Had Skeff been in any mood for mirth, he might have enjoyed as rich drollery the almost inconceivable impertinence of his companion, who scrutinized everything, and freely distributed his comments around him, totally regardless that he stood in the camp of the enemy, and actually surrounded by men whose extreme obedience to discipline could scarcely be relied on.
“Uniformity is certainly not studied here,” cried M'Cas-key, as he stared at a guard about to be detached on some duty; “three fellows have gray trousers; two, blue, one a sort of canvas petticoat; and I see only one real coat in the party.”
A little further on he saw a group of about a dozen lying on the grass smoking, with their arms in disorderly fashion about, and he exclaimed, “How I 'd like to surprise those rascals, and make a swoop down here with two or three companies of Cacciatori! Look at their muskets; there has n't been one of them cleaned for a month.
“Here they are at a meal of some sort. Well, men won't fight on beans and olive oil. My Irish fellows are the only devils can stand up on roots.”
These comments were all delivered in Italian, and listened to with a sort of bewildered astonishment, as though the man who spoke them must possess some especial and peculiar privilege to enable him to indulge so much candor.
“That's not a knapsack,” said he, kicking a soldier's pack that he saw on the grass; “that's more like a travelling tinker's bundle. Open it, and let's see the inside!” cried he to the owner, who, awed by the tone of command, immediately obeyed; and M'Caskey ridiculed the shreds and patches of raiment, the tattered fragments of worn apparel, in which fragments of cheese and parcels of tobacco were rolled up. “Why, the fellows have not even risen to the dignity of pillage,” said he. “I was sure we should have found some saintly ornament or a piece of the Virgin's petticoat among their wares.”
With all this freedom, carried to the extreme of impertinence, none molested, none ever questioned them; and as the guide had accidentally chanced upon some old friends by the way, he told M'Caskey that they had no further need of him; that the road lay straight before them, and that they would reach Cava in less than an hour.
At Cava they found the same indifference. They learned that Garibaldi had not come up, though some said he had passed on with a few followers to Naples, and others maintained that he had sent to the King of Naples to meet him at Salerno to show him the inutility of all resistance, and offer him a safe-conduct out of the kingdom. Leaving M'Caskey in the midst of these talkers, and not, perhaps, without some uncharitable wish that the gallant Colonel's bad tongue would involve him in serious trouble, Skeffy slipped away to inquire after Tony.
Every one seemed to know that there was a braveIrlandese,—a daring fellow who had shown himself in the thick of every fight; but the discrepant accounts of his personal appearance and looks were most confusing. Tony was fair-haired, and yet most of the descriptions represented a dark man, with a bushy black beard and moustache. At all events, he was lying wounded at the convent of the Cappuccini, on a hill about a mile from the town; and Father Pantaleo—Garibaldi's Vicar, as he was called—offered his services to show him the way. The Frate—a talkative little fellow, with a fringe of curly dark-brown hair around a polished white head—talked away, as they went, about the war, and Garibaldi, and the grand future that lay before Italy, when the tyranny of the Pope should be overthrown, and the Church made as free—and, indeed, he almost said as easy—as any jovial Christian could desire.
Skeffy, by degrees, drew him to the subject nearest his own heart at the moment, and asked about the wounded in hospital. The Frate declared that there was nothing very serious the matter with any of them. He was an optimist. Some died, some suffered amputations, some were torn by shells or grape-shot. But what did it signify? as he said. It was a great cause they were fighting for, and they all agreed it was a pleasure to shed one's blood for Italy. “As for the life up there,” said he, pointing to the convent, “it is avita da Santi,—the 'life of saints themselves.'”
“Do you know my friend Tony the Irlandese?” asked Skeff, eagerly.
“If I know him!Per Bacco!I think I know him. I was with him when he had his leg taken off.”
Skeff's heart sickened at this terrible news, and he could barely steady himself by catching the Fra's arm. “Oh, my poor dear Tony,” cried he, as the tears ran down his face,—“my poor fellow!”
“Why did you pity him? Garibaldi gave him his own sword, and made him an officer on the day of the battle. It was up at Calanzaro, so that he 's nearly well now.”
Skeff poured in innumerable questions,—how the mischance occurred, and where; how he bore up under the dreadful operation; in what state he then was; if able to move about, and how? And as the Fra was one of those who never confessed himself unable to answer anything, the details he obtained were certainly of the fullest and most circumstantial.
“He's always singing; that's how he passes his time,” said the Frate.
“Singing! how strange! I never knew him to sing. I never heard him even hum a tune.”
“You 'll hear him now, then. The fellows about curse at him half the day to be silent, but he does n't mind them, but sings away. The only quiet moment he gives them is while he's smoking.”
“Ah, yes! he loves smoking.”
“There—stop. Listen. Do you hear him? he's at it now.” Skeff halted, and could hear the sound of a full deep voice, from a window overhead, in one of those prolonged and melancholy cadences which Irish airs abound in.
“Wherever he got such doleful music I can't tell, but he has a dozen chants like that.”
Though Skeff could not distinguish the sounds, nor recognize the voice of his friend, the thought that it was poor Tony who was there singing in his solitude, maimed and suffering, without one near to comfort him, so overwhelmed him that he staggered towards a bench, and sat down sick and faint.
