Tony Butler

M’Gruder was carefully plodding his way through this not very legible document, exploring it with a zeal that vouched for his regard for the writer, when he was informed that an English gentleman was in the office inquiring for Mr. Butler.

The stranger soon presented himself as a Mr. Culter, of the house of Box & Culter, solicitors, London, and related that he had been in search of Mr. Anthony Butler from one end of Europe to the other. “I was first of all, sir,” said he, “in the wilds of Calabria, and thence I was sent off to the equally barbarous north of Ireland, where I learned that I must retrace my steps over the Alps to your house; and now I am told that Mr. Butler has left this a week ago.”

“Your business must have been important to require such activity,” said M’Gruder, half inquiringly.

“Very important, indeed, for Mr. Butler, if I could only meet with him. Can you give any hint, sir, how that is to be accomplished?”

“I scarcely think you ‘ll follow him when I tell you where he has gone,” said M’Gruder, dryly. “He has gone to join Garibaldi.”

“To join Garibaldi!” exclaimed the other. “A man with a landed estate and thirty-six thousand in the Three per Cents gone off to Garibaldi!”

“It is clear we are not talking of the same person. My poor friend had none olthat wealth you speak of.”

“Probably not, sir, when last you saw him; but his uncle, Sir Omerod Butler, has died, leaving him all he had in the world.”

“I never knew he had an uncle. I never heard him speak of a rich relation.”

“There was some family quarrel, – some estrangement, I don’t know what; but when Sir Omerod sent for me to add a codicil to his will, he expressed a great wish to see his nephew before he died, and sent me off to Ireland to fetch him to him; but a relapse of his malady occurred the day after I left him, and he died within a week.”

The man of law entered into a minute description of the property to which Tony was to succeed. There was a small family estate in Ireland, and a large one in England; there was a considerable funded fortune, and some scattered moneys in foreign securities; the whole only charged with eight hundred a-year on the life of a lady no longer young, whom scandal called not the widow of Sir Omerod Butler. M’Grader paid little attention to these details; his whole thought was how to apprise Tony of his good-luck, – how call him back to a world where he had what would make life most enjoyable. “I take it, sir,” asked he, at last, “that you don’t fancy a tour in Sicily?”

“Nothing is less in my thoughts, sir. We shall be most proud to act as Mr. Butler’s agents, but I ‘m not prepared to expose my life for the agency.”

“Then, I think I must go myself. It’s clear the poor fellow ought to know of his good fortune.”

“I suspect that the Countess Brancaleone, the annuitant I mentioned, will not send to tell him,” said the lawyer, smiling; “for if Mr. Butler should get knocked over in this ugly business, she inherits everything, even to the family plate with the Butler arms.”

“She sha’n’t, if I can help it,” said M’Gruder, firmly. “I’ll set out to-night.”

Mr. Culter passed a warm eulogium on this heroic devotion, enlarged on the beauty of friendship in general, and concluded by saying he would step over to his hotel, where he had ordered dinner; after which he would certainly drink Mr. M’Grader’s health.

“I shall want some details from you,” said M’Grader, – “something written and formal, – to assure my friend that my tidings are trustworthy. I know it will be no easy task to persuade him that he is a man of fortune.”

“You shall have all you require, sir, – a copy of the will, a formal letter from our house, reciting details of the property, and, what will perhaps impart the speediest conviction of all, a letter of credit, in Mr. Butler’s favor, for five hundred pounds for immediate use. These are the sort of proofs that no scepticism is strong enough to resist. The only thing that never jests, whose seriousness is above all levity, is money;” and so M’Grader at once acknowledged that when he could go fortified with such testimonies, he defied all doubt.

His preparations for departure were soon made. A short letter to his brother explained the cause of his sudden leaving; a longer one to Dolly told how, in his love for her, he could not do enough for her friend; and that, though he liked Tony well for his own sake, he liked him far more as the “adopted brother and old playfellow of his dearest Dolly.” Poor fellow! he wrote this from a full heart, and a very honest one too. Whether it imparted all the pleasure he hoped it might to her who read it, is none of our province to tell. It is only ours to record that he started that night for Genoa, obtained from a friend – a subordinate in the Government employment – a letter to Garibaldi himself, and sailed with an agent of the General’s in charge of a supply of small-arms and ammunition.

