If there was anything strange or inexplicable in the appearance of one of Maitland's pretensions in an unfrequented and obscure part of the world,—if there was matter in it to puzzle the wise heads of squires, and make country intelligences look confused,—there is no earthly reason why any mystification should be practised with our reader. He, at least, is under our guidance, and to him we impart whatever is known to ourselves. For a variety of reasons, some of which this history later on will disclose,—others, the less imminent, we are free now to avow,—Mr. Norman Maitland had latterly addressed much of his mind to the political intrigues of a foreign country: that country was Naples. He had known it—we are not free to say how, at this place—from his childhood; he knew its people in every rank and class; he knew its dialect in all its idioms. He could talk the slang of the lazzaroni, and the wildpatoisof Calabria, just as fluently as that composite language which the King Ferdinand used, and which was a blending of the vulgarisms of the Chiaja with the Frenchified chit-chat of the Court. There were events happening in Italy which, though not for the moment involving the question of Naples, suggested to the wiser heads in that country the sense of a coming peril. We cannot, at this place, explain how or why Maitland should have been a sharer in these deeds; it is enough to say that he was one of a little knot who had free access to the palace, and enjoyed constant intercourse with the king,—free to tell him of all that went on in his brilliant capital of vice and levity, to narrate its duels, its defalcations, its intrigues, its family scandals and domestic disgraces,—to talk of anything and everything but one: not a word on politics was to escape them; never in the most remote way was a syllable to drop of either what was happening in the State, or what comments the French or English press might pass on it. No allusion was to escape on questions of government, nor the name of a minister to be spoken, except he were the hero of some notorious scandal. All these precautions could not stifle fear. The menials had seen the handwriting on the wall before Belshazzar's eyes had fallen on it. The men who stood near the throne saw that it rocked already. There was but one theme within the palace,—the fidelity of the army; and every rude passage between the soldiery and the people seemed to testify to that faithfulness. Amongst those who were supposed to enjoy the sovereign confidence—for none in reality possessed it—was the Count Caffarelli, a man of very high family and large fortune; and though not in the slightest degree tinctured with Liberalism in politics, one of the very few Neapolitan nobles who either understood the drift, or estimated the force of the party of action. He foresaw the coming struggle, and boded ill of its result. With Mr. Maitland he lived in closest intimacy. The Italian, though older than the Englishman, had been his companion in years of dissipation. In every capital of Europe these two men had left traditions of extravagance and excess. They had an easy access to the highest circles in every city, and it was their pleasure to mix in all, even to the lowest Between them there had grown what, between such men, represented a strong friendship,—that is, either would readily have staked his life or his fortune; in other words, have fought a duel, or paid the play-debts of the other. Each knew the exact rules of honor which guided the conduct of the other, and knew, besides, that no other principles than these held any sway or influence over him.
Caffarelli saw that the Bourbon throne was in danger, and with it the fortunes of all who adhered to the dynasty. If all his prejudices and sympathies were with monarchy, these would not have prevented him from making terms with the revolution, if he thought the revolution could be trusted; but this was precisely what he did not, could not believe.
“Ceux qui sont Bleus restent Bleus” said the first Napoleon; and so Caffarelli assured himself that acanaillealways would be acanaille. Philip Égalité was a case in point of what came of such concessions; therefore he decided it was better to stand by the monarchy, and that real policy consisted in providing that there should be a monarchy to stand by.
To play that mock game of popularity, the being cheered by the lazzaroni, was the extent of toleration to which the king could be persuaded. Indeed, he thought thesevivasthe hearty outburst of a fervent and affectionate loyalty; and many of his Ministers appeared to concur with him. Caffarelli, who was Master of the Horse, deemed otherwise, and confessed to Maitland that, though assassination was cheap enough in the quarter of Santa Lucia, there was a most indiscriminating indifference as to who might be the victim, and that the old Marquess of Montanara, the Prefect of the Palace, would not cost acarlinomore than the veriest follower of Mazzini.
Both Caffarelli and Maitland enjoyed secret sources of information. They were members of that strange league which has a link in every grade and class of Neapolitan society, and makes the very highest in station the confidant and the accomplice of the most degraded and the meanest This sect, called La Camorra, was originally a mere system of organized extortion, driving, by force of menace, an impost on every trade and occupation, and exacting its dues by means of agents well known to be capable of the greatest crimes. Caffarelli, who had long employed its services to assist him in his intrigues or accomplish his vengeances, was a splendid contributor to its resources. He was rich and munificent; he loved profusion, but he adored it when it could be made the mainspring of some dark and mysterious machinery. Though the Camorra was not in the remotest degree political, Caffarelli learned, through its agency, that the revolutionary party were hourly gaining strength and courage. They saw the growing discontent that spread abroad about the ruling dynasty, and they knew how little favor would be shown the Bourbons by the Western Powers, whose counsels had been so flatly rejected, and whose warnings despised. They felt that their hour was approaching, and that Northern Italy would soon hasten to their aid if the work of overthrow were once fairly begun. Their only doubts were lest the success, when achieved, should have won nothing for them. It may be as in Forty-eight, said they; we may drive the king out of Naples as we drove the Austrians out of Milan, and, after all, only be conquering a larger kingdom for the House of Savoy. Hence they hesitated and held back; nor were their fears causeless. For what had revolution poured forth its blood like water in Paris? To raise up the despotism of the Second Empire!
