“You will please to write your name there, sir,” said a clerk from behind a wooden railing to a fierce-looking little man in a frogged coat and a gold-banded cap, in the busy bank-room of Parodi at Genoa.
“And my qualities?” asked the other, haughtily.
“As you please, sir.”
The stranger took the pen, and wrote “Milo M'Caskey, Count of the two Sicilies, Knight of various orders, and Knight-postulate of St. John of Jerusalem, &c. &c.”
“Your Excellency has not added your address,” said the clerk, obsequiously.
“The Tuileries when in Paris, Zarkoe-Zeloe when in Russia. Usually incog, in England, I reside in a cottage near Osborne. When at this side of the Alps, wherever be the royal residence of the Sovereign in the city I chance to be in.” He turned to retire, and then, suddenly wheeling round, said, “Forward any letters that may come for me to my relative, who is now at the Trombetta, Turin.”
“Your Excellency has forgotten to mention his name.”
“So I have,” said he, with a careless laugh. “It is somewhat new to me to be in a town where I am unknown. Address my letters to the care of his Highness the Duke of Lauenburg-Gluckstein;” and with a little gesture of his hand to imply that he did not exact any royal honors at his departure, he strutted out of the bank and down the street.
Few met or passed without turning to remark him, such was the contrast between his stature and his gait; for while considerably below the middle size, there was an insolent pretension in his swagger, a defiant impertinence in the stare of his fiery eyes, that seemed to seek a quarrel with each that looked at him. His was indeed that sense of overflowing prosperity that, if it occasionally inclines the right-minded to a feeling of gratitude and thankfulness, is just as certain to impel the men of a different stamp to feats of aggressiveness and insolence. Such was indeed his mood, and he would have hailed as the best boon of Fate the occasion for a quarrel and a duel.
The contempt he felt for the busy world that moved by, too deep in its own cares to interpret the defiance he threw around him, so elevated him that he swaggered along as if the flagway were all his own.
Was he not triumphant? What had not gone well with him? Gold in his pocket, success in a personal combat with a man so highly placed that it was a distinction to him for life to have encountered; the very peremptory order he received to quit Naples at once, was a recognition of his importance that actually overwhelmed him with delight; and he saw in the vista before him, the time when men would stop at the windows of printshops to gaze on the features of “Le fameux M'Caskey.”
There was something glorious in his self-conceit, for there was nothing he would not dare to achieve that estimation which he had already conceived of his own abilities. At the time I now speak of, there was a momentary lull in the storm of Italian politics caused by Count Cavour's crafty negotiations with the Neapolitan Government,—negotiations solely devised to induce that false sense of security which was to end in downfall and ruin. Whether M'Caskey had any forebodings of what was to come or not, he knew well that it was not the moment for men like himself to be needed. “When the day of action comes, will come the question, 'Where is M'Caskey?' Meanwhile I will be off to Baden. I feel as though I ought to break the bank.”
To Baden he went. How many are there who can recall that bustling, pretentious, over-dressed little fellow, who astonished the pistol-gallery by his shooting, and drove the poormaître d'armesto the verge of despair by his skill with the rapier, and then swaggered into the play-room to take the first chair he pleased, only too happy if he could provoke any to resent it. How he frowned down the men and ogled the women; smiling blandly at the beauties that passed, as though in recognition of charms their owners might well feel proud of, for they had captivated a M'Caskey!
How sumptuous, too, his dinner; how rare and curious his wines; how obsequious were they who waited on him; what peril impended over the man that asked to be served before him!
Strong men,—men in all the vigor of their youth and strength,—men of honor and men of tried courage, passed and repassed, looked at, but never dreamed of provoking him. Absurd as he was in dress, ridiculous in his overweening pretension, not one ventured on the open sneer at what each in his secret heart despised for its vulgar insolence. And what a testimony to pluck was there in all this! for to what other quality in such a man's nature had the world consented to have paid homage?
Not one of those who made way for him would have stooped to know him. There was not a man of those who controlled his gravity to respect a degree of absurdity actually laughable, who would have accepted his acquaintance at any price; and yet, for all that, he moved amongst them there, exacting every deference that was accorded to the highest, and undeniably inferior to none about him.
What becomes of the cant that classes the courage of men with the instincts of the lowest brutes in presence of a fact like this? or must we not frankly own that in the respect paid to personal daring we read the avowal that, however constituted men may be, courage is a quality that all must reverence?
Not meeting with the resistance he had half hoped for, denied none of the claims he preferred, M'Caskey became bland and courteous. He vouchsafed a nod to the croupier at the play-table, and manifested, by a graceful gesture as he took his seat, that the company need not rise as he deigned to join them..
In little more than a week after his arrival he had become famous; he was splendid, too, in his largesses to waiters and lackeys; and it is a problem that might be somewhat of a puzzle to resolve, how far the sentiments of the very lowest class can permeate the rank above them, and make themselves felt in the very highest; for this very estimation, thus originating, grew at last to be at least partially entertained by others of a very superior station. It was then that men discussed with each other who was this strange Count,—of what nation? Five modern languages had he been heard to talk in, without a flaw even of accent. What country he served? Whence and what his resources? It was when newspaper correspondents began vaguely to hint at an interesting stranger, whose skill in every weapon was only equalled by his success at play, &c, that he disappeared as suddenly as he had come, but not without leaving ample matter for wonder in the telegraphic despatch he sent off a few hours before starting, and which, in some form more or less garbled, was currently talked of in society. It was addressed to M. Mocquard, Tuileries, Paris, and in these words: “Tell E. I shall meet him at the Compiègne on Saturday.”