They were within thirty miles of Sicily when they were boarded by the Neapolitan corvette the “Veloce,” and carried off prisoners to Palermo, – the one solitary capture the royal navy made in the whole of that eventful struggle.

The proofs that they were Garibaldians were too strong and many for denial; and for a day and a half their fate was far from hopeful. Indeed, had the tidings of the first encounters between the King’s forces and the buccaneers been less disastrous than they were, the prisoners would have been shot; but already a half doubt had arisen as to the fidelity of the royal troops. This and that general, it was rumored, had resigned; and of those who remained, it was said, more than one had counselled “concessions.” Ominous word at such a moment, but the presage of something darker and more ominous still.

M’Gruder bore up with a stout heart, and nothing grieved him in all his calamity more than the thought that all this time Tony might be exposing his life as worthless and hopeless, while, if he only knew it, he had already succeeded to what men are content to pass their whole existence to grasp and gain.

Nor was he inactive in his imprisonment He wrote letters to Garibaldi, enclosing others to Tony; he wrote to all the consuls he could think of; to the Minister at Naples, or to his representative; and he proclaimed his right as a “civis Romanus,” and threatened a Palmerstonian vengeance on all and every that had a hand in curtailing his freedom.

In this very natural and British pursuit we must now leave him, and betake ourselves to other cares and other characters.

CHAPTER LII. ON THE CHIAJA AT NIGHT

The night had just closed in after a hot sultry day of autumn in Naples, as Maitland and Caffarelli sat on the sea-wall of the Chiaja, smoking their cigars in silence, apparently deep in thought, or sometimes startled by the distant shouts and cries of the populace who crammed the Toledo or the Quarter of St Lucia; for all Naples was now in the streets, and wild songs and yells resounded on every side.

In the bay the fleet lay at anchor; but the rapid flash of lanterns, as they rose and fell in the riggings, showed that the signalman was at work, and that messages were being transmitted and replied to throughout the squadron. A like activity seemed to prevail in the forts above the city, and the roll of the drum and the bugle-call occasionally could be heard overtopping all other sounds.

“What would a newly come traveller say to all this?” said Caffarelli, at last. “Would he think it was a city about to be attacked by an enemy, or would he deem it a town in open revolt, or one given up to pillage after the assault? I have seen to-night what might confirm any of these impressions.”

“And all three are present,” said Maitland, moodily. “Your traveller could scarcely be more puzzled than we are.”

The other sighed wearily, and Maitland went on. “What do you trust, or whom? Is it those noisy legions up there, who only muster to disband; or that gallant fleet that has come to anchor, only the more easily to surrender and change its flag?”

“There may be some traitors, but the great majority, I ‘ll swear, will stand by the King.”

“No; not one in fifty, – not one in a hundred. You don’t seem to apprehend that loyalty is not a sudden instinct. It is a thing a man inherits. Take my word for it, Carlo, these men will not fight to keep a certain set of priests around a bigoted old Queen, or support a King whose highest ambition is to be a Jesuit.”

“And if you thought so meanly of the cause, why have you adopted it?”

“Because, ill as I think of the Court, I hate the rabble more. Remember, Carlo,” – and now he spoke in a rapid and marked tone, – “remember that, when I joined you, I deemed myself a rich man, and I had my ambitions, like the rest of you. Had I known what I now know, – had I foreseen that the day was so near wherein I was to find myself a beggar – ”

“No, no, Maitland; don’t say this.”

“And why not say it? It is true. You know as well as I do, that amongst that yelling rabble there is none poorer than myself; and for this reason, I repeat, I might have chosen my associates more wisely. You yourself saw the treatment I met with this morning.”

“Ay, but bear in mind, Maitland, what was the provocation you gave. It is no small thing to tell a king, surrounded by his ministers and generals, that he has not one loyal and true man in his train; that, what between treachery and cowardice, he will find himself alone, at the head of a few foreign regiments, who will only fight to cut their way through towards home.”

“I scarcely went so far as this,” said Maitland, smiling.

“Did you not, per Bacco! I was there and heard you. You accused Laguila to his face of being bought, and named the sum; and you told Cadorno that you had a copy of his letter promising to surrender the flag-ship to Garibaldi.”