Caffarelli was in possession of all this; he knew what they hoped and wished and feared. The Camorra itself numbered many professed revolutionists (“Reds,” as they liked to be called) in its sect, but was itself untinctured by politics. The wily Count thought that it was a pity so good an organization should be wasted on mere extortion and robbery. There were higher crimes they might attain to, and grander interests they might subserve. Never, perhaps, was the world of Europe so much in the hands of a few powerful men. Withdraw from it, say, half a dozen,—one could name them at once,—and what a change might come over the Continent! Caffarelli was no assassin; but there are men, and he was one of them, that can trifle with great crimes, just as children play with fire; who can jest with them, laugh at them, and sport with them, till, out of mere familiarity, they forget the horror they should inspire and the penalty they enforce. He had known Orsini intimately, and liked him; nor did he talk of his memory with less affection that he had died beneath the guillotine. He would not himself engage in a crime that would dishonor his name; but he knew there were a great number of people in the world who could no more be punctilious about honor than about the linen they wore,—fellows who walked in rags and dined off garlic. Why should they stick at trifles?Theyhad no noble escutcheons to be tarnished, no splendid names, no high lineage to be disgraced. In fact, there were crimes that became them, just as certain forms of labor suited them. They worked with their hands in each case. Amongst the Camorra he knew many such. The difficulty was to bring the power of the sect to bear upon the questions that engaged him. It would not have been difficult to make them revolutionists,—the one word “pillage” would have sufficed for that; the puzzle was how to make them royalists. Mere pay would not do. These fellows had got a taste for irregular gain. To expect to win them over by pay, or retain them by discipline, was to hope to convert a poacher by inviting him to a battue. Caffarelli had revolved the matter very long and carefully; he had talked it over scores of times with Maitland. They agreed that the Camorra had great capabilities, if one only could use them. Through the members of that league in the army they had learned that the troops, the long-vaunted reliance of the monarchy, could not be trusted. Many regiments were ready to take arms with the Reds; many more would disband and return to their homes. As for the navy, they declared there was not one ship's company would stand by the Sovereign. The most well-affected would be neutral; none save the foreign legions would fight for the king. The question then was, to reinforce these, and at once,—a matter far more difficult than it used to be. Switzerland would no longer permit this recruitment. Austria would give none but her criminals. America, it was said, abounded in ardent adventurous spirits that would readily risk life in pursuit of fortune; but then the cause was not one which, by any ingenuity, could be made to seem that of liberty. Nothing then remained but Ireland. There there was bravery and poverty both; thousands, who had no fears and very little food, ready for any enterprise, but far readier for one which could be dignified as being the battle of the Truth and the cause of the Holy Father.
An Irish legion, some five or six thousand devout Catholics and valiant soldiers, was a project that the Minister of War at once embraced. His Excellency saw Maitland on it, and talked over the whole plan. Maitland was himself to direct all its operations. Caffarelli would correspond with him from Naples, and, in case of any complication or difficulty, shroud the Minister from attack. Ample funds would be provided. The men could be engaged as laborers upon some great public work, and forwarded in small drafts to a convenient port. Arms could be easily procured from Liège. Officers could be readily obtained, either Irish or Poles or Hungarians, who could speak English. In a word, all the details had been well discussed and considered; and Maitland, on arriving in London, had again talked over the project with wise and crafty heads, whose prudent counsels showed him how little fit he was, personally, to negotiate directly with the Irish peasant, and how imperative above all things it was to depute this part of his task to some clever native, capable of employing the subordinates he needed. “Hide yourself,” said they, “in some out-of-the-way spot in Wales or Scotland; even the far North of Ireland will do; remain anywhere near enough to have frequent communication with your agent, but neither be seen nor known in the plot yourself. Your English talk and your English accent would destroy more confidence than your English gold would buy.”
Such an agent was soon found,—a man admirably adapted in many respects for the station. He had been an adventurer all his life; served with the French in Austria, and the Austrians in the Banat; held an independent command of Turks during the Crimean War; besides, episodically, having “done a little,” as he called it, on the Indian frontier with the Yankees; and served on the staff of Rosas, at La Plata; all his great and varied experiences tending to one solitary conviction, that no real success was ever to be attained in anything except by means of Irishmen; nor could order, peace, and loyalty be ever established anywhere without their assistance. If he was one of the bravest men living, he was one of the most pushing and impertinent. He would have maintained a point of law against the Lord Chancellor, and contested tactics with a Marshal of France. He thought himself the ornament of any society he entered, and his vanity, in matters of intellect, was only surpassed by his personal conceit. And now one word as to his appearance. With the aid of cleverly constructed boots he stood five feet four, but was squarely, stoutly built, broad in the chest, and very bow-legged; his head was large, and seemed larger from a mass of fiery red hair, of which he was immensely vain as the true Celtic color; he wore great whiskers, a moustache, and chin-tuft; but the flaming hue of these seemed actually tamed and toned down beside his eyes, which resembled two flaring carbuncles. They were the most excitable, quarrelsome, restless pair of orbs that ever beamed in a human head. They twinkled and sparkled with an incessant mischief, and they darted such insolent glances right and left as seemed to say, “Is there any one present who will presume to contradict me?”
His boundless self-conceit would have been droll if it had not been so offensive. His theory was this: all men detested him; all women adored him. Europe had done little better than intrigue for the last quarter of a century what country could secure his services. As for the insolent things he had said to kings and emperors, and the soft speeches that empresses and queens had made to himself, they would fill a volume. Believe him, and he had been on terms of more than intimacy in every royal palace of the Continent. Show the slightest semblance of doubt in him, and the chances were that he 'd have had you “out” in the morning.
Amongst his self-delusions, it was one to believe that his voice and accent were peculiarly insinuating. There was, it is true, a certain slippery insincerity about them, but the vulgarity was the chief characteristic; and his brogue was that of Leinster, which, even to Irish ears, is insufferable.
Such was, in brief, the gentleman who called himself Major M'Caskey, Knight-Commander of various Orders, and C.S. in the Pope's household,—which, interpreted, means Cameriere Secreto,—a something which corresponds to gentleman-in-waiting. Maitland and he had never met. They had corresponded freely, and the letters of the Major had by no means made a favorable impression upon Maitland, who had more than once forwarded extracts from them to the committees in London, pettishly asking, “if something better could not be found than the writer of this rubbish.” And yet, for the work before him, “the writer of this rubbish” was a most competent hand. He knew his countrymen well,—knew how to approach them by those mingled appeals to their love of adventure and love of gain; their passion for fighting, for carelessness, for disorder; and, above all, that wide uncertainty as to what is to come, which is, to an Irishman's nature, the most irresistible of all seductions. The Major had established committees—in other words, recruiting-depots—in several county towns; had named a considerable number of petty officers; and was only waiting Maitland's orders whether or not he should propose the expedition to adventurous but out-at-elbows young fellows of a superior station,—the class from which officers might be taken. We have now said enough of him and the project that engaged him to admit of our presenting him to our readers in one of his brief epistles. It was dated,—
“Castle Dubbow, August—, 18—.