Could anything be more delightfully intimate? While the crafty idlers of Baden were puzzling their heads as to who he might be who could thus write to an imperial secretary, the writer was travelling at all speed through Switzerland, but so totally disguised in appearance that not even the eye of a detective could have discovered in the dark-haired, black-bearded, and sedate-looking Colonel Chamberlayne the fiery-faced and irascible Count M'Caskey.
A very brief telegram in a cipher well known to him was the cause of his sudden departure. It ran thus: “Wanted at Chambéry in all haste.” And at Chambéry, at the Golden Lamb, did he arrive with a speed which few save himself knew how to compass. Scarcely had he entered the arched doorway of the inn, than a traveller, preceded by his luggage, met him. They bowed, as people do who encounter in a passage, but without acquaintance; and yet in that brief courtesy the stranger had time to slip a letter into M'Cas-key's hand, who passed in with all the ease and unconcern imaginable. Having ordered dinner, he went to his room to dress, and then, locking his door, he read:—
“The Cabinet courier of the English Government will pass Chambéry on the night of Saturday the 18th, or on the morning of Sunday the 19th. He will be the bearer of three despatch-bags, two large and one small one, bearing the letters F. O. and the number 18 on it. You are to possess yourself of this, if possible—the larger bags are not required. If you succeed, make for Naples by whatever route you deem best and speediest, bearing in mind that the loss may possibly be known at Turin within a brief space.
“If the contents be as suspected, and all goes well, you are a made man.
“C. C.”
M'Caskey read this over three several times, dwelling each time on the same places, and then he arose and walked leisurely up and down the room. He then took out his guide-book and saw that a train started for St. Jean de Maurienne at six, arriving at eight,—a short train, not in correspondence with any other; and as the railroad ended there, the remainder of the journey, including the passage of Mont Cenis, must be performed by carriage. Of course, it was in this short interval the feat must be accomplished, if at all.
The waiter announced “his Excellency's” dinner while he thus cogitated, and he descended and dined heartily; he even ordered a bottle of very rare chambertin, which stood at eighteen francs in thecarte. He sipped his wine at his ease; he had full an hour before the train started, and he had time for reflection as well as enjoyment.
“You are to possess yourself of this,” muttered he, reading from a turned-down part of the note. “Had you been writing to any other man in Europe, Signor Conte Caffarelli, you would have been profuse enough of your directions; you would have said, 'You are to shoot this fellow; you are to waylay him; you are to have him attacked and come to his rescue,' and a-score more of such-like contrivances; but—to me—to me—there was none of this. It was just as Buonaparte said to Desaix at Marengo, 'Ride through the centre,'—he never added how. A made man! I should think so! The man has been made some years since, sir. Another bottle, waiter, and mind that it be not shaken. Who was it—I can't remember—stopped a Russian courier with despatches for Constantinople? Ay, to be sure, it was Long Wellesley; he told me the story himself. It was a clumsy trick, too; he upset his sledge in the snow, and made off with the bags, and got great credit for the feat at home.”
“The train will start in a quarter of an hour, sir,” said the waiter.
“Not if I am not ready, my good fellow,” said the Major,—“though now I see nothing to detain me, and I will go.”
Alone in his first-class, he had leisure to think over his plans. Much depended on who might be the courier. He knew most of them well, and speculated on the peculiar traits of this or that. “If it be Bromley, he will have his owncalèche; Airlie will be for the cheap thing, and take the diligence; and Poynder will be on the look-out for some one to join him, and pay half the post-horses and all the postilions. There are half a dozen more of these fellows on this 'dodge,' but I defy the craftiest of them to know me now;” and he took out a little pocket-glass, and gazed complacently at his features. “Colonel Moore Chamberlayne, A.D.C., on his way to Corfu, with despatches for the Lord High Commissioner. A very soldierlike fellow, too,” added he, arranging his whiskers, “but, I shrewdly suspect, a bit of a Tartar. Yes, that's the ticket,” added he, with a smile at his image in the glass,—“despatches of great importance for Storks at Corfu.”
Arrived at St Jean, he learned that the mail train from France did not arrive until 11.20, ample time for all his arrangements. He also learned that the last English messenger had left hiscalècheat Susa, and, except one light carriage with room for only two, there was nothing on that side of the mountain but the diligence. This conveyance he at once secured, ordering the postilion to be in the saddle and ready to start, if necessary, when the mail train came in. “It is just possible,” said he, “that the friend I am expecting may not arrive, in which case I shall await the next train; but if he comes you must drive your best, my man, for I shall want to catch the first train for Susa in the morning.” Saying this, he retired to his room, where he had many things to do,—so many, indeed, that he had but just completed them when the shriek of the engine announced that the train was coming; the minute after, the long line dashed into the station and came to a stand.
As the train glided smoothly into the station, M'Caskey passed down the platform, peering into each carriage as if in search of an unexpected friend. “Not come,” muttered he, in a voice of displeasure, loud enough to be heard by the solitary first-class passenger, who soon after emerged with some enormous bags of white linen massively sealed, and bearing addresses in parchment.
“I beg pardon,” said M'Caskey, approaching and touching his hat in salute. “Are you with despatches?”
“Yes,” said the other, in some astonishment at the question.
“Have you a bag forme?” and then suddenly correcting himself with a little smile at the error of his supposing he must be universally known, added, “I mean for the Hon. Colonel Chamberlayne.”
“I have nothing that is not addressed to a legation,” said the other, trying to pass on.
“Strange! they said I should receive some further instructions by the first messenger. Sorry to have detained you,—good-evening.”
The young man—for he was young—was already too deep in an attempt to inquire in French after a carriage, to hear the last words, and continued to ask various inattentive bystanders certain questions about acalèchethat ought to have been left by somebody in somebody's care for the use of somebody else.
“Is it true, can you tell me?” said he, running after M'Caskey. “They say that there is no conveyance here over the mountain except the diligence.”