“And they listened to me with an admirable patience.”

“I don’t know that; I am certain Cadorno will send you a message before the week is over.”

“And why not before the day was over? Are these accusations a man sleeps upon?”

“The King commanded them both to reply to your charges formally and distinctly, but not with the sword; and he was right so far.”

“At all events, was it kingly to tell me of the favors that had been bestowed upon me, and to remind me that I was an alien, and unknown?”

“The King was angry.”

“He was angrier when I handed him back his patent, and told him that I did not care to be the last-made noble of a dynasty.”

“It was outrageous, I was shocked to hear you; and for one so young, I was struck with the dignity with which he heard you.”

“I don’t think he understood me; he was impassive because he did not know he was wounded. But why do I talk of these things? They have no longer the faintest interest for me. Except yourself, there is not a man in the cause I care for.”

“This is a mere passing depression, my dear Maitland. All things seem sad-colored to you now. Wait till tomorrow, or wait till there be a moment of danger, and you will be yourself again.”

“As for that,” said Maitland, bitterly, “I am terribly myself just now. The last eight or ten years of my life were the dream; now is the awakenment. But cheer up, my old friend. I will stand by you, though I care very little for the cause you fight for. I will still serve on the Staff, and play out my part to the fall of the curtain.”

“What a strange scene that council was this morning!” said Caffarelli, half wishing to draw him from the personal theme.

“What a strange thing to call a council, where not merely men walked in and out unbidden, but where a chance traveller could sit down amongst the King’s advisers, and give his opinion like a servant of the crown! Do you even know his name?”

“I’m not sure that I do; but it sounded like Tchernicheff. He distinguished himself against the Turks on the Danube.”

“And because he routed some ill-disciplined hordes with others a mere shade more civilized, he comes here to impose his opinion on our councils, and tell us how we are to defend ourselves!”

“I did not hear him utter a word.”

“No, but he handed in a paper drawn up by himself, in which he recommends the King to withdraw all the forces in front of Capua, and meet these marauders, where they will less like to fight, in the open. The advice was good, even though it came from a barbarian. In street-fighting your buccaneer is as good as, if not better than, a regular. All the circumstances of the ground favor him. Take him, however, where he must move and manouvre, – where he will have to form and re-form, to dress his line under fire, and occasionally change his flank, – then all the odds will be against him. So far the Scythian spoke well. His only miscalculation was to suppose that we will fight anywhere.”

“I declare, Maitland, I shall lose temper with you. You can’t surely know what insulting things you say.”

“I wish they could provoke any other than yourself, mio caro. But come away from this. Let us walk back again. I want to have one more look at those windows before I go.”

“And are you really in love?” asked the other, with more of astonishment in his voice than curiosity.

“I wish I knew how to make her believe it, that’s all,” said he, sadly; and, drawing his arm within his friend’s, moved on with bent-down head and in silence.

“I think your friends are about the only travellers in Naples at this moment, and, indeed, none but English would come here at such a season. The dog-days and the revolution together ought to be too much even for tourist curiosity.”

Caffarelli went on to describe the arrival of the three heavy-laden carriages with their ponderous baggage and their crowd of servants, and the astonishment of the landlord at such an apparition; but Maitland paid him no attention, – perhaps did not even hear him.

Twice or thrice Caffarelli said something to arouse notice Or attract curiosity, even to pique irritability, as when he said: “I suppose I must have seen your beauty, for I saw two, – and both good-looking, – but neither such as would drive a man distracted out of pure admiration. Are you minding me? Are you listening to me?”

“No, I have not heard one word you were saying.”

“Civil, certainly; but, seriously, Maitland, is there not something more pressing to do at this moment than to loiter along the Chiaja to catch a glimpse of the closed curtains within which some blond angel may be taking her tea?”

“Go home, and I will join you later on. I have given orders about the horses. My man will have all in readiness by daybreak. You seem to me most terribly eager to have your head smashed. The King ought to reward your valor. It will be the only ‘Cross’ he will have to bestow.”

Caffarelli turned impatiently from him, and walked away.