“Sir,—I have the honor to report for your information that I yesterday enrolled in this town and neighborhood eighteen fine fellows for H. N. M. Two of them are returned convicts, and three more are bound over to come up for sentence at a future assizes, and one, whom I have named a corporal, is the notorious Hayes, who shot Captain Macon on the fair green at Ballinasloe. So you see there's little fear that they'll want to come back here when once they have attained to the style and dignity of Neapolitan citizens. Bounty is higher here by from sixteen to twenty shillings than in Meath; indeed, fellows who can handle a gun, or are anyways ready with a weapon, can always command a job from one of the secret clubs; and my experiences (wide as most men's) lead me entirely to the selection of those who have shown any aptitude for active service. I want your permission and instruction to engage some young gentlemen of family and station, for the which I must necessarily be provided with means of entertainment.Tafel Gelt ist nicht Teufel's Gelt, says the Austrian adage; and I believe a very moderate outlay, assisted by my own humble gifts of persuasion, will suffice.Séduction de M'Casky, was a proverb in the 8th Voltigeurs. You may ask a certain high personage in France who it was that told him not to despair on a particular evening at Strasbourg. A hundred pounds—better if a hundred and fifty—would be useful. The medals of his Holiness have done well, but I only distribute them in the lower ranks. Some titles would be very advisable if I am to deal with the higher class. Herewith you have a muster-roll of what has been done in two counties; and I say it without fear, not a man in the three kingdoms could have accomplished it but Miles M'Marmont could plan, but not execute; Masséna execute, but not organize; Soul could do none but the last. It is no vanity makes me declare that I combine all the qualities. You see me now 'organizing;' in a few days you shall judge me in the field; and, later on, if my convictions do not deceive me, in the higher sphere of directing the great operations of an army. I place these words in your hands that they may be on record. If M'Caskey falls, it is a great destiny cut off; but posterity will see that he died in the full conviction of his genius. I have drawn on you for thirty-eight, ten-and-six; and to-morrow will draw again for seventy-four, fifteen.
“Your note has just come. I am forced to say that its tone is not that to which, in the sphere I have moved, I have been accustomed. If I am to regard you as my superior officer, duty cries, 'Submit.' If you be simply a civilian, no matter how exalted, I ask explanation. The dinner at the Dawson Armswasnecessary; the champagne wasnotexcessive; none of the company were really drunk before ten o'clock; and the destruction of the furniture was aplaisanterieof a young gentleman from Louth who was going into holy orders, and might most probably not have another such spree in all his life again. Are you satisfied? If not, tell me what and where any other satisfaction may meet your wishes. You say, 'Let us meet.' I reply, 'Yes, in any way you desire.' You have not answered my demand—it was demand, not request—to be Count M'Caskey. I have written to Count Caffarelli on the subject, and have thoughts of addressing the king. Don't talk to me of decorations. I have no room for them on the breast of my coat. I am forced to say these things to you, for I cannot persuade myself that you really know or understand the man you correspond with. After all, it took Radetzky a year, and Omar Pasha seventeen months, to arrive at that knowledge which my impatience, unjustly perhaps, complains that you have not attained to. Yet I feel we shall like each other; and were it not like precipitancy, I'd say, believe me, dear Maitland, very faithfully your friend,
“Miles M'Caskey.”
The answer to this was very brief, and ran thus:—
“Lyle Abbey, August.“Sir,—You will come to Coleraine, and await my ordersthere,—the first of which will be to take no liberties ofany kind with your obedient servant,“Norman Maitland.“Major M'Caskey, 'The Dawson Arms, Castle Durrow.“P. S. Avoid all English acquaintances on your road. Giveyourself out to be a foreigner, and speak as little aspossible.”
“I don't think I 'll walk down to the Burnside with you to-day,” said Beck Graham to Maitland, on the morning after their excursion.
“And why not?”
“People have begun to talk of our going off together alone,—long solitary walks. They say it means something—or nothing.”
“So, I opine, does every step and incident of our lives.”
“Well. You understand what I intended to say.”
“Not very clearly, perhaps; but I shall wait a little further explanation. What is it that the respectable public imputes to us?”
“That you are a very dangerous companion for a young lady in a country walk.”
“But am I? Don't you think you are in a position to refute such a calumny?”
“I spoke of you as I found you.”
“And how might that be?”
“Very amusing at some moments; very absent at others; very desirous to be thought lenient and charitable in your judgments of people, while evidently thinking the worst of every one; and with a rare frankness about yourself that, to any one not very much interested to learn the truth, was really as valuable as the true article.”
“But you never charged me with any ungenerous use of my advantage; to make professions, for instance, because I found you alone.”
“A little—a very little of that—there was; just as children stamp on thin ice and run away when they hear it crack beneath them.”
“Did I go so far as that?”
“Yes; and Sally says, if she was in my place, she 'd send papa to you this morning.”
“And I should be charmed to see him. There are no people whom I prefer to naval men. They have the fresh, vigorous, healthy tone of their own sea life in all they say.”
“Yes; you'd have found him vigorous enough, I promise you.”
“And why did you consult your sister at all?”
“I did not consult her; she got all out of me by cross-questioning. She began by saying, 'That man is a mystery to me; he has not come down here to look after the widow nor Isabella; he's not thinking of politics nor the borough; there 's no one here that he wants or cares for. What can he be at?'”
