Tony Butler
The Major’s first care was to turn the key in the lock; his second was to lift up the almost lifeless figure, and place her on a sofa. As he did so, any emotion that his features betrayed was rather of displeasure than astonishment; and in the impatient way he jerked open the window to let the fresh air blow on her, there was far more of anger than surprise.
“So, then, you are the Signora Maria, it would seem,” were the first words she heard as she rallied from her swoon.
“Oh, Miles!” cried she, with an intense agony, “why have you tracked me here? Could you not have let me drag out my few years of life in peace?”
It was difficult to guess how these words affected him, or, rather, in how many different ways; for though at first his eyes flashed angrily, he soon gave a short jeering sort of laugh, and, throwing himself down into a chair, he crossed his arms on his breast and gazed steadily at her.
The look seemed to remind her of bygone suffering, for she turned her head away, and then covered her face with her hands.
“Signora Maria,” said he, slowly, – “unless, indeed, you still desire I should call you Mrs. M’Caskey.”
“No, no, – Maria,” cried she, wildly; “I am but a servant – I toil for my bread; but better that than – ” She stopped, and, after an effort to subdue her emotion, burst into tears and sobbed bitterly.
“It matters little to me, madam, what the name. The chain that ties us is just as irrevocable, whatever we choose to call ourselves. As to anything else, I do not suppose you intend to claim me as your husband.”
“No, no, never,” cried she, impetuously.
“Nor am I less generous, madam. None shall ever hear from me that you were my wife. The contract was one that brought little credit to either of us.”
“Nothing but misery and misfortune to me!” said she, bitterly; “nothing else, – nothing else!”
“You remind me, madam,” said he, in a slow, deliberate voice, as though he were enunciating some long-resolved sentiment, – “you remind me much of Josephine.”
“Who is Josephine?” asked she, quickly.
“I speak of the Empress Josephine, so you may perceive that I have sought your parallel in high places. She, like you, deemed herself the most unhappy of women, and all because destiny had linked her with a greatness that she could not measure.”
Though her vacant stare might have assured him either that she did not understand his words, or follow their meaning, never daunted, he went on.
“Yes, madam; and, like her husband, yours has had much to bear, – levity, frivolity, and – worse.”
“What are you here for? Why have you come after me?” cried she, wildly. “I swore to you before, and I swear it again, that I will never go back to you.”
“Whenever you reduce that pledge to writing, madam, call on me to be your security for its due performance; be it known to you, therefore, that this meeting was an unexpected happiness to me.”
She covered her face, and rocked to and fro like one in the throes of a deep suffering.
“I should be a glutton, madam, if I desired a repetition of such scenes as these; they filled eight years – eight mortal years – of a life not otherwise immemorable.”
“And what have they done for me?” cried she, roused almost to boldness by his taunting manner.
“Made you thinner, paler, a trifle more aged, perhaps,” said he, scanning her leisurely; “but always what Frenchmen would call a femme charmante.”
The mockery seemed more than she could bear, for she sprang to her feet, and, in a voice vibrating with passion, said, “Take care, Miles M’Caskey, – take care; there are men here, if they saw me insulted, would throw you over that sea-wall as soon as look at you.”
“Ring for your bravos, madam, – summon your condottieri at once,” said he, with an impudent laugh; “they ‘ll have some warmer work than they bargained for.”
“Oh, why not leave me in peace? – why not let me have these few years of life without more of shame and misery?” said she, throwing herself on her knees before him.
“Permit me to offer you a chair, madam,” said he, as he took her hands, and placed her on a seat; “and let me beg that we talk of something else. Who is the Count? – ‘The Onoratissimo e Pregiatissimo Signor Conte,’” for he read now from the address of a letter he had drawn from his pocket, – “‘Signor Conte d’Amalfi,’ – is that the name of the owner of this place?”
“No; it is the Chevalier Butler, formerly minister at Naples, lives here, – Sir Omerod Bramston Butler.”
“Ah, then, I perceive it is really meant for another person! I thought it was a mode of addressing him secretly. The Count of Amalfi lives here, perhaps?” “I never heard of him.” “Who lives here besides Sir Omerod?” “My Lady, – that is, the Countess; none else.” “Who is the Countess? Countess of what, and where?” “She is a Milanese; she was a Brancaleone.” “Brancaleone, Brancaleone! there were two of them. One went to Mexico with the Duke of Sommariva, – not his wife.”