Maitland looked after him for a moment, and then continued his way. He sauntered on, rather like one seeking to kill time than to reach a goal, and once or twice he stopped, and seemed to reflect whether he would go on. At last he reached a spot where a broad path of light streamed across the street, and extended till it was lost in the thick foliage-of the garden on the sea-side, and, looking suddenly up, he saw he was in front of the great hotel of Naples, “L’Universo.” The drawing-room windows were open on a long balcony, and Maitland could see in the well-lighted room certain figures which he persuaded himself he could recognize even through the muslin curtains, which slightly moved and waved in the faint night-air. As he still strained his eyes to mark the scene, two figures approached the window, and passed out upon the balcony. There could be no mistake, – they were Alice and her sister; and so perfect was the stillness of the air, and so thin withal, that he could hear the sound of their voices, though not trace their words.

“Is it not delicious here, Alice?” said Bella. “These are the glorious nights of Italy Maitland used to tell us of, – so calm, so balmy, and so starry.”

“What was that Skeffy was saying to you about Maitland as you came upstairs?” asked Alice, sharply.

“Oh, it was a rumor he mentioned that Maitland had quarrelled with the Court party. He had advised something, or rejected something; in fact, I paid little attention, for I know nothing of these Italian plots and schemes, and I like Maitland much better when he does not speak of them.”

“Is he here now, do you know?”

“Yes; Skeff said he saw him this morning.”

“I hope and pray he may not hear that we have arrived. I trust that we may not see him.”

“And why so, Alice dearest?”

“Can you ask me?”

“I mean, why not receive him on the terms of an easy intimacy? A person of his tact is always quick enough to appreciate the exact amount of favor he is held in.”

“It is of myself I am thinking, – not of him,” said she, with something of resentment in her tone.

“If you speak this way, Alice, I shall believe that you care for him.”

“The greater mistake yours, my dear Bella.”

“Well – that you did once care for him, and regret the fact, or regret the change, – which is it?”

“Neither, on my honor! He interested me, – I own to that; but now that I know his mystery, and what a vulgar mystery it is, I am half ashamed that I even felt an interest in him.”

“Gossip would say you did more, Alice, – that you gave him encouragement.”

“What an odious word you have impressed into your service! but I deny it; nor was he one to want it. Your adventurer never does.”

“Adventurer!”

“I mean it in its least offensive sense; but, really, I see no reason why this man’s name is to persecute me. I left Ireland half to avoid it. I certainly need not encounter it here.”

“And if you meet him?”

“I shall not meet him. I don’t intend to go out so long as we are here, and I trust I can refuse to receive him when at home.”

“I had almost said, Poor fellow!”

“Say it, by all means; compassionate – console him, too, if Skeff has no objection.”

“Oh, Alice!”

“Your own fault, Bella, if I say provoking things. No, mamma,” added she, to some remark from within; “our secrets, as you call them, cannot be overheard; for, first of all, we are talking English; and secondly, there is no person whatever in the street.”

Lady Lyle now made her appearance on the balcony, and soon afterwards they all re-entered the room. Maitland sat hours long on the stone bench, watching with intense eagerness as a shadow would pass or repass behind the curtains, and there he remained till all the lights were out in the hotel and the whole house sunk in silence.

CHAPTER LIII. UNPLEASANT RECKONINGS

There were few busier diplomatists in Europe during these eventful days of Naples than Skeffington Darner; and if England had not her share of influence, it was no fault of his. He sent off special messengers every day. He wrote to F. O. in a cipher, of which it was said no one had the key; and he telegraphed in mystical language to the Admiral at Malta, which went far to persuade the gallant seaman that his correspondent was a maniac. He besieged the Court and the ministerial offices, and went home to receive deputations from the wildest leaders of the extreme democracy. He was determined, as he said, to “know the truth,” and he surrounded himself for that purpose with a mass of inextricable perfidy and falsehood; and yet, with all these occupations, he passed his entire mornings with the Lyles, and dined with them every day.