“I believe it is quite true,” said the “Colonel,” gravely.
“And they say, too, that the diligence never, at this season, arrives in time to catch the early train at—I forget the place.”
“At Susa?”
“Yes, that's it.”
“They are perfectly correct in all that; and knowing it so well, and as my despatches are urgent, I sent on my own light carriage here from Geneva.”
“And have you despatches too?” asked the other, whom we may as well announce to the reader as Tony Butler. “Have you despatches too?” cried he, in great delight at meeting something like a colleague.
“Yes; I take out orders for the Lord High Commissioner to Corfu. I am the head of the Staff there.”
Tony bowed in recognition of the announced rank, and said quietly: “My name is Butler. I am rather new to this sort of thing, and never crossed the Alps in my life.”
“I 'll give you a lift, then, for I have a spare place. My servant has gone round with my heavy baggage by Trieste, and I have a seat to spare.”
“This is most kind of you, but I scarcely dare put you to such inconvenience.”
“Don't talk of that. We are all in the same boat. It 's my luck to have this offer to-day; it will be yours tomorrow. What 's your destination?”
“First Turin, then Naples; but I believe I shall have no delay at Turin, and the Naples bags are the most urgent ones.”
“Is there anything going on down there, then?” asked M'Caskey, carelessly.
“I suspect there must be, for three of our fellows have been sent there,—I am the fourth within a fortnight.”
“A country that never interested me. Take a cigar. Are you ready, or do you want to eat something?”
“No, I am quite ready, and only anxious not to be late for this first train. The fact is, it's all a new sort of life to me, and as I am a wretchedly bad Frenchman, I don't get on too well.”
“The great secret is, be peremptory, never listen to excuses, tolerate no explanations. That's my plan. I pay liberally, but I insist on having what I want.”
They were now seated, and dashing along at all the speed and with all the noise of four wiry posters, and M'Caskey went on to describe how, with that system of united despotism and munificence, he had travelled over the whole globe with success. As for the anecdotes he told, they embraced every land and sea; and there was scarcely an event of momentous importance of the last quarter of a century of which he had not some curious private details. He was the first man to discover the plans of Russia on the Pruth. It was he found out Louis Philippe's intrigue about the Spanish marriages. “If you feel interest in this sort of thing,” said he, carelessly, “just tell the fellows at home to show you the blue-book with Chamberlayne's correspondence. It is private and confidential; but, as a friend of mine, you can see it” And what generosity of character he had! he had let Seymour carry off all the credit of that detection of Russia. “To be sure,” added he, “one can't forget old times, and Seymour was my fag at Eton.” It was he, too, counselled Lord Elgin to send off the troops from China to Calcutta to assist in repressing the mutiny. “Elgin hesitated; he could n't make up his mind; he thought this at one moment and that the next; and he sent for me at last, and said, 'George, I want a bit of advice from you.' 'I know what you mean,' said I, stopping him; 'send every man of them,—don't hold back a drummer.' I will say,” he added, “he had the honesty to own from whom he got that counsel, and he was greatly provoked when he found I could not be included in the vote of thanks of the House. 'Confound their etiquette,' said he; 'it is due to George, and he ought to have it.' You don't know why I 'm in such haste to Corfu now?”
“I have not the faintest notion.”
“I will tell you: first, because a man can always trust a gentleman; secondly, it will be matter of table-talk by the time you get back. The Tories are in need of the Radicals, and to buy their support intend to offer the throne of Greece, which will be vacant whenever we like, to Richard Cobden.”
“How strange! and would he accept it?”
“Some say no;Isay yes; and Louis Napoleon, who knows men thoroughly, agrees with me. 'Mon cher Cham,'—he always called me Cham,—'talk as people will, it is a very pleasant thing to sit on a throne, and it goes far towards one's enjoyment of life to have so many people employed all day long to make it agreeable.'” If Tony thought at times that his friend was a little vainglorious, he ascribed it to the fact that any man so intimate with the great people of the world, talking of them as his ordinary every-day acquaintances, might reasonably appear such to one as much removed from all such intercourse as he himself was. That the man who could say, “Nesselrode, don't tell me,” or “Rechberg, my good fellow, you are in error there!” should be now sitting beside him, sharing his sandwich with him, and giving him to drink from his sherry-flask; was not that glory enough to turn a stronger head than poor Tony's? Ah, my good reader, I know well thatyouwould not have been caught by such blandishments. You have “seen men and cities.” You have been at courts, dined beside royalties, and been smiled on by serene highnesses; but Tony has not had your training; he has had none of these experiences; he has heard of great names just as he has heard of great victories. The illustrious people of the earth are no more within the reach of his estimation than are the jewels of a Mogul's turban; but it is all the more fascinating to him to sit beside one who “knows it all.”
Little wonder, then, if time sped rapidly, and that he never knew weariness. Let him start what theme he might, speak of what land, what event, what person he pleased, the Colonel was ready for him. It was marvellous, indeed,—so very marvellous that to a suspicious mind it might have occasioned distrust,—with how many great men he had been at school, what shoals of distinguished fellows he had served with. With a subtle flattery, too, he let drop the remark that he was not usually given to be so frank and communicative. “The fact is,” said he, “young men are, for the most part, bad listeners to the experiences of men of my age; they fancy that they know life as well, if not better, than ourselves, and that our views are those of 'bygones.'You, however, showed none of this spirit; you were willing to hear and to learn from one of whom it would be false modesty were I not to say, Few know more of men and their doings.”
Now Tony liked this appreciation of him, and he said to himself, “Heisa clever fellow,—not a doubt of it; he never saw me till this evening, and yet he knows me thoroughly well.” Seeing how the Colonel had met with everybody, he resolved he would get from him his opinion of some of his own friends, and, to lead the way, asked if he was acquainted with the members of the English Legation at Turin.'