“This is the other; she is married to Sir Omerod.” “She must be Virginia Brancaleone,” said M’Caskey, trying to remember, – “the same Lord Byron used to rave about.” She nodded an assent, and he continued, – “Nini Brancaleone was a toast, I remember, with Wraxall and Trelawney, and the rest of us. She was the ‘reason fair’ of many a good glass of claret which Byron gave us, in those days before he became stingy.”
“You had better keep your memories to yourself in case you meet her,” said she, warningly. “Miles M’Caskey, madam, requires very little advice or admonition in a matter that touches tact or good breeding.” A sickly smile of more than half-derision curled the woman’s lip, but she did not speak.
“And now let us come back to this Count of Amalfi, who is he? where is he?”
“I have told you already I do not know.”
“There was a time, madam, you would have required no second intimation that it was your duty to find out.”
“Ah, I remember those words but too well,” cried she, bitterly. “Finding out was my task for many a year.”
“Well, madam, it was an exercise that might have put a fine edge on your understanding, but, like some other advantages of your station, it slipped by you without profit. I am generous, madam, and I forbear to say more. Tell me of these people here all that you know of them, for they are my more immediate interest at present.”
“I will tell you everything, on the simple condition that you never speak to me nor of me again. Promise me but this, Miles M’Caskey, and I swear to you I will conceal nothing that I know of them.”
“You make hard terms, madam,” said he, with a mock courtesy. “It is no small privation to be denied the pleasure of your agreeable presence, but I comply.”
“And this shall be our last meeting?” asked she, with a look of imploring meaning.
“Alas, madam, if it must be!”
“Take care,” cried she, suddenly; “you once by your mockery drove me to – ”
“Well, madam, your memory will perhaps record what followed. I shot the friend who took up your cause. Do you chance to know of another who would like to imitate his fortune?”
“Gracious Heaven!” cried she, in an agony, “has nothing the power to change your cruel nature; or are you to be hard-hearted and merciless to the end?”
“I am proud to say, madam, that Miles M’Caskey comes of a house whose motto is ‘Semper M’Caskey’.”
A scornful curl of her lip seemed to show what respect she felt for the heraldic allusion; but she recovered herself quickly, and said, “I can stay no longer. It is the hour the Countess requires me; but I will come back to-morrow, without you would let me buy off this meeting. Yes, Miles, I am in earnest; this misery is too much for me. I have saved a little sum, and I have it by me in gold. You must be more changed than I can believe, or you will be in want of money. You shall have it all, every ducat of it, if you only pledge me your word never to molest me, – never to follow me, – never to recognize me again!”
“Madam,” said he, severely, “this menial station you have descended to must have blunted your sense of honor rudely, or you had never dared to make me such a proposal. Let me see you to-morrow, and for the last time.” And haughtily waving his hand, he motioned to her to leave; and she turned away, with her hands over her face, and quitted the room.
CHAPTER XL. THE MAJOR’S TRIALS
Major Miles M’Caskey is not a foreground figure in this our story, nor have we any reason to suppose that he possesses any attractions for our readers. When such men – and there are such to be found on life’s highway – are met with, the world usually gives them what sailors call a “wide berth and ample room to swing in,” sincerely trusting that they will soon trip their anchor and sail off again. Seeing all this, I have no pretension, nor indeed any wish, to impose his company any more than is strictly indispensable, nor dwell on his sojourn at the Molo of Montanara. Indeed, his life at that place was so monotonous and weary to himself, it would be a needless cruelty to chronicle it.
The Major, as we have once passingly seen, kept a sort of brief journal of his daily doings; and a few short extracts from this will tell us all that we need know of him. On a page of which the upper portion was torn away, we find the following: —
“Arrived at M – on the 6th at sunset. Ruined old rookery. Open at land side, and sea defences all carried away; never could have been strong against artillery. Found Mrs. M’C. in the style of waiting-woman to a Countess Butler, formerly Nini Brancaleone. A warm interview; difficult to persuade her that I was not in pursuit of herself, – a feminine delusion I tried to dissipate. She” – henceforth it is thus he always designates Mrs. M’Caskey – “she avers that she knows nothing of the Count d’ Amalfi, nor has ever seen him. Went into a long story about Sir Omerod Butler, of whom I know more myself. She pretends that Nini is married to him – legally married; don’t believe a word of it Have my own suspicions that the title of Amalfi has been conferred on B. himself, for he lives estranged from England and Englishmen. Will learn all, however, before I leave.