“Could n't you have told her that he was one of those men who have lived so much in the world it is a luxury to them to live a little out of it? Just as it is a relief to sit in a darkened room after your eyes have been dazzled with too strong light. Could n't you have said, He delights to talk and walk with me, because he sees that he may expand freely, and say what comes uppermost, without any fear of an unfair inference? That, for the same reason,—the pleasure of an unrestricted intercourse,—he wishes to know old Mrs. Butler, and talk with her,—over anything, in short? Just to keep mind and faculties moving,—as a light breeze stirs a lake and prevents stagnation?”
“Well. I 'm not going to perform Zephyr, even in such a high cause.”
“Could n't you have said, We had a pleasant walk and a mild cigarette together,—voilà tout?” said he, languidly.
“I think it would be very easy to hate you,—hate you cordially,—Mr. Norman Maitland.”
“So I've been told; and some have even tried it, but always unsuccessfully.”
“Who is this wonderful foreigner they are making so much of at the Castle and the Viceregal Lodge?” cried Mark, from one of the window recesses, where he was reading a newspaper. “Maitland, you who know all these people, who is the Prince Caffarelli?”
“Caffarelli! it must be the Count,” cried Maitland, hurrying over to see the paragraph. “The Prince is upwards of eighty; but his son, Count Caffarelli, is my dearest friend in the world. What could have brought him over to Ireland?”
“Ah! there is the very question he himself is asking about the great Mr. Norman Maitland,” said Mrs. Trafford, smiling.
“My reasons are easily stated. I had an admirable friend who could secure me a most hospitable reception. I came here to enjoy the courtesies of country home life in a perfection I scarcely believed they could attain to. The most unremitting attention to one's comfort, combined with the wildest liberty.”
“And such port wine,” interposed the Commodore, “as I am free to say no other cellar in the province can rival.”
“Let us come back to your Prince or Count,” said Mark, “whichever he is. Why not ask him down here?”
“Yes; we have room,” said Lady Lyle; “the M'Clintocks left this morning.”
“By all means, invite him,” broke in Mrs. Trafford; “that is, if he be what we conjecture the dear friend of Mr. Maitland might and should be.”
“I am afraid to speak of him,” said Maitland; “one disserves a friend by any over-praise; but at Naples, and in his own set, he is thought charming.”
“I like Italians myself,” said Colonel Hoyle. “I had a fellow I picked up at Malta,—a certain Geronimo. I 'm not sure he was not a Maltese; but such a salad as he could make! There was everything you could think of in it,—tomato, eggs, sardines, radishes, beetroot, cucumber.”
“Every Italian is a bit of a cook,” said Maitland, relieving adroitly the company from the tiresome detail of the Colonel. “I 'll back my friend Caffarelli for a dish of macaroni against all professional artists.”
While the Colonel and his wife got into a hot dispute whether there was or was not a slight flavor of parmesan in the salad, the others gathered around Maitland to hear more of his friend. Indeed, it was something new to hear of an Italian of class and condition. They only knew the nation as tenors or modellers or language masters. Their compound idea of Italian was a thing of dark skin and dark eyes; very careless in dress, very submissive in aspect, with a sort of subdued fire, however, in look, that seemed to say how much energy was only sleeping there! and when Maitland sketched the domestic ties of a rich magnate of the land, living a life of luxurious indolence, in a sort of childlike simplicity as to what engaged other men in other countries, without a thought for questions of politics, religion, or literature, living for mere life's sake, he interested them much.
“I shall be delighted to ask him here,” said he, at last; “only let me warn you against disappointment. He'll not be witty like a Frenchman, nor profound like a German, nor energetic like an Englishman; he 'll neither want to gain knowledge nor impart it. He'll only ask to be permitted to enjoy the pleasures of a very charming society without any demand being made upon him to contribute anything; to make him fancy, in short, that he knew you all years and years ago, and has just come back out of cloud-land to renew the intimacy. Will you have him after this?”
“By all means,” was the reply. “Go and write your letter to him.”
Maitland went to his room, and soon wrote the following:—
“Caro Carlo mio,—Who'd have thought of seeing you inIreland? but I have scarce courage to ask you how and whyyou came here, lest you retort the question upon myself. Forthe moment, however, I am comfortably established in agoodish sort of country-house, with some pretty women, and,thank Heaven, no young men save one son of the family, whomI have made sufficiently afraid of me to repress allfamiliarities. They beg me to ask you here, and I seenothing against it. We eat and drink very well. The place ishealthy, and though the climate is detestable, it braces andgives appetite. We shall have, at all events, ample time totalk over much that interests us both, and so I say, Come!“The road is by Belfast, and thence to Coleraine, where weshall take care to meet you. I ought to add that your host'sname is Sir Arthur Lyle, an Anglo-Indian, but who, thankyour stars for it! being a civilian, has neither shot tigersnor stuck pigs. It will also be a relief to you to learnthat there's no sport of any kind in the neighborhood, andthere cannot be the shade of a pretext for making you mounta horse or carry a gun, nor can any insidious tormentorpersecute you with objects of interest or antiquity; and so,once again, Come—and believe me, ever your most cordialfriend,“N. Maitland.“There is no reason why you should not be here by Saturday,so that, if nothing contrary is declared, I shall look outfor you by that day; but write at all events.”
Sir Arthur Lyle was a county dignity, and somewhat fond of showing it. It is true he could not compete with the old blood of the land, or contest place with an O'Neil or an O'Hara; but his wealth gave him a special power, and it was a power that all could appreciate. There was no mistake about one who could head a subscription by a hundred pounds, or write himself patron of a school or a hospital with a thousand! And then his house was more splendid, his servants more numerous, their liveries finer, his horses better, than his neighbors; and he was not above making these advantages apparent. Perhaps his Indian experiences may have influenced his leanings, and taught him to place a higher value on show and all the details of external greatness. On everything that savored of a public occasion, he came with all the pomp and parade of a sovereign. A meeting of poor-law guardians, a committee of the county infirmary, a board of railway directors, were all events to be signalized by his splendid appearance.