“I know Bathurst,—wewereintimate,” said he; “but we once were in love with the same woman,—the mother of an empress she is now,—and as I rather 'cut him out,' a coldness ensued, and somehow we never resumed our old footing. As for Croker, the Secretary, it was I got him that place.”
“And Damer,—Skeff Damer,—do you know him?”
“I should think I do. I was his godfather.”
“He's the greatest friend I have in the world!” cried Tony, in ecstasy at this happy accident.
“I made him drop Chamberlayne. It was his second name, and I was vain enough to be annoyed that it was not his first. Is he here now?”
“Yes, he is attached to the Legation, and sometimes here, sometimes at Naples.”
“Then we 'll make him give us a dinner to-day, for I shall refuse Bathurst: he is sure to ask me; but you will tell Darner that we are both engaged tohim.”
Tony only needed to learn the tie that bound his newly made acquaintance with his dearest friend, to launch freely out about himself and his new fortunes; he told all about the hard usage his father had met with,—the services he had rendered his country in India and elsewhere, and the ungenerous requital he had met for them all. “That is why you see me here a messenger, instead of being a soldier, like all my family for seven generations back. I won't say I like it,—that would n't be true; but I do it because it happens to be one of the few things Icando.”
“That's a mistake, sir,” said the Colonel, fiercely; “a mistake thousands fall into every day. A man can make of life whatever he likes, if only—mark me well—if only his will be strong enough.”
“If wishing would do it—”
“Hold! I'm not talking of wishing; schoolboys wish, pale-cheeked freshmen at college, goggle-eyed ensigns in marching regiments wish. Men, real men, do not wish; they will,—that's all the difference. Strong men make a promise to themselves early in life, and they feel it a point of honor to keep it. As Rose said one day in the club at Calcutta, speaking of me, 'He has got the Bath, just because he said he would get it.'”
“The theory is a very pleasant one.”
“You can make the practice just as pleasant, if you like it. Whenever you take your next leave,—they give you leave, don't they?”
“Yes, three months; we might have more, I believe, if we asked for it.”
“Well, come and spend your next leave with me at Corfu. You shall have some good shooting over in Albania, plenty of mess society, pleasant yachting, and you 'll like our old Lord High; he's stiff and cold at first, but, introduced by me, you 'll be at once amongst the 'most favored nations.'”
“I can't thank you enough for so kind a proposal,” began Tony; but the other stopped him with, “Don't thank me, but help me to take care of this bag. It contains the whole fate of the Levant in its inside. Those sacks of yours,—I suppose you know what they have for contents?”
“No; I have no idea what's in them.”
“Old blue-books and newspapers, nothing else; they 're all make-believes,—a farce to keep up the notion that great activity prevails at the Foreign Office, and to fill up that paragraph in the newspapers, 'Despatches were yesterday sent off to the Lord High Commissioner of the Bahamas,' or 'Her Majesty's Minister at Otaheite.' Here we are at the rail now,—that's Susa. Be alive, for I see the smoke, and the steam must be up.”
They were just in time; the train was actually in motion when they got in, and, as the Colonel, who kept up a rapid conversation with the station-master, informed Tony, nothing would have induced them to delay but having seen himself. “They knew me,” said he; “they remembered my coming down here last autumn with the Prince de Carignan and Cavour.” And once more had Tony to thank his stars for having fallen into such companionship.
As they glided along towards Turin, the Colonel told Tony that if he found the “Weazle” gunboat at Genoa, as he expected, waiting for him, he would set him, Tony, and his despatches, down safely at Naples, as he passed on to Malta. “If it 's the 'Growler,'” said he, “I 'll not promise you, because Hurton the commander is not in good-humor with me. I refused to recommend him the other day to the First Lord for promotion—say nothing about this to the fellows at the Legation; indeed, don't mention anything about me, except to Damer—for the dinner, you know.”
“I suppose I ought to go straight to the Legation at once?” said Tony, as they entered Turin; “my orders are to deliver the bags before anything else.”
“Certainly; let us drive there straight,—there's nothing like doing things regularly; I 'm a martinet about all duty;” and so they drove to the Legation, where Tony, throwing one large sack to the porter, shouldered the other himself, and passed in.
“Holloa!” cried the Colonel; “I 'll give you ten minutes, and if you 're not down by that time, I 'll go off and order breakfast at the inn.”
“All right,” said Tony; “this fellow says that Darner is at Naples.”
“I knew that,” muttered the Colonel to himself; and then added aloud, “Be alive and come down as quick as you can,”—he looked at his watch as he spoke; it wanted five minutes to eight,—“at five minutes past eight the train should start for Genoa.”
He seized the small despatch-bag in his hand, and, telling the cabman to drive to the Hotel Feder and wait for him there, he made straight for the railroad. He was just in the nick; and while Tony was impatiently pacing an anteroom of the Legation, the other was already some miles on the way to Genoa.
At last a very sleepy-looking attaché, in a dressing-gown and slippers, made his appearance. “Nothing but these?” said he, yawning and pointing to the great sacks.
“No; nothing else for Turin.”
“Then why the——did you knock me up,—when it's only a shower-bath and Greydon's boot-trees?”
“How the——did I know what was in them?” said
Tony, as angrily.
“You must be precious green, then. When were you made?”
“When was I made?”
“Yes; when were you named a messenger?”
“Some time in spring.”
“I thought you must be an infant, or you 'd know that it's only the small bags are of any consequence.”
“Have you anything more to say? I want to get a bath and my breakfast”
“I 've a lot more to say, and I shall have to tell Sir Joseph you 're here! and I shall have to sign your time bill, and to see if we have n't got something for Naples. You 're for Naples, ain't you? And I want to send Darner some cigars and a pot of caviare that's been here these two months, and that he must have smelled from Naples.”