“Roast pigeons, with tomato, a strange fish, and omelette, with Capri to wash it down; a meagre supper, but they say it shall be better to-morrow.
“7th, Wednesday. – Slept soundly and had a swim; took a sea view of the place, but could see no one about. Capital breakfast – ‘Frutti di mare’ boiled in Rhine wine; fellow who waited said a favorite dish of his Excellency’s, meaning Sir. O. B. Best chocolate I ever tasted out of Paris. Found the menu for dinner on the table all right; the wine is au choix, and I begin with La Rose and La Veuve Cliquot. A note from her referring to something said last night; she is ill and cannot see me, but encloses an order on Parodi of Genoa, in favor of the nobile Signor il Maggiore M’Caskey, for three thousand seven hundred and forty-eight francs, and a small tortoise-shell box, containing eighty-six double ducats in gold, so that it would seem I have fallen into a ‘vrai Californie’ here. Reflected, and replied with a refusal; a M’Caskey cannot stoop to this. Reproved her for ignoring the character to whom she addressed such a proposal, and reiterated my remark of last night, that she never rose to the level at which she could rightly take in the native chivalry of my nature.
“Inquired if my presence had been announced to Sir O., and learned it had. Orders given to treat me with distinguished consideration, but nothing said of an audience.
“Pigeons again for supper, with apology; quails had been sent for to Messina, and expected to-morrow. Shot at a champagne-flask in the sea, and smoked. Sir O.‘s tobacco exquisite, and the supply so ample, I am making a petite provision for the future.
“Full moon. Shot at the camellias out of my window. Knocked off seventeen, when I heard a sharp cry, – a stray shot, I suppose. Shut the casement and went to bed.
“Thursday. – Gardener’s boy – flesh wound in the calf of the leg; hope Sir O. may hear of it and send for me.
“A glorious capon for dinner, stuffed with oysters, – veritable oysters. Drank Mrs. M’C.‘s health in the impression that this was a polite attention on her part. No message from Sir O.
“Friday. – A general fast; a lentil soup and a fish; good but meagre; took it out in wine and tobacco. Had the gardener’s boy up, and introduced him to sherry-cobbler. The effect miraculous; danced Tarantella till the bandage came off and he fainted.
“Saturday. – Rain and wind; macaroni much smoked; cook lays it on the chimney, that won’t draw with a Levant wind. Read over my instructions again, and understand them as little as before: ‘You will hold yourself at the orders of the Count d’Amalfi till further instructions from this department.’ Vague enough all this; and for anything I see, or am likely to see, of this Count, I may pass the autumn here. Tried to attract Sir O.‘s attention by knocking off the oranges at top of his wall, and received intimation to fire in some other direction.
“Sunday. – Don Luigi something has come to say mass. Asked him to dinner, but find him engaged to the Countess. A dry old cove, who evidently knows everything but will tell nothing; has promised to lend me a guitar and a book or two, in return for which I have sent down three bottles of our host’s champagne to his reverence.
“Monday. – Lobsters.
“Tuesday. – Somebody ill apparently; much ringing of bells and disorder. My dinner an hour late. Another appeal from Mrs. M’C, repeating her former proposal with greater energy; this feminine insistence provokes me. I might tell her that of the three women who have borne my name none but herself would have so far presumed, but I forbear. Pity has ever been the weakness of my nature; I feel its workings even as I write this. It may not carry me to the length of forgiveness, but I can compassionate; I will send her this note: —
“‘Madam, – Your prayers have succeeded; I yield. It would not be generous in me to say what the sacrifice has cost me. When a M’Caskey bends, it is an oak of the forest snaps in two. I make but one condition; I will have no gratitude. Keep the tears that you would shed at my feet for the hours of your solitary sorrow. You will, see, therefore, that we are to meet no more.
“‘One of the ducats is clipped on the edge, and another discolored as by an acid; I am above requiring that they be exchanged. Nothing in this last act of our intercourse shall prevent you remembering me as “Semper M’Caskey.”’
“‘Your check should have specified Parodi & Co., not Parodi alone. To a man less known the omission might give inconvenience; this too, however, I pardon. Farewell.’”
