To himself the man was simply name, by insinuation, everywhere; odious, and if the result of all his and in spite of himself he found varied gifts and accomplishments he had got into a tone not merely was only to make up such a being querulous, but actually aggressive, as he was, then would he welcome and was using towards Alice an air the most unlettered and unformed of reproof that he almost trembled clown that ever walked rather than at as he re-read it. this mass of conceit and self-sufficiency. He sat down to commit these thoughts to paper, and though he scrawled over seven sheets in the attempt, nothing but failure came of it. Maitland came in, if not by "This will never do," cried he, as he tore up the scribbled sheets, "I'll wait till to-morrow, and perhaps I shall do better." When the morrow came he was despatched on duty, and Alice remained unanswered. CHAPTER XXXIX.—THE MAJOR'S MISSION. If my reader has been as retentive as I could wish him, he will have borne in mind that on the evening when Major M'Caskey took a very menacing leave of Norman Maitland at Paris, Count Caffarelli had promised his friend to write to General Filangieri to obtain from the King a letter addressed to Maitland in the royal hand by the title of Count of Amalfi such a recognition being as valid an act of ennoblement as all the declarations and registrations and emblazonments of heralds and the colleges. It had been originally intended that this letter should be enclosed to Count Ludolf, the Neapolitan envoy at Turin, where Maitland would have found it; but seeing the spirit which had now grown up between Maitland and M'Caskey, and foreseeing well what would occur whenever these two men should meet, Caffarelli, with that astuteness that never fails the Italian, determined to avert the peril by a stratagem which lent its aid to the object he had in hand. He begged the General would transmit the letter from the King, not to Turin, but to the Castello di Montanara, where Maitland had long resided, in a far-away part of Calabria, and employ as the messenger M'Caskey himself; by which means this very irritable and irritating individual might be, for a time at least, with drawn from public view, and an immediate meeting with Maitland prevented. It was not very difficult, without any breach of confidence, for Caffarelli to convey to Filangieri that his choice of M'Caskey for this mission was something stronger than a caprice, and that his real wish was that this fiery personage should not be at Naples when they arrived there. A very brief note, which reached Caffarelli before he had left Paris, informed him that all he requested had been duly done. "He gave it " it was of the King he spoke "he gave it at once, Carlo; only saying, with a laugh, One of my brothers may dispute it with him some of these days-for it gives some privilege; but whether it be to claim the rights of the Church after high treason, or to have two wives in Lower Calabria, I don't remember; but tell your friend to avoid both murder and matrimony, at least till he returns to a more civilised region. "I shall send the Irish major with the despatch, as you wish. If I understand you aright, you are not over-anxious he should come back with the answer. But why not be more explicit? If you want remember Calabria is bria-you understand." Cala At first Caffarelli had intended not to show this note to Maitland; - but the profound contempt which of the sea-wall being a labour that his friend exhibited for M'Caskey, never ended. proved that no sense of a debt of honour outstanding between them would lessen Maitland's satisfaction at hearing that this troublesome "cur"- so he called himshould not be yelping at his heels through the streets of Naples. Maitland, in fact, declared, that he knew of no misfortune in life so thoroughly ruinous as to be confronted in a quarrel with a questionable antagonist. From the ridicule of such a situation, he averred, the only escape was in a fatal ending; and Maitland knew nothing so bad as ridicule. Enmity in all its shapes he had faced, and could face again. Give him a foe but worthy of him, and no man ever sprang into the lists with a lighter heart: the dread of a false position was too much for him. Leaving these two friends, then, at Paris to talk, amid their lives of many dissipations, of plots and schemes and ambitions, let us betake ourselves to a very distant spot, at the extreme verge of the Continent a little inlet on the Calabrian coast below Reggio; where, on a small promontory separating two narrow bays, stands the lone Castle of Montanara. It had been originally a convent, as its vast size indicates, but was purchased and converted into a royal residence by a former king of Naples, who spent incredible sums on the buildings and the gardens. The latter especially were most costly, since they were entirely artificial-the earth having been carried from the vicinity of Naples. The castle itself was the most incongruous mass that could be conceived-embracing the fortress, the convent, the ornate style of Venice, and the luxurious vastness of an Oriental palace, all within its walls. It may be imagined that no private fortune, however ample, could have kept in perfect order a place of such immense size, the gardens alone requiring above thirty men constantly at work, and the repairs The present occupant, Sir Omerod Butler, lived in one small block called the "Molo," which projected into the sea at the very end of the promontory, and was approachable on the land side by a beautiful avenue of cedars. They were of great age, and, tradition said, had been brought from Lebanon. If ruin and neglect and desolation characterised all around, no sooner had the traveller entered this shady approach than all changed to the most perfect care and cultureflowery shrubs of every kind, beds of gorgeous flowers, pergolati of vines leading down to the sea, and orange-groves dipping their golden balls in the blue Mediterranean at every step, till the ample gate was reached; passing into which you entered a spacious court paved with variegated marble, with a massive fountain in the centre. From this court, under a pillared archway, led off all the lower rooms-great spacious chambers, with richly painted ceilings and tesselated floors. Into these was gathered the most costly furniture of the whole palace: tables and consoles of malachite and porphyry, gorgeously inlaid slabs of