“Go up and say that a friend, a dear friend, has come from Naples to see him; and if he is not too nervous or too much agitated, tell him my name; here it is.” The friar took the card and hurried forward on his mission. In less time than Skeff thought it possible for him to have arrived, Pantaleo called out from the window, “Come along; he is quite ready to see you, though he doesn't remember you.”
Skeff fell back upon the seat at the last words. “Not remember me! my poor Tony,—my poor, poor fellow,—how changed and shattered you must be, to have forgotten me!” With a great effort he rallied, entered the gate, and mounted the stairs,—slowly, indeed, and like one who dreaded the scene that lay before him. Pantaleo met him at the top, and, seeing his agitation, gave him his arm for support. “Don't be nervous,” said he, “your friend is doing capitally; he is out on the terrace in an armchair, and looks as jolly as a cardinal.”
Summoning all his courage, Skeflf walked bravely forwards, passed down the long aisle, crowded with sick and wounded on either side, and passed out upon a balcony at the end, where, with his back towards him, a man sat looking out over the landscape.
“Tony, Tony!” said Skeffy, coming close. The man turned his head, and Skeff saw a massive-looking face, all covered with black hair, and a forehead marked by a sabre cut. “This is not my friend. This is not Tony!” cried he, in disappointment. “No, sir; I'm Rory Quin, the man that was with him,” said the wounded man, submissively.
“And where is he himself? Where is Tony?” cried he.
“In the little room beyond, sir. They put him there when he began to rave; but he's better now, and quite sensible.”
“Take me to him at once; let me see him,” said Skefif, whose impatience had now mastered all prudence.
The moment after, Skefif found himself in a small chamber, with a single bed in it, beside which a Sister of Charity was seated, busily employed laying cloths wet with iced water on the sick man's head. One glance showed that it was Tony. The eyes were closed, and the face thinner, and the lips dry; but there was a hardy manhood in the countenance, sick and suffering as he was, that told what qualities a life of hardship and peril had called into activity. The Sister motioned to Skefif to sit down, but not to speak. “He's not sleeping,” said she, softly, “only dozing.”
“Is he in pain?” asked Skefify.
“No; I have no pain,” said Tony, faintly.
Skefif bent down to whisper some words close to his ear, when he heard a step behind. He looked up and saw it was M'Caskey, who had followed him. “I came here, sir,” said the Colonel, haughtily, “to express my astonishment at your unceremonious departure, and also to say that I shall now hold myself as free of all further engagement towards you.”
“Hush, be quiet,” said Skefif, with a gesture of caution.
“Is that your friend?” asked M'Caskey, with a smile.
Tony slowly opened his eyes at these words, looking at the speaker, turning his gaze then on Skeff, gave a weak, sickly smile, and then in a faint, scarce audible voice, said, “So heisyour godfather, after all.”
Skeff's heart grew full to bursting, and for a moment or two he could not speak.
“There—there, no more,” whispered the Sister; and she motioned them both to withdraw. Skeff arose at once, and slipped noiselessly away; but the Colonel stepped boldly along, regardless of everything and every one.
“He 's wandering in his mind,” said M'Caskey, in a loud, unfeeling tone.
“By all that's holy, there's the scoundrel I 'm dying to get at,” screamed Rory, as the voice caught his ear. “Give me that crutch; let me have one lick at him, for the love of Mary.”
“They're all mad here, that's plain,” said M'Caskey, turning away with a contemptuous air. “Sir,” added he, turning towards Skeff, “I have the honor to salute you;” and with a magnificent bow he withdrew, while Rory, in a voice of wildest passion and invective, called down innumerable curses on his head, and inveighed even against the bystanders for not securing the “greatest villain in Europe.” “I shall want to send a letter to Naples,” cried out Skeff to the Colonel; “I mean to remain here;” but M'Caskey never deigned to notice his words, but walked proudly down the stairs, and went his way.
My story draws to a close, and I have not space to tell how Skeff watched beside his friend, rarely quitting him, and showing in a hundred ways the resources of a kind and thoughtful nature. Tony had been severely wounded; a sabre-cut had severed his scalp, and he had been shot through the shoulder; but all apprehension of evil consequences was now over, and he was able to listen to Skeff's wondrous tidings, and hear all the details of his accession to wealth and fortune. His mother—how she would rejoice at it! how happy it would make her!—not for her own sake, but for his; how it would seem to repay to her all she had suffered from the haughty estrangement of Sir Omerod, and how proud she would be at the recognition, late though it came! These were Tony's thoughts; and very often, when Skeflf imagined him to be following the details of his property, and listening with eagerness to the description of what he owned, Tony was far away in thought at the cottage beside the Causeway, and longing ardently when he should sit at the window with his mother at his side planning out some future in which they were to be no more separated.
There was no elation at his sudden fortune, nor any of that anticipation of indulgence which Skeff himself would have felt, and which he indeed suggested. No. Tony's whole thoughts so much centred in his dear mother, that she entered into all his projects; and there was not a picture of enjoyment wherein she was not a foreground figure.