It was evident that the Major felt he had completed this task with befitting dignity, for he stood up before a large glass, and, placing one hand within his waistcoat, he gazed at himself in a sort of rapturous veneration. “Yes,” said he, thoughtfully, “George Seymour and D’Orsay and myself, we were men! When shall the world look upon our like again? Each in his own style, too, perfectly distinct, perfectly dissimilar, – neither of them, however, had this, – neither had this,” cried he, as he darted a look of catlike fierceness from his fiery gray eyes. “The Princess Metternich fainted when I gave her that glance. She had the temerity to say, ‘Qui est ce Monsieur M’Caskey?’ Why not ask who is Soult? Who is Wellington? Who is everybody? Such is the ignorance of a woman! Madame la princesse,” added he, in a graver tone, “if it be your fortune to turn your footsteps to Montpellier, walk into the churchyard there, and see the tomb of Jules de Besançon, late major of the 8th Cuirassiers, and whose inscription is in these few words, – ‘Tué par M’Caskey.’ I put up the monument myself, for he was a brave soldier, and deserved his immortality.”
Though self-admiration was an attractive pastime, it palled on him at last, and he sat down and piled up the gold double ducats in two tall columns, and speculated on the various pleasures they might procure, and then he read over the draft on Parodi, and pictured to his mind some more enjoyments, all of which were justly his due, “for,” as he said to himself aloud, “I have dealt generously by that woman.”
At last he arose, and went out on the terrace. It was a bright starlit night, one of those truly Italian nights when the planets streak the calm sea with long lines of light, and the very air seems weary with its burden of perfume. Of the voluptuous enervation that comes of such an hour he neither knew nor asked to know. Stillness and calm to him savored only of death; he wanted movement, activity, excitement, life, in fact, – life as he had always known and always liked it. Once or twice the suspicion had crossed his mind that he had been sent on this distant expedition to get rid of him when something of moment was being done elsewhere. His inordinate vanity could readily supply the reasons for such a course. He was one of those men that in times of trouble become at once famous. “They call us dangerous,” said he, “just as Cromwell was dangerous, Luther was dangerous, Napoleon was dangerous. But if we are dangerous, it is because we are driven to it. Admit the superiority that you cannot oppose, yield to the inherent greatness that you can only struggle against, and you will find that we are not dangerous, – we are salutary.”
“Is it possible,” cried he, aloud, “that this has been a plot, – that while I am here living this life of inglorious idleness the great stake is on the table, – the game is begun, and the King’s crown being played for?” M’Caskey knew that whether royalty conquered or was vanquished, – however the struggle ended, – there was to be a grand scene of pillage. The nobles or the merchants – it mattered very little which to him – were to pay for the coming convulsion. Often and often, as he walked the streets of Naples, had he stood before a magnificent palace or a great counting-house, and speculated on the time when it should be his prerogative to smash in that stout door, and proclaim all within it his own. “Spolia di M’Caskey,” was the inscription that he felt would defy the cupidity of the boldest. “I will stand on the balcony,” said he, “and declare, with a wave of my hand, These are mine: pass on to other pillage.”
The horrible suspicion that he might be actually a prisoner all this time gained on him more and more, and he ransacked his mind to think of some great name in history whose fate resembled his own. “Could I only assure myself of this,” said he, passionately, “it is not these old walls would long confine me; I ‘d scale the highest of them in half an hour; or I ‘d take to the sea, and swim round that point yonder, – it ‘s not two miles off; and I remember there’s a village quite close to it.” Though thus the prospect of escape presented itself so palpably before him, he was deterred from it by the thought that if no intention of forcible detention had ever existed, the fact of his having feared it would be an indelible stain upon his courage. “What an indignity,” thought he, “for a M’Caskey to have yielded to a causeless dread!”
As he thus thought, he saw, or thought he saw, a dark object at some short distance off on the sea. He strained his eyes, and, though long in doubt, at last assured himself it was a boat that had drifted from her moorings, for the rope that had fastened her still hung over the stern, and trailed in the sea. By the slightly moving flow of the tide towards shore she came gradually nearer, till at last he was able to reach her with the crook of his riding-whip, and draw her up to the steps. Her light paddle-like oars were on board; and M’Caskey stepped in, determined to make a patient and careful study of the place on its sea-front, and see, if he could, whether it were more of chateau or jail.