His coach and four, and his outriders—for he had outriders—were admirable in all their appointments. Royalty could not have swung upon more perfectly balanced nor easier springs, nor could a royal team have beat the earth with a grander action or more measured rhythm. The harness—bating the excess of splendor—was perfect. It was massive and well-fitting. As for the servants, a master of the horse could not have detected an inaccurate fold in their cravats, nor a crease in their silk stockings. Let the world be as critical or slighting as it may, these things are successes. They are trifles only to him who has not attempted them. Neither is it true to say that money can command them; for there is much in them that mere money cannot do. There is a keeping in all details,—a certain “tone” throughout, and, above all, a discipline the least flaw in which would convert a solemn display into a mockery.
Neighbors might criticise the propriety or canvass the taste of so much ostentation, but none, not the most sarcastic or scrutinizing, could say one word against the display itself; and so, when on a certain forenoon the dense crowd of the market-place scattered and fled right and left to make way for the prancing leaders of that haughty equipage, the sense of admiration overcame even the unpleasant feeling of inferiority, and that flunkeyism that has its hold on humanity felt a sort of honor in being hunted away by such magnificence.
Through the large square—or Diamond, as the Northerns love to call it—of the town they came, upsetting apple-stalls and crockery-booths, and frightening old peasant women, who, with a goose under one arm and a hank of yarn under the other, were bent on enterprises of barter and commerce. Sir Arthur drove up to the bank, of which he was the governor, and on whose steps, to receive him, now stood the other members of the board. With his massive gold watch in hand, he announced that the fourteen miles had been done in an hour and sixteen minutes, and pointed to the glossy team, whose swollen veins stood out like whipcord, to prove that there was no distress to the cattle. The board chorused assent, and one—doubtless an ambitious man—actually passed his hand down the back sinews of a wheeler, and said, “Cool as spring-water, I pledge my honor.” Sir Arthur smiled benignly, looked up at the sky, gave an approving look at the sun as though to say, “Not bad for Ireland,” and entered the bank.
It was about five o'clock in the same evening when the great man again appeared at the same place; he was flushed and weary-looking. Some rebellious spirits—is not the world full of them?—had dared to oppose one of his ordinances. They had ventured to question some subsidy that he would accord or refuse to some local line of railroad. The opposition had deeply offended him; and though he had crushed it, it had wounded him. He was himself the bank!—its high repute, its great credit, its large connection, were all of his making; and that same Mr. M'Candlish who had dared to oppose him was a creature of his own,—that is, he had made him a tithe-valuator, or a road-inspector, or a stamp distributor, or a something or other of the hundred petty places which he distributed just as the monks of old gave alms at the gates of their convents.
Sir Arthur whispered a word to Mr. Boyd, the secretary, as he passed downstairs. “How does M'Candlish stand with the bank? He has had advances lately; send me a note of them.” And thus, bent on reprisals, he stood waiting for that gorgeous equipage which was now standing fully ready in the inn yard, while the coachman was discussing a chop and a pot of porter. “Why is not he ready?” asked Sir Arthur, impatiently.
“He was getting a nail in Blenheim's off foreshoe, sir,” was the ready reply; and as Blenheim was a blood bay sixteen-three, and worth two hundred and fifty pounds, there was no more to be said; and so Sir Arthur saw the rest of the board depart on jaunting-cars, gigs, or dog-carts, as it might be,—humble men with humble conveyances, that could take them to their homes without the delays that wait upon greatness.
“Anything new stirring, Boyd?” asked Sir Arthur, trying not to show that he was waiting for the pleasure of his coachman.
“No, sir; all dull as ditch-water.”
“We want rain, I fancy,—don't we?”
“We 'd not be worse for a little, sir. The after-grass, at least, would benefit by it.”
“Why don't you pave this town better, Boyd? I 'm certain it was these rascally stones twisted Blenheim's shoe.”
“Our corporation will do nothing, sir,—nothing,” said the other, in a whisper.
“Who is that fellow with the large whiskers, yonder,—on the steps of the hotel? He looks as if he owned the town.”
“A foreigner, Sir Arthur; a Frenchman or a German, I believe. He came over this morning to ask if we knew the address of Mr. Norman Maitland.”
“Count Caffarelli,” muttered Sir Arthur to himself; “what a chance that I should see him! How did he come?”
“Posted, sir; slept at Cookstown last night, and came here to breakfast.”
Though the figure of the illustrious stranger was very far from what Sir Arthur was led to expect, he knew that personal appearance was not so distinctive abroad as in England, and so he began to con over to himself what words of French he could muster, to make his advances. Now, had it been Hindostanee that was required, Sir Arthur would have opened his negotiations with all the florid elegance that could be wished; but French was a tongue in which he had never been a proficient, and, in his ordinary life, had little need of. He thought, however, that his magnificent carriage and splendid horses would help him out of the blunders of declensions and genders, and that what he wanted in grammar he could make up in greatness. “Follow me to M'Grotty's,” said he to his coachman, and took the way across the square.
Major M'Caskey—for it was no other than that distinguished gentleman—was standing with both hands in the pockets of a very short shooting-jacket, and a clay pipe in his mouth, as Sir Arthur, courteously uncovering, bowed his way up the steps, saying something in whichl'honneur, la félicité, and infiniment flatté, floated amidst a number of less intelligibly rendered syllables, ended the whole with “Ami de mon ami, M. Norman Maitland.”
Major M'Caskey raised his hat straight above his head and replaced it, listening calmly to the embarrassed attempts of the other, and then coldly replied in French, “I have the honor to be the friend of M. Maitland,—how and when can I see him?”
“If you will condescend to be my guest, and allow me to offer you a seat with me to Lyle Abbey, you will see your friend.” And, as Sir Arthur spoke, he pointed to his carriage.
“Ah, and this is yours?Pardie!it's remarkably well done. I accept at once. Fetch down my portmanteau and the pistol-case,” said he to a small, ill-looking boy in a shabby green livery, and to whom he spoke in a whisper; while, turning to Sir Arthur, he resumed his French.
“This I call a real piece of good-fortune,—I was just saying to myself, 'Here I am; and though he says, Come! how are we to meet?'”