They would keep the cottage,—that was his first resolve: his mother loved it dearly; it was associated with years long of happiness and of trials too; and trials can endear a spot when they are nobly borne, and the heart will cling fondly to that which has chastened its emotions and elevated its hopes. And then, Tony thought, they might obtain that long stretch of land that lay along the shore, with the little nook where the boats lay at anchor, and where he would have his yacht. “I suppose,” said he, “Sir Arthur Lyle would have no objection to my being so near a neighbor?”
“Of course not; but we can soon settle that point, for they are all here.”
“Here?”
“At Naples, I mean.”
“How was it that you never told me that?” he asked sharply.
Skeff fidgeted—bit his cigar—threw it away; and with more confusion than became so distinguished a diplomatist, stammered out, “I have had so much to tell you—such lots of news;” and then with an altered voice he added, “Besides, old fellow, the doctor warned me not to say anything that might agitate you; and I thought—that is, I used to think—there was something in that quarter, eh?”
Tony grew pale, but made no answer.
“I know she likes you, Tony,” said Skeff, taking his hand and pressing it. “Bella, who is engaged to me—I forget if I told you that—”
“No, you never told me!”
“Well, Bella and I are to be married immediately,—that is, as soon as I can get back to England. I have asked for leave already; they 've refused me twice. It 's all very fine saying to me that I ought to know that in the present difficulties of Italy no man could replace me at this Court. My answer to that is: Skeff Darner has other stuff in him as well as ambition. He has a heart just as much as a head. Nor am I to go on passing my life saving this dynasty. The Bourbons are not so much to me as my own happiness, eh?”
“I suppose not,” said Tony, dryly.
“You 'd have done the same, would n't you?”
“I can't tell. I cannot even imagine myself filling any station of responsibility or importance.”
“My reply was brief: Leave for six months' time, to recruit an over-taxed frame and over-wrought intellect; time also for them to look out what to offer me, for I 'll not go to Mexico, nor to Rio; neither will I take Washington, nor any of the Northern Courts. Dearest Bella must have climate, and I myself must have congenial society; and so I said, not in such terms, but in meaning, Skeff Darner is only yours athisprice. Let them refuse me,—let me see them even hesitate, and I give my word of honor, I'm capable of abandoning public life altogether, and retiring into my woods at Tilney, leaving the whole thing at sizes and sevens.”
Now, though Tony neither knew what the “whole thing” meant, nor the dire consequences to which his friend's anger might have consigned it, he muttered something that sounded like a hope that he would not leave Europe to shift for herself at such a moment.
“Let them not drive me to it, that's all,” said he, haughtily; and he arose and walked up and down with an air of defiance. “The Lyles do not see this,—Lady Lyle especially. She wants a peerage for her daughter, but ambition is not always scrupulous.”
“I always liked her the least of them,” muttered Tony, who never could forget the sharp lesson she administered to him.
“She 'll make herself more agreeable to you now, Master Tony,” said Skeff, with a dry laugh.
“And why so?”
“Can't you guess?”
“No.”
“On your word?”.
“On my word, I cannot.”
“Don't you think Mr. Butler of something or other in Herefordshire is another guess man from Tony Butler of nowhere in particular?”
“Ah! I forgot my change of fortune: but if I had ever remembered it, I 'd never have thought so meanly ofher.”
“That's all rot and nonsense. There's no meanness in a woman wanting to marry her daughter well, any more than in a man trying to get a colonelcy or a legation for his son. You were no match for Alice Trafford three months ago. Now both she and her mother will think differently of your pretensions.”
“Say what you like of the mother, but you shall not impute such motives to Alice.”
“Don't you get red in the face and look like a tiger, young man, or I 'll take my leave and send that old damsel here with the ice-pail to you.”
“It was the very thing I liked in you,” muttered Tony, “that you never did impute mean motives to women.”
“My poor Tony! the fellow who has seen life as I have, who knows the thing in its most minute anatomy, comes out of the investigation infernally case-hardened; he can't help it. I love Alice. Indeed, if I had not seen Bella, I think I should have married Alice. There, you are getting turkey-cock again. Let us talk of something else. What the deuce was it I wanted to ask you?—something about that great Irish monster in the next room, the fellow that sings all day: where did you pick him up?”
Tony made no reply, but lay with his hand over his eyes, while Skeff went on rambling over the odds and ends he had picked up in the course of Rory Quin's story, and the devoted love he bore to Tony himself. “By the way, they say that it was for you Garibaldi intended the promotion to the rank of officer, but that you managed to pass it to this fellow, who could n't sign his name when they asked him for it.”
“If he could n't write, he has left his mark on some of the Neapolitans!” said Tony, fiercely; “and as for the advancement, he deserved it far more than I did.”
“It was a lucky thing for that aide-de-camp of Filangieri who accompanied me here, that your friend Rory had n't got two legs, for he wanted to brain him with his crutch. Both of you had an antipathy to him, and indeed I own to concurring in the sentiment. My godfather you called him!” said he, laughing.
“I wish he had come a little closer to my bedside, that's all,” muttered Tony; and Skeff saw by the expression of his features that he was once more unfortunate in his attempt to hit upon an unexciting theme.
“Alice knew of your journey here, I think you said?” whispered Tony, faintly.