“Then be hasty, for heaven's sake, for I'm starving.”
“You're starving! How strange, and it's only eight o'clock! Why, we don't breakfast here till one, and I rarely eat anything.”
“So much the worse for you,” said Tony, gruffly. “My appetite is excellent, if I only had a chance to gratify it.”
“What's the news in town,—is there anything stirring?”
“Not thatIknow.”
“Has Lumley engaged Teresina again?”
“Never heard of her.”
“He ought; tell himIsaid so. She's fifty times better than La Gradina. Ourchefhere,” added he, in a whisper, “says she has better legs than Pochini.”
“I am charmed to hear it. Would you just tell him that mine are getting very tired here?”
“Will Lawson pay that handicap to George Hobart?”
Tony shook his head to imply total ignorance of all concerned.
“He needn't, you know; at least, Saville Harris refused to book up to Whitemare on exactly the same grounds. It was just this way: here was the winning-post—no, here; that seal there was the grand stand; when the mare came up, she was second. I don't think you care for racing, eh?”
“A steeple-chase; yes, particularly when I'm a rider. But what I care most for just now is a plunge into cold water and a good breakfast.”
There was something actually touching in the commiserating look the attaché gave Tony as he turned away and left the room. What was the public service to come to if these were the fellows to be named as messengers?
In a very few minutes he was back again in the room. “Where's Naples?” asked he, curtly.
“Where's Naples? Where it always was, I suppose,” said Tony, doggedly,—“in the Gulf of that name.”
“I mean the bag,—the Naples bag: it is under flying seal, and Sir Joseph wants to see the despatches.”
“Oh, that is below in the cab. I 'll go down and fetch it;” and without waiting for more, he hastened downstairs. The cab was gone. “Naturally enough,” thought Tony, “he got tired waiting; he's off to order breakfast.”
He hurried upstairs again to report that a friend with whom he travelled had just driven away to the hotel with all the baggage.
“And the bags?” cried the other, in a sort of horror.
“Yes, the bags, of course; but I 'll go after him. What 's the chief hotel called?”
“The Trombetta.”
“I don't think that was the name.”
“The Czar de Russie?”
“No, nor that”
“Perhaps Feder?”
“Yes, that's it. Just send some one to show me the way, and I 'll be back immediately. I suspect my unlucky breakfast must be prorogued to luncheon-time.”
“Not a bit of it!” cried a fine, fresh-looking, handsome man, who entered the room with a riding-whip in his hand; “come in and take share of mine.”
“He has to go over to Feder's for the bags, Sir Joseph,” whispered the attaché, submissively.
“Send the porter,—send Jasper,—send any one you like. Come along,” said he, drawing his arm within Tony's. “You 've not been in Italy before, and your first impression ought to be favorable; so I 'll introduce you to a Mont Cenis trout.”
“And I 'll profit by the acquaintance,” said Tony. “I have the appetite of a wolf.”
If Tony Butler took no note of time as he sat at breakfast with Sir Joseph, he was only sharing the fortune of every man who ever found himself in that companionship. From one end of Europe to the other his equal could not be found. It was not alone that he had stores of conversation for the highest capacities and the most cultivated minds, but he possessed that thorough knowledge of life so interesting to men of the world, and with it that insight into character which is so often the key to the mystery of statecraft; and with all these he had a geniality and a winning, grace of look, voice, and demeanor that sent one from his presence with the thought that if the world could but compass a few more like him, one would not change the planet for the brightest in the firmament. Breakfast over, they smoked; then they had a game at billiards; after that they strolled into the garden, and had some pistol-firing. Here Tony acquitted himself creditably, and rose in his host's esteem; for the minister liked a man who could do anything—no matter what—very well. Tony, too, gained on him. His own fine joyous nature understood at once the high-hearted spirit of a young fellow who bad no affectations about him, thoroughly at his ease without presumption; and yet, through that gentleman element so strong in him, never transgressing the limits of a freedom so handsomely accorded him.
While the hours rolled over thus delightfully, a messenger returned to say that he had been at each of the great hotels, but could find no trace of Colonel Chamberlayne, nor of the missing bags.
“Send Moorcap,” said the minister. Moorcap was away two hours, and came back with the same story.
“I suspect how it is,” said Tony. “Chamberlayne has been obliged to start suddenly, and has carried off my bags with his own; but when he discovers his mistake, he 'll drop them at Naples.”
Sir Joseph smiled,—perhaps he did not think the explanation very satisfactory; and perhaps,—who knows?—but he thought that the loss of a despatch-bag was not amongst the heaviest of human calamities. “At all events,” he said, “we'll give you an early dinner, Butler, and you can start by the late train to Genoa, and catch the morning steamer to Naples.”
Tony asked no better; and I am afraid to have to confess that he engaged at a game of “pool” with all the zest of one who carried no weighty care on his breast.
When the time for leave-taking came, Sir Joseph shook his hand with cordial warmth, telling him to be sure to dine with him as he came through Turin. “Hang up your hat here, Butler; and if I should be from home, tell them that you are come to dinner.”
Very simple words these. They cost little to him who spoke them, but what a joy and happiness to poor Tony! Oh, ye gentlemen of high place and station, if you but knew how your slightest words of kindness—your two or three syllables of encouragement—give warmth and glow and vigor to many a poor wayfarer on life's high-road, imparting a sense not alone of hope, but of self-esteem, to a nature too distrustful of itself, mayhap you might be less chary of that which, costing you so little, is wealth unspeakable to him it is bestowed upon. Tony went on his way rejoicing; he left that threshold, as many others had left it, thinking far better of the world and its people, and without knowing it, very proud of the notice of one whose favor he felt to be fame. “Ah,” thought he, “if Alice had but heard how that great man spoke to me,—if Alice only saw how familiarly he treated me,—it might show her, perhaps, that others at least can see in me some qualities not altogether hopeless.”