It was a great pleasure, as Sir Arthur said, to be “behind the scenes;” and really the phrase did not ill represent their position, for they knew as much of what was going on upon the stage as people usually do who have only an occasional glimpse, and that from a wrong point of view. Sir Arthur, however, believed Skeffy to be the rising diplomatist, the embryo Talleyrand of Great Britain; and it was strange to see an old, crafty, case-hardened man of the world listening with implicit trustfulness to the hare-brained speculations of a young fellow, whose solitary pretensions were, that he sent off his daily balderdash marked “On Her Majesty’s Service,” and sealed with the royal arms.

Lady Lyle only half believed in him; and as for Alice, she laughed at, but liked him; while Bella gave him all her confidence, and admired him greatly. And a very nice thing it is of young ladies, and never to be too much commended, how they will hang on the words, and store up the sayings, and repeat the opinions of the man who prefers them. It is not exactly Love, no more than gooseberry wine is champagne; but it effervesces and exhilarates, and I ‘m not sure if it does not agree very well with weak constitutions.

Now Skeffy told Bella every morning in the most mysterious manner how he had checkmated Bresson, the French Minister, and outwitted Caraffa and the Cardinal Riario. They never could make out whence he had his information. The Queen had spent a fortune in paying spies to watch him, but he out-manoeuvred them all. Nobody knew – nobody ever could know – the resources of his craft; and, indeed, except Louis Napoleon, there was not a man in Europe had fathomed the depth of his astuteness. “I have to pretend,” would he say, “to be a light, flippant, volatile creature, given up to pleasure, fond of play, of the ballet, and all that sort of thing. I let them bear every day of the sums I have lost at lansquenet, and the enormous extravagance of my daily life, but they don’t know what goes on here,” and he would tap his forehead; “they never suspect what plots and plans and machinations are at work within that brain they imagine to be abandoned to enjoyment. It will come out one of these days, dearest Bella; they’ll know who ‘did it’ yet.” And this was a very favorite phrase with him, and Bella caught it up, and talked of the people who had not “done it,” and never could “do it,” and hinted at one whom an ignorant world would awake one morning to see had “done it,” and “done it” to perfection.

To hear him talk, you would say that he rather liked the mistaken estimate the world had formed of him; that it was one of those excellent jokes whose point lay in a surprise; and what a surprise would that be one of these days when he came forth in his true character, the great political genius of Europe! Bella believed it all; not that she was deficient in common sense, or wanting in discernment; but she liked him, – there was the secret. She had made her investment in a certain stock, and would persist in regarding it as a most profitable venture; and thus would they pass their mornings, – a strange way to make love, perhaps; but that passion, etherealize it how you may, trades on some one form or other of selfishness; and all these endearments were blended with the thought of how happy they should be when they were great people.

Skeffy would bring with him, besides, a whole bagful of papers, despatches, and “private and confidentials,” and such-like, and make Bella copy out pages for him of that dreary trash, which, like a bad tapestry, has served no other purpose than to employ the small mind that devised it. And he would sit there, with his eyes closed, and dictate to her endless “brief glances” at the present aspect of the Italian question, till the poor girl was half worn out between the importance of her task and its weariness.

“What’s that you are poring over, Bella?” he asked, as she read over a somewhat lengthy letter.

“It is the complaint of an Englishman at being detained by the authorities, first at Palermo and again here: he was a mere traveller, he asserts, and not in any way engaged in political schemes. He says that this is his fourth appeal to you without an answer, and he declares that if this be not replied to, he will address the Chief Secretary at home.”

“Tell the fellow that a Darner is inaccessible to a menace; tell him that his stupid letter would be promptly referred back to me; and say that, so far as this peninsula is concerned, I am F. O., and to be propitiated by humility, and not outraged by a threat.”

“But if it be really true – if the poor fellow should be imprisoned for nothing, Skeff?”

“If so, I shall liberate him;” and as he spoke, he arose and walked the room with a haughty stride and a head erect “Write —

“‘Sir, – I am directed by H. M.‘s Chargé d’Affaires’ – or rather say, ‘The undersigned has to acknowledge the receipt of’ – what’s his name?”

“Samuel M’Gruder.”

“What a name! – ‘of Samuel M’Gruder’s letter; and although he takes exception to the passages marked A and B, and requires explanation of the paragraph C, beginning at the words “nor can I,” and ending at “British subject”’ – You ‘ll have to copy out the whole of this despatch, Bella, and then I shall mark the passages – Where was I?”