“But you knew, Count, that we were expecting you.”
“Nothing of the kind. All I knew was his message, 'Come here.' I had no anticipation of such pleasant quarters as you promise me.”
Seated in the post of honor on the right of Sir Arthur, the Major, by way of completing the measure of his enjoyments, asked leave to smoke. The permission was courteously accorded, and away they rolled over the smooth highway to the pleasant measure of that stirring music,—the trot of four spanking horses.
Two—three—four efforts did Sir Arthur make at conversation, but they all ended in sad failure. He wanted to say something about the crops, but he did not remember the French for “oats;” he wished to speak of the road, but he knew not the phrase for “grand jury;” he desired to make some apology for a backward season, but he might as well have attempted to write a Greek ode; and so he sat and smiled and waved his hand, pointing out objects of interest, and interjectionally jerking out, “Bons—braves—très braves—but poor—pauvres—très pauvres—light soil—légère, you understand,” and with a vigorous “hem” satisfied himself that he had said something intelligible. After this no more attempts at conversation were made; for the Major had quietly set his companion down for an intense bore, and fell back upon his tobacco for solace.
“Là!” cried the Baronet, after a long silence—and he pointed with his finger to a tall tower, over which a large flag was waving, about half a mile away,—“Là! Notre chateau—Lyle Abbey—moi;” and he tapped his breast to indicate the personal interest that attached to the spot.
“Je vous en fais mes compliments,” cried M'Caskey, who chuckled at the idea of such quarters, and very eloquently went on to express the infinite delight it gave him to cultivate relations with a family at once so amiable and so distinguished. The happy hazard which brought him was in reality another tie that bound him to the friendship of that “cher Maitland.” Delivered of this, the Major emptied his pipe, replaced it in its case, and then, taking off his hat, ran his hands through his hair, arranged his shirt-collar, and made two or three other efforts at an improvised toilet.
“We are late—en retard—I think,” said Sir Arthur, as they drew up at the door, where two sprucely dressed servants stood to receive them. “We dine—at eight—eight,” said he, pointing to that figure on his watch. “You 'll have only time to dress,—dress;” and he touched the lappet of his coat, for he was fairly driven to pantomime to express himself. “Hailes,” cried he to a servant in discreet black, “show the Count to his room, and attend to him; his own man has not come on, it seems,” and then, with many bows and smiles and courteous gestures, consigned his distinguished guest to the care of Mr. Hailes, and walked hurriedly upstairs to his own room.
“Such a day as I have had,” cried he, as he entered the dressing-room, where Lady Lyle was seated with a French novel. “Those fellows at the bank, led on by that creature M'Candlish, had the insolence to move an amendment to that motion of mine about the drainage loan. I almost thought they'd have given me a fit of apoplexy; but I crushed them: and I told Boyd, 'If I see any more of this, I don't care from what quarter it comes,—if these insolences be repeated,—I' ll resign the direction. It's no use making excuses, pleading that you misunderstood this or mistook that, Boyd,' said I. 'If it occurs again, I go.' And then, as if this was not enough, I 've had to talk French all the way out. By the way, where's Maitland?”
“Talk French! what do you mean by that?”
“Where's Maitland, I say?”
“He's gone off with Mark to Larne. They said they 'd not be back to dinner.”
“Here's more of it; we shall have this foreign fellow on our hands till he comes,—this Italian Count. I found him at M'Grotty's, and brought him back with me.”
“And what is he like? is he as captivating as his portrait bespeaks?”
“He is, to my mind, as vulgar a dog as ever I met: he smoked beside me all the road, though he saw how his vile tobacco set me a-coughing; and he stretched his legs over the front seat of the carriage, where, I promise you, his boots have left their impress on the silk lining; and he poked his cane at Crattle's wig, and made some impertinent remark which I could n't catch. I never was very enthusiastic about foreigners, and the present specimen has not made a convert of me.”
“Maitland likes him,” said she, languidly.
“Well, then, it is an excellent reason not to like Maitland. There's the second bell already. By the way, this Count, I suppose, takes you in to dinner?”
“I suppose so, and it is very unpleasant, for I am out of the habit of talking French. I 'll make Alice sit on the other side of him and entertain him.”
The news that the distinguished Italian friend of Mr. Norman Maitland had arrived created a sort of sensation in the house; and as the guests dropped into the drawing-room before dinner, there was no other topic than the Count. The door at last opened for hisentree; and he came in unannounced, the servant being probably unable to catch the name he gave. In the absence of her father and mother, Mrs. Trafford did the honors, and received him most courteously, presenting the other guests to him, or him to them, as it might be. When it came to the turn of the Commodore, he started, and muttered, “Eh, very like, the born image of him!” and coloring deeply at his own awkwardness, mumbled out a few unmeaning commonplaces. As for the Major, he eyed him with one of his steadiest stares,—unflinching, un-blenching; and even said to Mrs. Trafford in a whisper, “I didn't catch the name; was it Green you said?” Seated between Lady Lyle and Mrs. Trafford, M'Caskey felt that he was the honored guest of the evening: Maitland's absence, so feelingly deplored by the others, gave him little regret; indeed, instinct told him that they were not men to like each other, and he was all the happier that he had the field for a while his own. It was not a very easy task to be the pleasant man of an Irish country-house, in a foreign tongue; but if any man could have success, it was M'Caskey. The incessant play of his features, the varied tones of his voice, his extraordinary gestures, appealed to those who could not follow his words, and led them very often to join in the laughter which his sallies provoked from others. He was, it is true, the exact opposite to all they had been led to expect,—he was neither well-looking, nor distinguished, nor conciliatory in manner,—there was not a trace of that insinuating softness and gentleness Maitland had spoken of,—he was, even to those who could not follow his speech, one of the most coolly unabashed fellows they had ever met, and made himself at home with a readiness that said much more for his boldness than for his breeding; and yet, withal, each was pleased in turn to see how he out-talked some heretofore tyrant of conversation, how impudently he interrupted a bore, and how mercilessly he pursued an antagonist whom he had vanquished. It is not at all improbable, too, that he owed something of bis success to that unconquerable objection people feel at confessing that they do not understand a foreign language,—the more when that language is such a cognate one as French. What a deal of ecstasy does not the polite world expend upon German drama and Italian tragedy, and how frequently are people moved to every imaginable emotion, without the slightest clew to the intention of the charmer! If he was great at the dinner-table, he was greater in the drawing-room. Scarcely was coffee served than he was twanking away with a guitar, and singing a Spanish muleteer song, with a jingling imitation of bells for the accompaniment; or seated at the piano, he carolled out a French canzonette descriptive of soldier life, far more picturesque than it was proper; and all this time there was the old Commodore cruising above and below him, eying and watching him,—growing perfectly feverish with the anxiety of his doubts, and yet unable to confirm or refute them. It was a suspicious craft; he felt that he had seen it before, and knew the rig well, and yet he was afraid to board and say, “Let me look at your papers.”