If, now and then, some thought of that “unlucky bag”—so he called it to himself—would invade, he dismissed it speedily, with the assurance that it had already safely reached its destination, and that the Colonel and Skeffy had doubtless indulged in many a hearty laugh over his embarrassment at its loss. “If they knew but all,” muttered he; “I take it very coolly. I 'm not breaking my heart over the disaster.” And so far he was right,—not, however, from the philosophical indifference that he imagined, but simply because he never believed in the calamity, nor had realized it to himself.
When he landed at Naples, he drove off at once to the lodgings of his friend Darner, which, though at a considerable height from the ground, in a house of the St. Lucia Quarter, he found were dignified with the title of British Legation; a written notice on the door informed all the readers that “H. R. M.'s Chargé d'Affaires transacted business from twelve to four every day.” It was two o'clock when Tony arrived, and, notwithstanding the aforesaid announcement, he had to ring three times before the door was opened. At length a sleepy-looking valet appeared to say that “His Excellency”—he styled him so—was in his bath, and could not be seen in less than an hour. Tony sent in his name, and speedily received for answer that he would find a letter addressed to him in the rack over the chimney, and Mr. Darner would be dressed and with him by the time he had read it.
Poor Tony's eyes swam with tears as he saw his mother's handwriting, and he tore open the sheet with hot impatience. It was very short, as were all her letters, and so we give it entire:—
“My own darling Tony,—Your beautiful present reached me yesterday, and what shall I say to my poor reckless boy for such an act of extravagance? Surely, Tony, it was made for a queen, and not for a poor widow that sits the day long mending her stockings at the window. But ain't I proud of it, and of him that sent it! Heaven knows what it has cost you, my dear boy, for even the carriage here from London, by the Royal Parcel Company, Limited, came to thirty-two and fourpence. Why they call themselves 'Limited' after that, is clean beyond my comprehension. [If Tony smiled here, it was with a hot and flushed cheek, for he had forgotten to prepay the whole carriage, and he was vexed at his thoughtlessness.]
“As to my wearing it going to meeting, as you say, it's quite impossible. The thought of its getting wet would be a snare to take my mind off the blessed words of the minister; and I 'm not sure, my dear Tony, that any congregation could sit profitably within sight of what—not knowing the love that sent it—would seem like a temptation and a vanity before men. Sables, indeed, real Russian sables, appear a strange covering for these old shoulders.
“It was about two hours after it came that Mrs. Trafford called in to see me, and Jeanie would have it that I'd go into the room with my grand new cloak on me; and sure enough I did, Tony, trying all the while not to seem as if it was anything strange or uncommon, but just the sort of wrapper I 'd throw round me of a cold morning. But it would n't do, my dear Tony. I was half afraid to sit down on it, and I kept turning out the purple-satin lining so often that Mrs. Trafford said at last, 'Will you forgive my admiration of your cloak, Mrs. Butler, but I never saw one so beautiful before;' and then I told her who it was that sent it; and she got very red and then very pale, and then walked to the window, and said something about a shower that was threatening; though, sooth to say, Tony, the only threat of rain I could see was in her own blue eyes. But she turned about gayly and said, 'We are going away, Mrs. Butler,—going abroad;' and before I could ask why or where, she told me in a hurried sort of way that her sister Isabella had been ordered to pass a winter in some warm climate, and that they were going to try Italy. She said it all in a strange quick voice, as if she did n't like to talk of it, and wanted it over; but she grew quite herself again when she said that the gardener would take care that my flowers came regularly, and that Sir Arthur and Lady Lyle would be more than gratified if I would send up for anything I liked out of the garden. 'Don't forget that the melons were all of Tony's sowing, Mrs. Butler,' said she, smiling; and I could have kissed her for the way she said it.
“There were many other kind things she said, and in a way, too, that made them more than kind; so that when she went away, I sat thinking if it was not a temptation to meet a nature like hers,—so sweet, so lovely, and yet so worldly; for in all she spoke, Tony, there was never a word dropped of what sinful creatures we are, and what a thorny path it is that leads us to the better life before us.
“I was full of her visit, and everything she said, when Dr. Stewart dropped in to say that they had been down again at the Burnside to try and get him to let Dolly go abroad with them. 'I never liked the notion, Mrs. Butler,' he said; 'but I was swayed here and swayed there by my thoughts for the lass, what was best for her body's health, and that other health that is of far more value; when there came a letter to me,—it was anonymous,—saying, “Before you suffer your good and virtuous daughter to go away to a foreign land, just ask the lady that is to protect her if she still keeps up the habit of moonlight walks in a garden with a gentleman for her companion, and if that be the sort of teaching she means to inculcate.” Mrs. Trafford came to the door as I was reading the letter, and I said, “What can you make of such a letter as this?” and as she read it her cheek grew purple, and she said, “There is an end of our proposal, Dr. Stewart. Tell your daughter I shall importune her no more; but this letter I mean to keep: it is in a hand I know well.” And she went back to the carriage without another word; and tomorrow they leave the Abbey, some say not to come back again.'
“I cried the night through after the doctor went away, for what a world it is of sin and misery; not that I will believe wrong of her, sweet and beautiful as she is, but what for was she angry? and why did she show that this letter could give her such pain? And now, my dear Tony, since it could be no other than yourself she walked alone with, is it not your duty to write to the doctor and tell him so? The pure heart fears not the light, neither are the good of conscience afraid. That she is above your hope is no reason that she is above your love. That I was your father's wife may show that Above all, Tony, think that a Gospel minister should not harbor an evil thought of one who does not deserve it, and whose mightiest sin is perchance the pride that scorns a self-defence.
