Tony Butler Part 68

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 a.s.sured 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 repet.i.tion 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 pa.s.sion, 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 a.s.sent, 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.singly 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:--