“Yes. I sent them a few lines to say I was setting out to find you.”
“How soon could I get to Naples? Do you think they would let me move to-morrow?”
“I have asked that question already. The doctor says in a week; and I must hasten away to-night,—there's no saying what confusion my absence will occasion. I mean to be back here by Thursday to fetch you.”
“Good fellow! Remember, though,” added he, after a moment, “we must take Rory. I can't leave Rory here.”
Skeff looked gravely.
“He carriedmewhen I was wounded out of the fire at Melazzo, and I am not going to desert him now.”
“Strange situation for her Majesty's Chargé d'Affaires,” said Skeff,—“giving protection to the wounded of the rebel army.”
“Don't talk to me of rebels. We are as legitimate as the fellows we were fighting against. It was a good stand-up fight, too,—man to man, some of it; and if it was n't that my head reels so when I sit or stand up, I 'd like to be at it again.”
“It is a fine bull-dog,—just a bull-dog,” said Skeff, patting him on the head, while in the compassionate pity of his voice he showed how humbly he ranked the qualities he ascribed to him. “Ah! now I remember what it wasIwished to ask you (it escaped me till this moment): who is the creature that calls himself Sam M'Gruder?”
“As good a fellow as ever stepped, and a true friend of mine. What of him?”
“Don't look as if you would tear me in pieces, and scatter the fragments to the four winds of heaven. Sir, I 'll not stand it,—none of your buccaneering savageriesto me!”
Tony laughed, and laughed heartily at the air of offended dignity of the other; and Skeff was himself disposed at last to smile at his own anger. “That 's the crying sin ofyournature, Tony,” said he. “It is the one defect that spoils a really fine fellow. I tell you frankly about it, because I 'm your friend; and if you don't curb it, you 'll never be anything,—never! never!”
“But what is this fault? you have forgotten to tell it.”
“Over and over again have I told it It is your stupid animal confidence in your great hulking form: your coarse reliance on your massive shoulders,—a degenerate notion that muscle means manhood. It is here, sir,—here;” and Skeff touched his forehead with the tip of his finger; “here lies the godlike attribute. And until you come to feel that, you never will have arrived at the real dignity of a great creature.”
“Well, if I be the friend of one, Skeffy, it will satisfy all my ambition,” said he, grasping his hand warmly; “and now what of M'Gruder? How did you come to know of him?”
“Officially,—officially, of course. Skeffington Darner and Sam M'Gruder might revolve in ether for centuries and their orbits never cross! but it happened this honest fellow had gone off in search of you into Sicily; and with that blessed propensity for blundering the British subject is gifted with, had managed to offend the authorities and get imprisoned. Of course he appealed to me. They all appeal tome!but at the moment unhappily for him, the King was appealing to me, and Cavour was appealing to me, and so was the Emperor; and, I may mention in confidence, so was Garibaldi!—not in person, but through a friend. I know these things must be. Whenever a fellow has a head on his shoulders in this world, the other fellows who have no heads find it out and workhim. Ay, sir, work him! That 's why I have said over and over again the stupid dogs have the best of it. I declare to you, on my honor, Tony, there are days I 'd rather be you than be Skeff Darner!”
Tony shook his head.
“I know it sounds absurd, but I pledge you my sacred word of honor Ihavefelt it.”
“And M'Gruder?” asked Tony.
“M'Gruder, sir, I liberated! I said, Free him! and, like the fellow in Curran's celebrated passage, his chains fell to the ground, and he stood forward, not a bit grateful,—far from it,—but a devilish crusty Scotchman, telling me what a complaint he 'd lodge against me as soon as he arrived in England.”
“No, no; he 's not the fellow to do that.”
“If he did, sir,itwould crush him! The Emperor of Russia could not prefer a complaint against Skeff Darner, and feel the better of it!”
“He 's a true-hearted, fine fellow,” said Tony.
“With all my heart I concede to him all the rough virtues you may desire to endow him with; but please to bear in mind, Master Tony, that a man of your station and your fortune cannot afford such intimacies as your friend Rory here and this M'Gruder creature.”
“Then I was a richer man when I had nothing, for Icouldafford it then,” said Tony, sturdily; “and I tell you more, Skeffy,—I mean to afford it still. There is no fellow living I love better—no, nor as well—as I love yourself; but even for your love I'll not give up the fine-hearted fellows who were true to me in my days of hardship, shared with me what they had, and gave me—what was better to me—their loving-kindness and sympathy.”
“You'd bring down the house if you said that in the Adelphi, Tony.”
“It 's well for you that I can't get out of bed,” said Tony, with a grim laugh.
“There it is again; another appeal to the brute man and the man brute! Well, I 'll go to dinner, and I 'll tell the fair Sister to prepare your barley-water, and administer it in a more diluted form than heretofore;” and, adjusting his hat so as to display a favorite lock to the best advantage, and drawing on his gloves in leisurely fashion, Skeff Darner walked proudly away, bestowing little benevolent gestures on the patients as he passed, and intimating by certain little signs that he had taken an interest in their several cases, and saying, by a sweet smile, “You 'll be the better of this visit of mine. You 'll see, you will.”