“The poor doctor is greatly afflicted: he is sorry now that he showed the letter, and Dolly cries over it night and day.
“Is it not a strange thing that Captain Graham's daughters, that never were used to come here, are calling at the Burnside two or three times a week?
“Write to me, my dear Tony, and if you think well of what I said, write to the doctor also, and believe me your ever loving mother,
“Eleanor Butler.
“Dolly Stewart has recovered her health again, but not her spirits. She rarely comes to see me, but I half suspect that her reason is her dislike to show me the depression that is weighing over her. So is it, dear Tony, go where you will; there is no heart without its weary load, no spirit without that touch of sorrow that should teach submission. Reflect well over this, dear boy; and never forget that though at times we put off our troubles as a wayfarer lays down his pack, we must just strap on the load again when we take to the road, for it is a burden we have to bear to the journey's end.”
Not all the moral reflections of this note saved it from being crushed passionately in his hand as he finished reading it. That walk, that moonlight walk, with whom could it have been? with whom but Maitland? And it was by her—by her that his whole heart was filled,—her image, her voice, her gait, her smile, her faintest whisper, that made up the world in which he lived. Who could love her ashedid? Others would have their hopes and ambitions, their dreams of worldly success, and such like; but he,—he asked none of these;herheart was all he strove for. With her he would meet any fortune. He knew she was above him in every way,—as much by every gift and grace as by every accident of station; but what did that signify? The ardor of his love glowed only the stronger for the difficulty,—just as his courage would have mounted the higher, the more hazardous the feat that dared it. These were his reasonings,—or rather some shadowy shapes of these flitted through his mind.
And was it now all over? Was the star that had guided him so long to be eclipsed from him? Was he never again to ask himself in a moment of difficulty or doubt, What will Alice say?—what will Alice think? As for the scandalous tongues that dared to asperse her, he scorned them; and he was indignant with the old minister for not making that very letter itself the reason of accepting a proposal he had been until then averse to. He should have said, “Nowthere can be no hesitation,—Dolly must go with younow.” It was just as his musings got thus far that Skeffy rushed into the room and seized him by both hands.
“Ain't I glad to see your great sulky face again? Sit down and tell me everything—how you came—when——how long you 're to stay—and what brought you here.”
“I came with despatches,—that is, I ought to have had them.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that some of the bags I left at Tarin; and one small fellow, which I take to have been the cream of the correspondence, Chamberlayne carried on here,—at least I hope so. Have n't you got it?”
“What infernal muddle are your brains in? Who is Chamberlayne?”
“Come, come, Skeffy, I 'm not in a joking mood;” and he glanced at the letter in his hand as he spoke. “Don't worry me, old fellow, but say that you have got the bag all right.”
“But I have not, I never saw it,—never heard of it.”
“And has the Colonel not been here?”
“Who is the Colonel?”
“Chamberlayne.”
“And who is Chamberlayne.”
“Thatiscool, certainly; I think a man might acknowledge his godfather.”
“Whose godfather is he?”
“Yours,—your own. Perhaps you 'll deny that you were christened after him, and called Chamberlayne?”
Skeffy threw up his embroidered cap in the air at these words, and, flinging himself on a sofa, actually screamed with laughter. “Tony,” cried he at last, “this will immortalize you. Of all the exploits performed by messengers, this one takes the van.”
“Look here, Damer,” said Tony, sternly; “I have told you already I 'm in no laughing humor. I 've had enough here to take the jollity out of me”—and he shook the letter in his hand—“for many a day to come; so that whatever you have to say to me, bear in mind that you say it to one little disposed to good-humor. Is it true that you have not received these despatches?”
“Perfectly true.”
“Then how are we to trace him? His name is Colonel Moore Chamberlayne, aide-de-camp to the Lord High Commissioner, Corfu.”
Skeffy bit his lip, and by a great effort succeeded in repressing the rising temptation to another scream of laughter, and, taking down a bulky red-covered volume from a shelf, began to turn over its pages. “There,” said he at last,—“there is the Whole staff at Corfu: Hailes, Winchester, Corbett, and Ainslie. No Chamberlayne amongst them.”
Tony stared at the page in hopeless bewilderment. “What do you know of him? Who introduced you to each other? Where did you meet?” asked Skeffy.
“We met at the foot of the Mont Cenis, where, seeing that I had despatches, and no means to get forward, he offered me a seat in his calèche. I accepted gladly, and we got on capitally; he was immense fun; he knew everybody, and had been everywhere; and when he told me that he was your godfather—”
“Stop, stop! for the love of Heaven, will you stop, or you 'll kill me!” cried Skeffy; and, throwing himself on his back on the sofa, he flung his legs into the air, and yelled aloud with laughter.
“Do you know, Master Darner, I'm sorely tempted to pitch you neck and crop out of the window?” said Tony, savagely.
“Do so, do so, by all means, if you like; only let me have my laugh out, or I shall burst a blood-vessel.”
Tony made no reply, but walked up and down the room with his brow bent and his arms folded.
“And then?” cried Skeff,—“and then? What came next?”
“It is your opinion, then,” said Tony, sternly, “that this fellow was a swindler, and not on the Staff at all?”
“No more than he was my godfather!” cried Darner, wiping his eyes.
“And that the whole was a planned scheme to get hold of the despatches?”
“Of course. Filangieri knows well that we are waiting for important instructions here. There is not a man calls here who is not duly reported to him by his secret police.”
“And why did n't Sir Joseph think of that when I told him what had happened? All he said was, 'Be of good cheer, Butler; the world will go round even after the loss of a despatch-bag.'”
“So like him,” said Skeffy; “the levity of that man is the ruin of him. They all say so at the Office.”
“I don't know what they say at the Office; but I can declare that so perfect a gentleman and so fine a fellow I never met before.”