With noiseless motion he stole smoothly along, till he passed a little ruined bastion on a rocky point, and saw himself at the entrance of a small bay, at the extremity of which a blaze of light poured forth, and illuminated the sea for some distance. As he got nearer, he saw that the light came from three large windows that opened on a terrace, thickly studded with orange-trees, under the cover of which he could steal on unseen, and take an observation of all within; for that the room was inhabited was plain enough, one figure continuing to cross and recross the windows as M’Caskey drew nigh.
Stilly and softly, without a ripple behind him, he glided on till the light skiff stole under the overhanging boughs of a large acacia, over a branch of which he passed his rope to steady the boat, and then standing up he looked into the room, now so close as almost to startle him.
CHAPTER XLI. EAVESDROPPING
If M’Caskey was actually startled by the vicinity in which he suddenly found himself to the persons within the room, he was even more struck by the tone of the voice which now met his ear. It was Norman Maitland who spoke, and he recognized him at once. Pacing the large room in its length, he passed before the windows quite close to where M’Caskey stood, – so close, indeed, that he could mark the agitation on his features, and note the convulsive twitchings that shook his cheek.
The other occupant of the room was a lady; but M’Caskey could only see the heavy folds of her dark velvet dress as she sat apart, and so distant that he could not hear her voice.
“So, then, it comes to this!” said Maitland, stopping in his walk and facing where she sat: “I have made this wearisome journey for nothing! Would it not have been as easy to say he would not see me? It was no pleasure to me to travel some hundred miles and be told at the end of it I had come for nothing.”
She murmured something inaudible to M’Caskey, but to which Maitland quickly answered: “I know all that; but why not let me hear this from his own lips, and let him hear what I can reply to it? He will tell me of the vast sums I have squandered and the heavy debts I have contracted; and I would tell him that in following his rash counsels I have dissipated years that would have won me distinction in any land of Europe.”
Again she spoke; but before she uttered many words he broke suddenly in with, “No, no, no! ten thousand times no! I knew the monarchy was rotten – rotten to the very core; but I said, Better to die in the street à cheval than behind the arras on one’s knees. Have it out with the scoundrels, and let the best man win, – that was the advice I gave. Ask Caraffa, ask Filangieri, ask Acton, if I did not always say, ‘If the king is not ready to do as much for his crown as the humblest peasant would for his cabin, let him abdicate at once.’”
She murmured something, and he interrupted her with: “Because I never did – never would – and never will trust to priestcraft. All the intrigues of the Jesuits, all the craft of the whole College of Cardinals, will not bring back confidence in the monarchy. But why do I talk of these things to you? Go back and ask him to see me. Say that I have many things to tell him; say” – and here the mockery of his voice became conspicuous – “that I would wish much to have his advice on certain points. – And why not?” cried he aloud to something she said; “has my new nobility no charm for him? Well, then, I am ready to strike a bargain with him. I owe Caffarelli two hundred and eighty thousand francs, which I mean to pay, if I take to the highway to do it. Hush! don’t interrupt me. I am not asking he should pay this for me, – all I want is that he will enable me to sell that villa which he gave me some years ago beyond Caserta. Yes, the Torricelia; I know all that, – it was a royal present. It never had the more value in my eyes for that; and perhaps the day is not far distant when the right to it may be disputed. Let him make out my title, such as it is, so that I can sell it. There are Jews who will surely take it at one-half its worth. Get him to consent to this, and I am ready to pledge my word that he has seen the last of me.”
“He gave it to you as a wedding-present, Norman,” said she, haughtily; and now her deep-toned voice rung out clear and strong; “and it will be an unpardonable offence to ask him this.”
“Have I not told you that I shall not need forgiveness, – that with this act all ends between us?”
“I will be no party to this,” said she, haughtily; and she arose and walked out upon the terrace. As she passed, the lamplight flared strongly on her features, and M’Caskey saw a face he had once known well; but what a change was there! The beautiful Nini Brancaleone, the dark-haired Norma, the belle that Byron used to toast with an enthusiasm of admiration, was a tall woman advanced in years, and with two masses of snow-white hair on either side of a pale face. The dark eyes, indeed, flashed brightly still, and the eyebrows were dark as of yore; but the beautifully formed mouth was hard and thin-lipped, and the fair brow marked with many a strong line of pain.