“I say, Beck, just go slyly up and say something accidentally about Barbadoes; don't ask any questions, but remark that the evening is close, or the sky threatening, or the air oppressive, just as it used to be before a tornado there.” The old sailor watched her, as he might have watched a boat-party on a cutting-out expedition; he saw her draw nigh the piano; he thought he could trace all the ingenious steps by which she neared her object; and he was convinced that she had at last thrown the shell on board him; but what was his grievous disappointment, as he saw that the little fellow had turned to her with a look of warmest admiration, and actually addressed a very ardent love-song to the eyes that were then bent upon him. The Commodore made signals to cease firing and fall back, but in vain. She was too deeply engaged to think of orders; and there she stood to be admired and worshipped and adored, in all the moods and tenses of a French “romance.” But Miss Rebecca Graham was not the only victim of the Major's captivations; gradually the whole company of the drawing-room had gathered round the piano, some to wonder, some to laugh at, some to feel amused by, and not a few to feel angry with, that little fiery-eyed, impertinent-looking fellow, who eyed the ladies so languishingly, and stared at the men as if asking, “Who'll quarrel with me?” You might not like, but it was impossible to ignore him. There was, too, in his whole air and bearing a conscious sense of power,—a sort of bold self-reliance,—that dignifies even impudence; and as he sat in his chair with head up and hands vigorously striking the chords of the piano, he looked, as it is by no means improbable that he felt, “M'Caskey against the field.” It was in the midst of hearty applause at a song he had just completed, that Maitland entered the room. In the hall he had learned from the servants that his foreign friend had arrived, and he hurried forward to greet him. Rather puzzled at the vociferous gayety of the company, he made his way through the crowd and approached the piano, and then stood staring on every side, to find out his friend. Though he saw the Major, his eye only rested passingly on him, as it ranged eagerly to catch the features of another.
“He's very amusing, though not in the least what you led us to expect,” whispered Mrs. Trafford. “Who is it of whom you are speaking?” “Your friend yonder, the Count Caffarelli.” “What—that man?” cried Maitland, as he grew pale with passion; and now, pushing forward, he leaned over the back of the music-stool, and whispered, “Who are you that call yourself Count Caffarelli?”
“Is your name Maitland?” said the other, with perfect coolness.
“Yes.”
“Mine is M'Caskey, sir.”
“And by what presumption do I find you here?”
“This is not the place nor the moment for explanations; but if you want or prefer exposures, don't balk your fancy. I 'm as ready as you are.”
Maitland reeled back as if from a blow, and looked positively ill; and then laughingly turning to the company, he said some common-place words about his ill luck in being late to hear the last song.
“Well, it must be the last for to-night,” said Mr. M'Caskey, rising. “I have really imposed too much upon every one's forbearance.”
After a little of the usual skirmishing,—the entreaties and the coy refusals, the recollection of that charming thing you sang for us at Woodpark, and the doubts lest they had brought no music with them,—the Misses Graham sat down to one, of those duets which every one in England seems able to compose and to sing; lackadaisical ditties adapted to the humblest musical proficiency, and unfortunately, too, the very narrowest intelligences. While the remainder of the company, after a brief moment of silence, resumed conversation, Major M'Caskey stepped unobserved from the room,—by all, at least, but by Maitland, who speedily followed him, and, led by the sound of his footsteps along the corridor, tracked him through the great hall. M'Caskey was standing on the lawn, and in the act of lighting his cigar, as Maitland came up.
“Explain this intrusion here, sir, now, if you can,” cried Maitland, as he walked straight towards him.
“If you want any explanations from me, you 'll have to ask for them more suitably,” said the other, coldly.
“I desire to know, under what pretence you assume a name and rank you have no right to, to obtain admission to this house?”
“Your question is easily answered: your instructions to me were, on my arrival at Coleraine, to give myself out for a foreigner, and not to speak English with any one. I have your note in my desk, and think there can be no mistake about its meaning.”
“Well, well; I know all that: go on,” cried Maitland, impatiently.
M'Caskey smiled, half insolently, at this show of temper, and continued: “It was, then, in my assumed character of Frenchman, Spaniard, Italian, or whatever you wish,—for they are pretty much alike to me,—I was standing at the door of the inn, when a rather pompous old fellow, with two footmen after him, came up, and in some execrable French endeavored to accost me, mingling your name in his jargon, and inviting me, as well as his language would permit, to return with him to his house. What was I to conclude but that the arrangement was yours? indeed, I never gave a doubt to it.”
“When he addressed you as the Count Caffarelli, you might have had such a doubt,” said Maitland, sneeringly.
“He called me simply Count,” was the reply.
“Well; so far well: there was no assumption of a name, at least.”
“None whatever; and if there had been, would the offence have seemed to you so very—very unpardonable?” It is not easy to convey the intense impertinence given to the delivery of this speech by the graduated slowness of every word, and the insolent composure with which it was spoken.
“What do you mean, sir, by this—this insinuation?” cried Maitland.
“Insinuation!—it's none. It is a mere question as to a matter of good taste or good morals.”