Skeffy turned to the glass over the chimney, smoothed his moustaches, and pointed their tips most artistically, smiling gracefully at himself, and seeming to say, “You and I, if we were not too modest, could tell of some one fully his equal.”
“And what's to be done,—what's to come of this?” asked Tony, after a short silence.
“I 'll have to report you, Master Tony. I 'll have to write home: 'My Lord,—The messenger Butler arrived here this morning to say that he confided your Lordship's despatches and private instructions to a most agreeable gentleman, whose acquaintance he made at St. Jean de Maurienne; and that the fascinating stranger, having apparently not mastered their contents up to the present—'”
“Go to the———”
“No, Tony, I shall not; but I think it not at all improbable that such will be the destination his Lordship will assign assistant-messenger Butler. The fact is, my boy, your career in our department is ended.”
“With all my heart! Except for that fine fellow I saw at Turin, I think I never met such a set of narrow-minded snobs.”
“Tony, Tony,” said the other, “when Moses, in the 'Vicar of Wakefield,'—and I take it he is more familiar to you than the other of that name,—was 'done' by the speculator in green spectacles, he never inveighed against those who had unfortunately confided their interests to his charge. Now, as to our department—”
“Confound the department! I wish I had never heard of it. You say it's all up with me, and of course I suppose it is; and, to tell you the truth, Skeffy, I don't think it signifies a great deal just now, except for that poor mother of mine.” Here he turned away, and wiped his eyes hurriedly. “I take it that all mothers make the same sort of blunder, and never will believe that they can have a blockhead for a son till the world has set its seal on him.”
“Take a weed, and listen to me,” said Skeffy, dictatorially, and he threw his cigar-case across the table, as he spoke. “You have contrived to make as bad adébutin your career as is well possible to conceive.”
“What's the use of telling me that? In your confounded passion for hearing yourself talk, you forget that it is not so pleasant for me to listen.”
“Prisoner at the bar,” continued Skeffy, “you have been convicted—you stand, indeed, self-convicted—of an act which, as we regard it, is one of gross ignorance, of incredible folly, or of inconceivable stupidity,—places you in a position to excite the pity of compassionate men, the scorn of those severer moralists who accept not the extenuating circumstances of youth, unacquaintance with life, and a credulity that approaches childlike—”
“You 're a confounded fool, Skeffy, to go on in this fashion when a fellow is in such a fix as I am, not to speak of other things that are harder to bear. It's a mere toss-up whether he laughs at your nonsense or pitches you over the banisters. I've been within an ace of one and the other three times in the last five minutes; and now all my leaning is towards the last of the two.”
“Don't yield to it, then, Tony. Don't, I warn you.”
“And why?”
“Because you 'd never forgive yourself, not alone for having injured a true and faithful friend, but for the far higher and more irreparable loss in having cut short the career of a man destined to be a light to Europe. I say it in no vanity,—no boastfuluess. No, on my honor! if I could—if the choice were fairly given to me, I 'd rather not be a man of mark and eminence. I 'd rather be a commonplace, tenth-rate sort of dog like yourself.”
The unaffected honesty with which he said this did for Tony what no cajolery nor flattery could have accomplished, and set him off into a roar of laughter that conquered all his spleen and ill-humor.
“Your laugh, like the laugh of the foolish, is ill-timed. You cannot see that you were introduced, not to be stigmatized, but to point a moral. You fancy yourself a creature,—you are a category; you imagine you are an individuality,—you are not; you are a fragment rent from a primeval rock.”
“I believe I ought to be as insensible as a stone to stand you. But stop all this, I say, and listen to me. I 'm not much up to writing,—but you 'll help me, I know; and what I want said is simply this: 'I have been tricked out of one of the bags by a rascal that if ever I lay hands on I 'll bring bodily before the Office at home, and make him confess the whole scheme; and I 'll either break his neck afterwards, or leave him to the law, as the Secretary of State may desire.'”
Now, poor Tony delivered this with a tone and manner that implied he thought he was dictating a very telling and able despatch. “I suppose,” added he, “I am to say that I now resign my post, and I wish the devil had me when I accepted it.”
“Not civil, certainly, to the man who gave you the appointment, Tony. Besides, when a man resigns, he has to wait for the acceptance of his resignation.”
“Oh, as for that, there need be no ceremony. They'll be even better pleased to get rid of me than I to go. They got a bad bargain; and, to do them justice, they seemed to have guessed as much from the first.”
“And then, Tony?”
“I 'll go to sea,—I 'll go before the mast; there must be many a vessel here wants a hand, and in a few weeks' practice I'll master the whole thing; my old yachting experiences have done that for me.”
“My poor Tony,” said Skeffy, rising and throwing his arms round him, “I'll not listen to it. What! when you have a home here with me, are you to go off and brave hardship and misery and degradation?”
“There's not one of the three,—I deny it. Coarse food and hard work are no misery; and I 'll be hanged if there's any degradation in earning one's bread with his hands when his head is not equal to it.”
“I tell you I 'll not suffer it. If you drive me to it, I 'll prevent it by force. I am her Majesty's Charge d'Affaires. I 'll order the consul to enroll you at his peril,—I 'll imprison the captain that takes you,—I 'll detain the ship, and put the crew in irons.”
“Before you do half of it, let me have some dinner,” said Tony, laughing, “for I came on shore very hungry, and have eaten nothing since.”
“I'll take you to my favorite restaurant, and you shall have a regular Neapolitan banquet, washed down by some old Capri. There, spell out that newspaper till I dress and if any one rings in the mean while, say his Excellency has just been sent for to Caserta by the King, and will not be back before to-morrow.” As he reached the door he put his head in again, and said, “Unless, perchance, it should be my godfather, when, of course, you 'll keep him for dinner.”