On the evening of the 6th of September a corvette steamed rapidly out of the Bay of Naples, threading her way deviously through the other ships of war, unacknowledged by salute,—not even an ensign dipped as she passed.
“There goes the King and the monarchy,” said Skeff, as he stood on the balcony with the Lyles, and pointed to the fast-retreating vessel.
“I suppose the soonerweleave the better,” said Lady Lyle, whose interest in political affairs was very inferior to that she felt on personal matters.
“Skeff says that the 'Talisman' will take us on board,” said Sir Arthur.
“Yes,” said Skeff; “Captain Paynter will be here by and by to take your orders, and know when he is to send in his boats for you; and though I feel assured my general directions will be carried out here, and that no public disturbance will take place, you will all be safer under the Union Jack.”
“And what of Tony Butler? When is he to arrive?” asked Bella.
“Tony,” said Skeff, “is to arrive here to-night I have had a note from his friend M'Gruder, who has gone down to meet him, and is now at Salerno.”
“And who is his friend M'Gruder?” asked Lady Lyle, superciliously.
“A rag-merchant from Leghorn,” said Skeff; “but Tony calls him an out-and-out good fellow; and I must say he did n't take five minutes to decide when I told him Tony was coming up from Cava, and would be glad to have his company on the road.”
“These are, of course, exceptional times, when all sorts of strange intimacies will be formed; but Idohope that Tony will see that his altered circumstances as to fortune require from him more care in the selection of his friends than he has hitherto been distinguished for.”
“Don't trouble yourself about that, my dear,” said Sir Arthur; “a man's fortune very soon impresses itself on all he says and does.”
“I mistake him much,” said Bella, “if any wealth will estrange him from one of those he cared for in his humbler days. Don't you agree with me, Alice?”
Alice made no reply, but continued to gaze at the ships through a glass.
“The danger is that he'll carry that feeling to excess,” said Skeff; “for he will not alone hold to all these people, but he 'll make you and me hold to them too.”
“That would be impossible, perfectly impossible,” said my Lady, with a haughty toss of her head.
“No, no; I cannot agree to go that far,” chimed in Sir Arthur.
“It strikes me,” said Alice, quietly, “we are all of us deciding a little too hastily as to what Tony Butler will or will not do. Probably a very slight exercise of patience would save us some trouble.”
“Certainly not, Alice, after what Mr. Darner has said. Tony would seem to have thrown down a sort of defiance to us all. We must accept him with his belongings, or do without him.”
“He shall have me on his own terms,” said Skeffy. “He is a noble savage, and I love him with all my heart.”
“And you will know his rag friend?” asked Lady Lyle.
“Ay, that will I; and an Irish creature, too, that he calls Rory,—a fellow of six feet four, with a voice like an enraged bull and a hand as wide as one of these flags!”
“It is Damon and Pythias over again, I declare!” said Lady Lyle. “Where did he pick up his monster?”
“They met by chance in England, and, equally by chance, came together to Italy, and Tony persuaded him to accompany him and join Garibaldi. The worthy Irishman, who loved fighting, and was not very particular as to the cause, agreed; and though he had originally come abroad to serve in the Pope's army, some offence they had given him made him desert, and he was well pleased not to return home without, as he said, 'batin' somebody.' It was in this way he became a Garibaldian. The fellow, it seems, fought like a lion; he has been five times wounded, and was left for dead on the field; but he bears a charm which he knows will always protect him.”
“A charm,—what is the charm?”
“A medallion of the Pope, which he wears around his neck, and always kisses devoutly before he goes into battle.”
“The Pope's image is a strange emblem for a Garibaldian, surely,” said Sir Arthur, laughing.
“Master Rory thinks it will dignify any cause; and as he never knew what or for whom he was fighting, this small bit of copper saved him a world of trouble and casuistry; and so in the name of the Holy Father he has broken no end of Neapolitan skulls.”
“I must say Mr. Butler has surrounded himself with some choice associates,” said Lady Lyle; “and all this time I have been encouraging myself to believe that so very young a man would have had no connections, no social relations, he could not throw off without difficulty.”
“The world will do all his sifting process for him, if we only have patience,” said Sir Arthur; and, indeed, it is but fair to say that he spoke with knowledge, since, in his own progress through life, he had already made the acquaintance of four distinct and separate classes in society, and abandoned each in turn for that above it.
“Was he much elated, Mr. Damer,” asked Lady Lyle, “when he heard of his good fortune?”
“I think he was at first; but it made so little impression on him, that more than once he went on to speculate on his future, quite forgetting that he had become independent; and then, when he remembered it, he certainly did look very happy and cheerful.”
“And what sort of plans has he?” asked Bella.
“They're all about his mother; everything is forher. She is to keep that cottage, and the ground about it, and he is to make a garden for her; and it seems she likes cows,—she is to have cows. It's a lucky chance that the old lady had n't a taste for a plesiosaurus, or he 'd be offering a prize for one to-morrow.”
“He's a dear good fellow, as he always was,” said Bella.
“The only real change I see in him,” said Skeffy, “is that now he is never grumpy,—he takes everything well; and if crossed for a moment, he says, 'Give me a weed; I must smoke away that annoyance.'”
“How sensual!” said my Lady; but nobody heeded the remark.
