imagine, sir, that a tone of braggadocio—”
“There you go again. Braggadocio costs blood, my young fellow.”
“I'm not to be bullied.”
“No; but you might be shot.”
“You 'll find me as ready as yourself with the pistol.”
“I am charmed to hear it, though I never met a fellow-brought up at a desk that was so.”
Skeff was by no means deficient in courage, and, taken with a due regard to all the conventional usages of such cases, he would have “met his man” as became a gentle-man; but it was such a new thing in his experiences to travel along in a carriage arranging the terms of a duel with the man who ought to have been his pleasant companion, and who indeed, at the very moment, was smoking his cheroots, that he lost himself in utter bewilderment and confusion.
“What does that small flask contain?” said M'Caskey, pointing to a straw-covered bottle, whose neck protruded from the pocket of the carriage.
“Cherry brandy,” said Skeff, dryly, as he buttoned the pocket-flap over it.
“It is years upon years since I tasted that truly British cordial.”
Skeff made no reply.
“They never make it abroad, except in Switzerland, and there, too, badly.”
Still Skeff was silent.
“Have you got a sandwich with you?”
“There is something eatable in that basket,—I don't know what,” said Skeff, pointing to a little neatly corded hamper. “But I thought you had just finished supper when I drove up.”
“You 're a Londoner, I take it,” said M'Caskey.
“Why so, sir? for what reason do you suppose so?”
“The man who reminds another of the small necessity there is to press him to take something—be it meat or drink—must be a Cockney.”
“I am neither a Cockney, nor accustomed to listen to impertinence.”
“Hand me your flask and I 'll give you my opinion of it, and that will be better than this digression.”
The impudence seemed superhuman, and in this way overcame all power of resistance; and Skeffy actually sat there looking on while M'Caskey cut the cords of the little provision-basket, and arranged the contents on the front seat of the carriage, assuring him, as he ate, that he “had tasted worse.”
For some time the Major continued to eat and drink, and was so completely immersed in this occupation as to seem quite oblivious of his companion. He then lighted his cigar and smoked on till they reached Caserta, where the carriage halted to change horses.
“The fellow is asking for something for the ostler,” said M'Caskey, nudging Skeffy with his elbow as he spoke.
“My servant, sir, looks to these details,” said Skefify, haughtily.
“Take these, old boy,” said M'Caskey, pitching out to him the basket with the fragments of his late meal, and the silver forks and cup it contained; and the horses whirled the carriage along at full speed as he did so.
“You are perfectly munificent, sir,” cried Skefif, angrily, “with what does not belong to you. The proprietor of the Hotel d'Universo will probably look to you for payment for hi s property.”
“If your friend of the Universo has a salt spoon of his own this time to-morrow, he 'll be a lucky dog.”
“How so? What do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that as the troops withdraw, pillage will begin. There is but one force in Naples that could control a mob.”
“And that is?”
“The Camorra! and but one man could command the Camorra, and he is here!”
“Indeed!” said Skeff, with the very faintest possible sarcasm.
“As I tell you, sir. Colonel M'Caskey might have saved that city; and, instead of it, he is rumbling along over a paved road, going heaven knows where, with heaven knows whom, for heaven knows what!”
“You are either rude or forgetful, sir. I have already told you my name and quality.”
“So you have, Skeff; but as a man rises in the service, he forgets the name of the uncommissioned officers. You are attaché, or what is it?”
“I am Chargé d'Affaires of Great Britain.”
“And devilish few will be the affairs you 'll have in your charge this day week.”
“How do you make out that?”
“First of all, if we are to pass through our lines to reach Garibaldi, all our fellows will fire a parting salute after us as we go,—ay, and with ball. Secondly, as we approach the rebels, they 'll pay us the same attention.”
“Not with our flag of truce flying.”
“Your flag of truce, Skeffy, will only show them that we come unarmed, and make their aim all the steadier in consequence.”
“And why was I told that your presence would be protection?”
“Because, sir, if it should fail to be, it is that no other man's in Europe could be such.”
“I 'll not turn back, if you mean that,” said Skeff, boldly; and for the first time on the journey M'Caskey turned round and took a leisurely survey of his companion.
“You are, I hope, satisfied with my personal appearance,” said Skeff, insolently.
“Washy, washy,” said M'Caskey, dryly; “but I have met two or three of the same stamp who had pluck.”
“The freedom of your tongue, sir, inclines me very considerably to doubtyours.”
M'Caskey made a bound on his seat, and threw his cigar through the window, while he shouted to the postilion to stop.
“Why should he stop?” asked Skeff.
“Let us settle this at once; we 'll take each of us one of the carriage lamps and fire at the word three. One—two—three! Stop, I say.”
“No, sir; I shall hold myself at your orders, time and place fitting, but I 'll neither shoot nor be shot at like a brigand.”
“I have travelled with many men, but in my long and varied experience, I never saw a fellow so full of objections. You oppose everything. Now I mean to go asleep; have you anything againstthat, and what is it?”
“Nothing,—nothing whatever!” muttered Skeff, who for the first time heard words of comfort from his companion's lips.
Poor Skeff! is it too much to say that, if you had ever imagined the possibility of such a fellow-traveller, you would have thought twice ere you went on this errand of friendship? Perhaps it might be unfair to allege so much; but unquestionably, if his ardor were not damped, his devotion to his friend was considerably disturbed by thoughts of himself and his own safety.