“I have no time for such discussions, sir,” said Maitland, hotly. “I am glad to find that the blunder by which you came here was not of your own provoking, though I cannot see how it makes the explanation less difficult to myself.”
“What is your difficulty, may I ask?” cried M'Caskey, coolly.
“Is it no difficulty that I must explain how I know—” and he stopped suddenly, just as a man might stop on the verge of a precipice, and look horror-struck down into the depth below him. “I mean,” said he, recovering himself, “that to enter upon the question of our relations to each other would open the discussion of matters essentially secret. When I have said I know you, the next question will be, 'Who is he?'”
“Well, what is the difficulty there? I am Graf M'Caskey, in Bavaria; Count of Serra-major, in Sicily; Commander of the Order of St. Peter and St. Paul, and a Knight of Malta. I mention these, for I have the 'brevets' with me.”
“Very true,” said Maitland; “but you are also the same Lieutenant Miles M'Caskey, who served in the 2d West Indian Regiment, and who left a few unsettled matters between him and the Government there, when he quitted Barbadoes.”
“And which they won't rake up, I promise you, if they don't want to hang an ex-governor,” said he, laughing. “But none of us, Mr. Maitland, will stand such investigations as these. There's a statute of limitations for morals as well as for small debts.”
Maitland winced under the insolent look of the other, and in a tone somewhat shaken, continued, “At all events it will not suit me to open these inquiries. The only piece of good fortune in the whole is that there was none here who knew you.”
“I am not so very sure of that, though,” said the Major, with a quiet laugh.
“How so? what do you mean?”
“Why; that there is an old fellow whom I remember to have met on the West Indian Station; he was a lieutenant, I think, on board the 'Dwarf,' and he looked as if he were puzzled about me.”
“Gambier Graham?”
“That's the man; he followed me about all night, till some one carried him off to play cribbage; but he 'd leave his game every now and then to come and stare at me, till I gave him a look that said, 'If you do that again, we 'll have a talk over it in the morning.'”
“To prevent which you must leave this to-night, sir,” said Maitland. “I am not in the habit of carrying followers about with me to the country-houses where I visit.”
A very prolonged whistle was M'Caskey's first reply to this speech, and then he said: “They told me you were one of the cleverest fellows in Europe, but I don't believe a word of it; for if you were, you would never try to play the game of bully with a man of my stamp. Bigger men than Mr. Norman Maitland have tried that, and did n't come so well out of it.”
An insolent toss of the head, as he threw away his cigar, was all Maitland's answer. At last he said, “I suppose, sir, you cannot wish to drive me to say that I do not know you?”
“It would be awkward, certainly; for then I 'd be obliged to declare that Idoknow you.”
Instantly Maitland seized the other's arm; but M'Caskey, though not by any means so strong a man, flung off the grasp, and started back, saying, “Hands off, or I'll put a bullet through you. We've both of us lived long enough amongst foreigners to know that these are liberties that cost blood.”
“This is very silly and very unprofitable,” said Maitland, with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “There ought not, there cannot be, any quarrel between you and me. Though it is no fault of yours that this blunder has occurred, the mistake has its unpleasant side, and may lead to some embarrassment, the more as this old sea-captain is sure to remember you if you meet again. There 's only one thing for it, therefore,—get away as fast as you can. I 'll supply the pretext, and show Sir Arthur in confidence how the whole affair occurred.”
M'Caskey shook his head dubiously. “This is not to my liking, sir; it smacks of a very ignominious mode of retreat. I am to leave myself to be discussed by a number of perhaps not over-favorable critics, and defended by one who even shrinks from saying he knows me. No, no; I can't do this.”
“But remember you are not the person to whom these people meant to offer their hospitality.”
“I am Major Miles M'Caskey,” said he, drawing himself up to the full height of his five feet four inches; “and there is no mistake whatever in any consideration that is shown to the man who owns that name.”
“Yes, but why are you here,—how have you come?”
“I came by the host's invitation, and I look to you to explain how the blunder occurred, and to recognize me afterwards. That is what I expect, and what I insist on.”
“And if your old friend the Commodore, whose memory for ugly anecdotes seems inexhaustible, comes out with any unpleasant reminiscences of West Indian life—”
“Leave that to me, Mr. Norman Maitland. I 'll take care to see my friend, as you call him, and I 'll offer you a trifling wager he 'll not be a whit more anxious to claim my acquaintance than you are.”
“You appear to have no small reliance on your powers of intimidation, Major,” said Maitland, with a sneering smile.
“They have never failed me, for I have always backed them with a very steady hand and a correct eye, both of which are much at your service.”
Maitland lifted his hat and bowed an acknowledgment.
“I think we are losing our time, each of us, Major M'Caskey. There need be no question of etiquette here. You are, if I understand the matter aright, under my orders. Well, sir, these orders are, that you now start for Castle Durrow, and be prepared by Tuesday next to make me a full report of your proceedings, and produce for me, if necessary, the men you have engaged.”
The change effected in the Major's manner at these words was magical; he touched his hat in salute, and listened with all show of respect.
“It is my intention, if satisfied with your report, to recommend you for the command of the legion, with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel,” continued Maitland; “and I have already written about those advances you mentioned.”
“I 'll take care that you are satisfied with me,” said M'Caskey, respectfully; “I'll start within half an hour.”
“This is all as it should be. I hope it is our first and last misunderstanding;” and he held out his hand frankly, which the other grasped and shook cordially. “How are you off for ready cash? Treat me as a comrade, and say freely.”
“Not over flush, but I suppose I can rub on,” said the Major, with some confusion.
“I have some thirty sovereigns here,” said Maitland; “take them, and we'll settle all when we meet.”
M'Caskey put the purse in his pocket, and, with the uneasy consciousness of a man ashamed of what he was doing, muttered out a few unmeaning words of thanks, and said, “Good-bye!”
“These condottieri rascals have been troublesome fellows in all ages,” said Maitland, as he smoked away alone; “and I suspect they are especially unsuited to our present-day life and its habits. I must rid myself of the Major.”