At the moment, too, a young midshipman saluted Darner from the street, and informed him that the first cutter was at the jetty to take the party off to the “Talisman;” and Captain Paynter advised them not to delay very long, as the night looked threatening. Lady Lyle needed no stronger admonition; she declared that she would go at once; and although the Captain's own gig, as an attention of honor, was to be in to take her, she would not wait, but set out immediately.
“You 'll take care of me, Skeffy,” said Alice, “for I have two letters to write, and shall not be ready before eleven o'clock.”
For a while all was bustle and confusion. Lady Lyle could not make up her mind whether she would finally accept the frigate as a refuge or come on shore again the next day. There were perils by land and by water, and she weighed them and discussed them, and turned fiercely on everybody who agreed with her, and quarrelled with all round. Sir Arthur, too, had his scruples, as he bethought him of the effect that would be produced by the fact that a man of his station and importance had sought the protection of a ship of war; and he asked Skeffy if some sort of brief protest—some explanation—should not be made in the public papers, to show that he had taken the step in compliance with female fears, and not from the dictates of his own male wisdom. “I should be sorry, sincerely sorry, to affect the Funds,” said he; and really, the remark was considerate. As for Bella, she could not bear being separated from Skeffy; he was so daring, so impulsive, as she said, and with all this responsibility on him now,—people coming to him for everything, and all asking what was to be done,—he needed more than ever support and sympathy.
And thus is it the world goes on, as unreal, as fictitious, as visionary as anything there ever was put on the stage and illuminated by footlights. There was a rude realism outside in the street, however, that compensated for much of this. There, all was wildest fun and jollity; not the commotion of a people in the throes of a revolution, not the highly wrought passion of an excited populace mad with triumph; it was the orgie of a people who deemed the downfall of a hated government a sort of carnival occasion, and felt that mummery and tomfoolery were the most appropriate expressions of delight.
Through streets crowded with this dancing, singing, laughing, embracing, and mimicking mass, the Lyles made their way to the jetty reserved for the use of the ships of war, and soon took their places, and were rowed off to the frigate, Skeffy waving his adieux till darkness rendered his gallantry unnoticed.
All his late devotion to the cares of love and friendship had made such inroads on his time that he scarcely knew what was occurring, and had lamentably failed to report to “the Office” the various steps by which revolution had advanced, and was already all but installed as master of the kingdom. Determined to write off a most telling despatch, he entered the hotel, and, seeing Alice engaged letter-writing at one table, he quietly installed himself at another, merely saying, “The boat will be back by midnight, and I have just time to send off an important despatch.”
Alice looked up from her writing, and a very faint smile curled her lip. She did not speak, however, and after a moment continued her letter.
For upwards of half an hour the scraping sounds of the pens were the only noises in the room, except at times a low murmur as Skeff read over to himself some passage of unusual force and brilliancy.
“You must surely be doing something very effective, Skeff,” said Alice, from the other end of the room, “for you rubbed your hands with delight, and looked radiant with triumph.”
“I think I have given it to them!” cried he. “There 's not another man in the line would send home such a despatch. Canning wouldn't have done it in the old days, when he used to bully them. Shall I read it for you?”
“My dear Skeff, I 'm not Bella. I never had a head for questions of politics. I am hopelessly stupid in all such matters.”
“Ah, yes; Bella told me that Bella herself, indeed, only learned to feel an interest in them through me; but, as I told her, the woman who would one day be an ambassadress cannot afford to be ignorant of the great European game in which her husband is a player.”
“Quite true; but I have no such ambitions before me; and fortunate it is, for really I could not rise to the height of such lofty themes.”
Skeff smiled pleasantly; her humility soothed him. He turned to the last paragraph he had penned and re-read it.
“By the way,” said Alice, carelessly, and certainly nothing was less apropos to what they had been saying, though she commenced thus,—“by the way, how did you find Tony looking,—improved, or the reverse?”
“Improved in one respect; fuller, browner, more manly, perhaps, but coarser; he wants the—you know what I mean—he wants this!” and he swayed his arm in a bold sweep, and stood fixed, with his hand extended.
“Ah, indeed!” said she, faintly.
“Don't you think so—don't you agree with me, Alice?”
“Perhaps to a certain extent I do,” said she, diffidently.
“How could it be otherwise, consorting with such a set? You 'd not expect to find it there?”
Alice nodded assent all the more readily that she had not the vaguest conception of what “it” might mean.
“The fact is, Alice,” said he, arising and walking the room with immense strides, “Tony will always be Tony!”
“I suppose he will,” said she, dryly.
“Yes; but you don't follow me. You don't appreciate my meaning. I desired to convey this opinion, that Tony being one of those men who cannot add to their own natures the gifts and graces which a man acquires who has his successes with your sex—”
“Come, come, Skeff, you must neither be metaphysical nor improper. Tony is a very fine boy,—only a boy, I acknowledge, but he has noble qualities; and every year he lives will, I feel certain, but develop them further.”
“He won't stand the 'boy' tone any longer,” said Skeff, dryly. “I tried it, and he was down on me at once.”
“What did he say when you told him we were here?” said she, carelessly, while putting her papers in order.