Where could this monster have come from? What land could have given him birth? What life had he led? How could a fellow of such insolent pretensions have escaped being flayed alive ere he reached the age he looked to be?
Last of all, was it in malice and out of malevolence that Filangieri had given him this man as his guide, well knowing what their companionship must end in? This last suspicion, reassuring so far, as it suggested dreams of personal importance, rallied him a little, and at last he fell asleep.
The hours of the night rolled over thus; and just as the dawn was breaking thecalècherattled into the ruinous old piazza of Nocera. Early as it was, the market-place was full of people, amongst whom were many soldiers, with or without arms, but, evidently, under no restraint of discipline, and, to all seeming, doubtful and uncertain what to do.
Aroused from his sleep by the sudden stoppage of the carriage, M'Caskey rubbed his eyes and looked out. “What is all this?” cried he. “Who are these fellows I see here in uniform? What are they?”
“Part of Cardarelli's brigade, your Excellency,” said a café-keeper who had come to the carriage to induce the travellers to alight. “General Cardarelli has surrendered Soveria to Garibaldi, and his men have dispersed.”
“And is there no officer in command here to order these fellows into arrest?” cried M'Caskey, as he sprang out of the carriage into the midst of them. “Fall in!” shouted he, in a voice of thunder; “fall in, and be silent: the fellow who utters a word I 'll put a bullet through.”
If the first sight of the little fellow thus insolently issuing his orders might have inspired laughter, his fierce look, his flashing eye, his revolver in hand, and his coat blazing with orders, speedily overcame such a sentiment, and the disorderly rabble seemed actually stunned into deference before him.
“What!” cried he, “are you deserters? Is it with an enemy in front that I find you here? Is it thus that you show these civilians what stuff soldiers are made of?” There was not a degrading epithet, not a word of infamous reproach, he did not hurl at them. They were Vili! Birbanti!
Ladri! Malandrini! Codardi! They had dishonored their fathers and mothers, and wives and sweethearts. They had degraded the honor of the soldier, and the Virgin herself was ashamed of them. “Who laughs there? Let him come out to the front and laugh here!” cried he. And now, though a low murmur little indicative of mirth ran through the crowd, strange to say, the men began to slink away, at first one by one, then in groups and parties, so that in very few minutes the piazza was deserted, save by a few of the townsfolk, who stood there half terrified, half fascinated, by the daring insolence of this diminutive hero.
Though his passion seemed almost choking him, he went on with a wonderful fluency to abuse the whole nation. They were brigands for three centuries, and brigands they would be for thirty more, if Providence would not send an earthquake to swallow them up, and rid the world of such rascals. He scoffed at them, he jeered them; he told them that the few Sicilians that followed Garibaldi would make slaves of the whole kingdom, taking from the degenerate cowards of Calabria wives, daughters, home, and households; and it was only when the last straggler shuffled slowly away, and he stood alone in the square, that he would consent to re-enter the carriage and pursue his journey.
“I 'll know every face amongst them if I meet them again,” said he to Skeffy, “and it will be an evil day for the scoundrels when that time comes.” His wrath continued during the entire stage, and never flagged in its violence till they reached a cluster of poor cabins, around which a guard of soldiers was stationed. Here they were refused a further passage, since at Mauro, three miles further on, Melani, with a force of three thousand men and some guns, held the pass against the Garibaldians. M'Caskey was not long in explaining who he was, nor, indeed, very modest in proclaiming his personal importance; and the subaltern, with every show of deference to such greatness, detached a corporal of his guard to accompany them to the General's quarters. The General was asleep when they reached Mauro; he had been, they said, “up all night,” but they did not add it was in the celebration of an orgie, in which the festivities were more classic than correct. M'Caskey, however, learned that at about five miles in front, Garibaldi's advanced guard was posted, and that Garibaldi himself had ridden up and reconnoitred their position on the evening before.
“We expect to be attacked by noon,” said the officer, in a tone the very reverse of hopeful or encouraging.
“You can hold this pass against twenty thousand,” said M'Caskey.
“We shall not try,” said the other. “Why should we be the only men to get cut to pieces?”
The ineffable scorn of the little Colonel as he turned away was not lost on the other; but he made no reply to it, and retired. “We are to have an escort as far as Ravello; after that we are to take care of ourselves; and I own to you I think we shall be all the safer when we get out of the reach of his Majesty's defenders.”
“There,” cried the Sergeant who acted as their guard,—“there, on that rock yonder, are the Reds. I'll go no further.”
And as they looked they saw a small group of red-shirted fellows lying or lounging on a small cliff which rose abruptly over a stream crossed by a wooden bridge. Attaching his handkerchief to his walking-stick, M'Caskey stepped out boldly. Skeffy followed; they reached the bridge, and crossed it, and stood within the lines of the Garibaldians. A very young, almost boyish-looking, officer met them, heard their story, and with much courtesy told them that he would send one of his men to conduct them to head-quarters. “You will not find the General there,” said he, smiling; “he's gone on in that direction;” and he pointed, as he spoke, towards Naples.
Skeff asked eagerly if the young officer had ever heard of Tony Butler, and described with ardor the handsome face and figure of his friend. The other believed he had seen him. There was, he knew, agiovane Irlandesewho was wounded at Melazzo, and, if he was not mistaken, wounded again about four days back at Lauria. “All the wounded are at Salerno, however,” said he, carelessly, “and you are sure to find him amongst them.”