lapis lazuli and agate, cabinets of rare beauty, and objects of ancient art. Passing through these again you gained the rooms of daily habitation, arranged with all the taste and luxury of modern refinement, and distinctively marking that the cold splendour without could not attain to that sense of comfort and voluptuous ease which an age of greater indulgence requires. The outer gate of the castle, which opened by a drawbridge over a deep moat, on the Reggio road, was little less than a mile off; and it may give some idea of the vast size of the place to state that, from that entrance to the Molo, there was a succession of buildings of one kind or other, only interrupted by areas of courtyard or garden. When, at the close of a sultry day, of his companion assured him that Major M'Caskey presented himself the safer policy was to restrain his at this gate, summoning the porter wrath, and, touching his hat in with a vigorous pull of the bell, he salute, he retired without a word. was not admitted till a very careful scrutiny showed that he was alone, and did not, besides, exhibit any thing very formidable in his appearance. He was told, as he passed in, that he must leave his horse at the stables beside the gate, and make the rest of his way on foot. The Major was both tired and hungry; he had been in the saddle since daybreak, had twice missed his way, and tasted no food since he set out. "Is there much more of this confounded way to go?" asked he of his guide, as they now mounted a terrace, only to descend again. "About a quarter of an hour will bring you to the Molo," said the other, just as ill-pleased to have the duty of escorting him. A quick glance at the fellow's face showed the Major how hopeless it would be to expect any information from him; and though he was burning to know who inhabited this lonesome place, and why he lived there, he forebore all questioning, and went along in silence. "There! " said his guide, at last, as they reached a great archway standing alone in a sort of lawn. -"there! you follow that road to the little gate yonder, pass in, cross the garden, and you will be at the side-entrance of the Molo. I don't suppose you want to enter by the grand gate?" Major M'Caskey was not much in the habit of suffering an insolence to pass unresented; but he seemed to control himself as he drew forth his purse and took out a crown-piece. "This is for your trouble, my worthy fellow," said he;" go and look for it yonder," and he jerked the piece of money over the low parapet, and sent it skimming along the sea a hundred yards off. Though the man's lips murmur ed in passion, and his dark eyes flashed anger, one look at the face As though he felt in better temper with himself for having thus discharged this little debt, the Major stepped more briskly forward, gained the small postern, and entered a large and formal garden, the chief avenue of which showed him the gate at the extremity. It lay open, and he found himself in a large vaulted hall, from which doors led off. In doubt which course to take, he turned to seek for a bell, but there was none to be found; and after a careful search on every side, he determined to announce himself by a stout knocking at one of the doors before him. The hollow clamour resounded through the whole building, and soon brought down two men in faded livery, half terrified, half angry at the summons. M'Caskey, at once assuming the upper hand, a habit in which prac tice had made him a proficient, demanded haughtily to see "the Count," their master. "He is at dinner," said they both together. "I wish I were so too," said the Major. "Go in and tell him that I am the bearer of a royal despatch, and desire to see him immediately."" They held counsel together in whispers for a few minutes, during which the name Maria occurred frequently between them. "We will tell the Senora Maria you are here," said one, at last. "And who may she be?" said M'Caskey, haughtily. "She is the Cameriera of the Countess, and the chief of all the household." "My business is not with a waiting-woman. I have come to see the Count of Amalfi," said the Major, sternly. The men apparently knew their own duties best, and, civilly asking him to follow, they led the way up a small flight of stairs, and after traversing some scantily-furnished her head away, and then covered rooms, showed him into a pretty her face with her hands. decorated little chamber, with two windows looking on the sea. "Senora Maria," said he, slowly "unless indeed you still desire I should call you Mrs. M'Caskey." "No, no- -Maria," cried she, wild Having politely beggedim to be seated, they left him. The Major, besides being hungry and ly; "I am but a servant-I toil jaded, was irritable and angry. for my bread, but better that Filangieri had told him his mis- than She stopped, and, afsion was one of importance and ter an effort to subdue her emotion, high trust; in fact, so much so, burst into tears and sobbed bitthat it could not be confided to terly. one less known than himself. And "It matters little to me, madam, was this the way they received a what the name. The chain that royal envoy, sent on such an er- ties us is just as irrevocable, whatrand? While he thus fumed and ever we choose to call ourselves. chafed, he heard a door open and As to anything else, I do not supclose, and shortly after the sweep pose you intend to claim me as your of a woman's dress coming along the husband." corridor; and now the step came nearer, and the door opened, and a tall, sickly-looking woman entered; but scarcely had she advanced one pace within the room when she uttered a faint scream and fainted. 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 Senora, 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 "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 bearlevity-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 insult ed, would throw you over that seawall 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 Onoralissimo e Pregitatissimo, Nobile Conte,'" for he read now from the address of a letter he had drawn from his pocket—“Nobile 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." thought it was a mode of addressing him secretly. The Count of Amalfi lives here, perhaps." "I never heard of him." "Wb lives Omerod?" here besides Sir "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 curl 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 |