“He was surprised.”
“Was he pleased?”
“Oh, yes, pleased, certainly; he was rather afraid of meeting your mother, though.”
“Afraid of mamma! how could that be?”
“Some lesson or other she once gave him sticks in his throat; something she said about presumption, I think.”
“Oh, no, no; this is quite impossible,—I can't credit it.”
“Well, it might be some fancy of his; for he has fancies, and very queer ones too. One was about a godfather of mine. Come in,—what is it?” cried he, as a knock came to the door.
“A soldier below stairs, sir, wishes to speak to you,” said the waiter.
“Ah! something of importance from Filangieri, I've no doubt,” said Skeff, rising and leaving the room. Before he had gone many paces, however, he saw a large, powerful figure in the red shirt and small cap of the Garibaldians, standing in the corridor, and the next instant he turned fully round,—it was Tony.
“My dear Tony, when did you arrive?”
“This moment; I am off again, however, at once, but I would n't leave without seeing you.”
“Off, and whereto?”
“Home; I've taken a passage to Marseilles in the Messageries boat, and she sails at two o'clock. You see I was no use here till this arm got right, and the General thought my head would n't be the worse of a little quiet; so I 'll go back and recruit, and if they want me they shall have me.”
“You don't know who's there?” whispered Skeff. Tony shook his head. “And all alone, too,” added the other, still lower. “Alice,—Alice Trafford.”
Tony grew suddenly very pale, and leaned against the wall.
“Come in; come in at once, and see her. We have been talking of you all the evening.”
“No, no,—not now,” said Tony, faintly.
“And when, if not now? You 're going off, you said.”
“I'm in no trim to pay visits; besides, I don't wish it. I 'll tell you more some other time.”
“Nonsense; you look right well in your brigand costume, and with an old friend, not to say—Well, well, don't look sulky;” and as he got thus far—he had been gradually edging closer and closer to the door—he flung it wide open, and called out, “Mr. Tony Butler!” Pushing Tony inside, and then closing the door behind, he retreated, laughing heartily to himself over his practical joke.
Alice started as she heard the name Tony Butler, and for a moment neither spoke. There was confusion and awkwardness on either side; all the greater that each saw it in the other. She, however, was the first to rally; and, with a semblance of old friendship, held out her hand, and said, “I am so glad to see you, Tony, and to see you safe.”
“I 'd not have dared to present myself in such a dress,” stammered he out; “but that scamp Skeffy gave me no choice: he opened the door and pushed me in.”
“Your dress is quite good enough to visit an old friend in. Won't you sit down?—sit here.” As she spoke, she seated herself on an ottoman, and pointed to a place at her side. “I am longing to hear something about your campaigns. Skeff was so provoking; he only told us about what he saw at Cava, and his own adventures on the road.”
“I have very little to tell, and less time to tell it I must embark in about half an hour.”
“And where for?”
“For home.”
“So that if it had not been for Skeff's indiscretion I should not have seen you?” said she, coldly.
“Not at this moment,—not in this guise.”
“Indeed!” And there was another pause.
“I hope Bella is better. Has she quite recovered?” asked he.
“She is quite well again; she 'll be sorry to have missed you, Tony. She wanted, besides, to tell you how happy it made her to hear of all your good fortune.”
“My good fortune! Oh, yes—to be sure. It was so unlooked for,” added he, with a faint smile, “that I have hardly been able to realize it yet; that is, I find myself planning half-a-dozen ways to earn my bread, when I suddenly remember that I shall not need them.”
“And I hope it makes you happy, Tony?”
“Of course it does. It enables me to make my mother happy, and to secure that we shall not be separated. As for myself alone, my habits are simple enough, and my tastes also. My difficulty will be, I suppose, to acquire more expensive ones.”
“It is not a very hard task, I believe,” said she, smiling.
“Not for others, perhaps; but I was reared in narrow fortune, Alice, trained to submit to many a privation, and told too—I 'm not sure very wisely—that such hardships are all the more easily borne by a man of good blood and lineage. Perhaps I did not read my lesson right. At all events, I thought a deal more of my good blood than other people were willing to accord it; and the result was, it misled me.”
“Misled you! and how—in what way?”
“Is it you who ask me this—you, Alice, who have read me such wise lessons on self-dependence, while Lady Lyle tried to finish my education by showing the evils of over-presumption; and you were both right, though I did n't see it at the time.”
“I declare I do not understand you, Tony!” said she.
“Well, I 'll try to be clearer,” said he, with more animation. “From the first day I knew you, Alice, I loved you. I need not say that all the difference in station between us never affected my love. You were too far above me in every gift and grace to make rank, mere rank, ever occur to my mind, though others were good enough to jog my memory on the subject.”
“Others! of whom are you speaking?”
“Your brother Mark, for one; but I don't want to think of these things. I loved you, I say; and to that degree that every change of your manner towards me made the joy or the misery of my life. This was when I was an idle youth, lounging about in that condition of half dependence that, as I look back on, I blush to think I ever could have endured. My only excuse is, however, that I knew no better.”
“There was nothing unbecoming in what you did.”
“Yes, there was, though. There was this: I was satisfied to hold an ambiguous position,—to be a something, neither master nor servant, in another man's house, all because it gave me the daily happiness to be near you, and to see you, and to hear your voice. That was unbecoming, and the best proof of it was, that with all my love and all my devotion, you could not care for me.”
“Oh, Tony! do not say that.”
“When I say care, you could not do more than care; you couldn't love me.”
“Were you not always as a dear brother to me?”
“I wanted to be more than brother, and when I found that this could not be, I grew very careless, almost reckless, of my life; not but that it took a long time to teach me the full lesson. I had to think over, not only all that separated us in station, but all that estranged us in tone of mind; and I saw that your superiority to me chafed me, and that if you should ever come to feel for me, it would be through some sense of pity.”
“Oh, Tony!”
“Yes, Alice, you know it better than I can say it; and so I set my pride to fight against my love, with no great success at first. But as I lay wounded in the orchard at Melazzo, and thought of my poor mother, and her sorrow if she were to hear of my death, and compared her grief with what yours would be, I saw what was real in love, and what was mere interest; and I remember I took out my two relics,—the dearest objects I had in the world,—a lock of my mother's hair and a certain glove,—a white glove you may have seen once on a time; and it was over the little braid of brown hair I let fall the last tears I thought ever to shed in life; and here is the glove—I give it back to you. Will you have it?”
She took it with a trembling hand; and in a voice of weak but steady utterance said, “I told you that this time would come.”
“You did so,” said he, gloomily.
Alice rose and walked out upon the balcony; and after a moment Tony followed her. They leaned on the balustrade side by side, but neither spoke.
“But we shall always be dear friends, Tony, sha'n't we?” said she, while she laid her hand gently over his.
“Oh, Alice,” said he, plaintively, “do not—do not, I beseech you—lead me back again into that land of delusion I have just tried to escape from. If you knew how I loved you—if you knew what it costs me to tear that love out of my heart—you'd never wish to make the agony greater to me.”
“Dear Tony, it was a mere boyish passion. Remember for a moment how it began. I was older than you—much older as regards life and the world—and even older by more than a year. You were so proud to attach yourself to a grown woman,—you a mere lad; and then your love—for I will grant it was love—dignified you to yourself. It made you more daring where there was danger, and it taught you to be gentler and kinder, and more considerate to every one. All your good and great qualities grew the faster that they had those little vicissitudes of joy and sorrow, the sun and rain of our daily lives; but all that is not love.”
“You mean there is no love where there is no return of love?”
She was silent
“If so, I deny it. The faintest flicker of a hope was enough for me; the merest shadow, a smile, a passing word, your mere 'Thank you, Tony,' as I held your stirrup, the little word of recognition you would give when I had done something that pleased you,—these—any of them—would send me home happy,—happier, perhaps, than I ever shall be again.”
“No, Tony, do not believe that,” said she, calmly; “not,” added she, hastily, “that I can acquit myself of all wrong to you. No; I was in fault,—gravely in fault I ought to have seen what would have come of all our intimacy; I ought to have known that I could not develop all that was best in your nature without making you turn in gratitude—well, in love—to myself; but shall I tell you the truth? I over-estimated my power over you. I not only thought I could make you love, but unlove me; and I never thought what pain that lesson might cost—each of us.”
“It would have been fairer to have cast me adrift at first,” said he, fiercely.
“And yet, Tony, you will be generous enough one of these days to think differently!”
“I certainly feel no touch of that generosity now.”
“Because you are angry with me, Tony,—because you will not be just to me; but when you have learned to think of me as your sister, and can come and say, Dear Alice, counsel me as to this, advise me as to that,—then there will be no ill-will towards me for all I have done to teach you the great stores that were in your own nature.”
“Such a day as that is distant,” said he, gloomily.
“Who knows? The changes which work within us are not to be measured by time; a day of sorrow will do the work of years.”
“There! that lantern at the peak is the signal for me to be off. The skipper promised to give me notice; but if you will say 'Stay!' be it so. No, no, Alice, do not lay your hand on my arm if you would not have me again deceive myself.”
“You will write to me, Tony?”
He shook his head to imply the negative.
“Well, to Bella, at least?”
“I think not. I will not promise. Why should I? Is it to try and knot together the cords we have just torn, that you may break them again at your pleasure?”
“How ungenerous you are!”
“You reminded me awhile ago it was my devotion to you that civilized me; is it not natural that I should go back to savagery, as my allegiance was rejected?”
“You want to be Garibaldian in love as in war,” said she, smiling.
The deep boom of a gun floated over the bay, and Tony started.
“That's the last signal,—good-bye.” He held out his hand.
“Good-bye, dear Tony,” said she. She held her cheek towards him. He hesitated, blushed till his face was in a dame, then stooped and kissed her. Skeff's voice was heard at the instant at the door; and Tony rushed past him and down the stairs, and then, with mad speed, dashed along to the jetty, leaped into the boat, and, covering his face with his hands, never raised his head till they were alongside.
“You were within an inch of being late, Tony,” cried M'Gruder, as he came up the side. “What detained you?”
“I 'll tell you all another time,—let me go below now;” and he disappeared down the ladder. The heavy paddles flapped slowly, then faster; and the great mass moved on, and made for the open sea.