Tony Butler. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ love-song to the eyes that were then bent upon him. The Commodore made signals to cease firing and fall back, but in vain. She was too deeply engaged to think of orders; and there she stood to be admired and worshipped and adored, in all the moods and tenses of a French “romance.” But Miss Rebecca Graham was not the only victim of the Major’s captivations; gradually the whole company of the drawing-room had gathered round the piano, some to wonder, some to laugh at, some to feel amused by, and not a few to feel angry with, that little fiery-eyed, impertinent-looking fellow, who eyed the ladies so languishingly, and stared at the men as if asking, “Who’ll quarrel with me?” You might not like, but it was impossible to ignore him. There was, too, in his whole air and bearing a conscious sense of power, – a sort of bold self-reliance, – that dignifies even impudence; and as he sat in his chair with head up and hands vigorously striking the chords of the piano, he looked, as it is by no means improbable that he felt, “M’Caskey against the field.” It was in the midst of hearty applause at a song he had just completed, that Maitland entered the room. In the hall he had learned from the servants that his foreign friend had arrived, and he hurried forward to greet him. Rather puzzled at the vociferous gayety of the company, he made his way through the crowd and approached the piano, and then stood staring on every side, to find out his friend. Though he saw the Major, his eye only rested passingly on him, as it ranged eagerly to catch the features of another.

      “He’s very amusing, though not in the least what you led us to expect,” whispered Mrs. Trafford. “Who is it of whom you are speaking?” “Your friend yonder, the Count Caffarelli.” “What – that man?” cried Maitland, as he grew pale with passion; and now, pushing forward, he leaned over the back of the music-stool, and whispered, “Who are you that call yourself Count Caffarelli?”

      “Is your name Maitland?” said the other, with perfect coolness.

      “Yes.”

      “Mine is M’Caskey, sir.”

      “And by what presumption do I find you here?”

      “This is not the place nor the moment for explanations; but if you want or prefer exposures, don’t balk your fancy. I ‘m as ready as you are.”

      Maitland reeled back as if from a blow, and looked positively ill; and then laughingly turning to the company, he said some common-place words about his ill luck in being late to hear the last song.

      “Well, it must be the last for to-night,” said Mr. M’Caskey, rising. “I have really imposed too much upon every one’s forbearance.”

      After a little of the usual skirmishing, – the entreaties and the coy refusals, the recollection of that charming thing you sang for us at Woodpark, and the doubts lest they had brought no music with them, – the Misses Graham sat down to one, of those duets which every one in England seems able to compose and to sing; lackadaisical ditties adapted to the humblest musical proficiency, and unfortunately, too, the very narrowest intelligences. While the remainder of the company, after a brief moment of silence, resumed conversation, Major M’Caskey stepped unobserved from the room, – by all, at least, but by Maitland, who speedily followed him, and, led by the sound of his footsteps along the corridor, tracked him through the great hall. M’Caskey was standing on the lawn, and in the act of lighting his cigar, as Maitland came up.

      “Explain this intrusion here, sir, now, if you can,” cried Maitland, as he walked straight towards him.

      “If you want any explanations from me, you ‘ll have to ask for them more suitably,” said the other, coldly.

      “I desire to know, under what pretence you assume a name and rank you have no right to, to obtain admission to this house?”

      “Your question is easily answered: your instructions to me were, on my arrival at Coleraine, to give myself out for a foreigner, and not to speak English with any one. I have your note in my desk, and think there can be no mistake about its meaning.”

      “Well, well; I know all that: go on,” cried Maitland, impatiently.

      M’Caskey smiled, half insolently, at this show of temper, and continued: “It was, then, in my assumed character of Frenchman, Spaniard, Italian, or whatever you wish, – for they are pretty much alike to me, – I was standing at the door of the inn, when a rather pompous old fellow, with two footmen after him, came up, and in some execrable French endeavored to accost me, mingling your name in his jargon, and inviting me, as well as his language would permit, to return with him to his house. What was I to conclude but that the arrangement was yours? indeed, I never gave a doubt to it.”

      “When he addressed you as the Count Caffarelli, you might have had such a doubt,” said Maitland, sneeringly.

      “He called me simply Count,” was the reply.

      “Well; so far well: there was no assumption of a name, at least.”

      “None whatever; and if there had been, would the offence have seemed to you so very – very unpardonable?” It is not easy to convey the intense impertinence given to the delivery of this speech by the graduated slowness of every word, and the insolent composure with which it was spoken.

      “What do you mean, sir, by this – this insinuation?” cried Maitland.

      “Insinuation! – it’s none. It is a mere question as to a matter of good taste or good morals.”

      “I have no time for such discussions, sir,” said Maitland, hotly. “I am glad to find that the blunder by which you came here was not of your own provoking, though I cannot see how it makes the explanation less difficult to myself.”

      “What is your difficulty, may I ask?” cried M’Caskey, coolly.

      “Is it no difficulty that I must explain how I know – ” and he stopped suddenly, just as a man might stop on the verge of a precipice, and look horror-struck down into the depth below him. “I mean,” said he, recovering himself, “that to enter upon the question of our relations to each other would open the discussion of matters essentially secret. When I have said I know you, the next question will be, ‘Who is he?’”

      “Well, what is the difficulty there? I am Graf M’Caskey, in Bavaria; Count of Serra-major, in Sicily; Commander of the Order of St. Peter and St. Paul, and a Knight of Malta. I mention these, for I have the ‘brevets’ with me.”

      “Very true,” said Maitland; “but you are also the same Lieutenant Miles M’Caskey, who served in the 2d West Indian Regiment, and who left a few unsettled matters between him and the Government there, when he quitted Barbadoes.”

      “And which they won’t rake up, I promise you, if they don’t want to hang an ex-governor,” said he, laughing. “But none of us, Mr. Maitland, will stand such investigations as these. There’s a statute of limitations for morals as well as for small debts.”

      Maitland winced under the insolent look of the other, and in a tone somewhat shaken, continued, “At all events it will not suit me to open these inquiries. The only piece of good fortune in the whole is that there was none here who knew you.”

      “I am not so very sure of that, though,” said the Major, with a quiet laugh.

      “How so? what do you mean?”

      “Why; that there is an old fellow whom I remember to have met on the West Indian Station; he was a lieutenant, I think, on board the ‘Dwarf,’ and he looked as if he were puzzled about me.”

      “Gambier Graham?”

      “That’s СКАЧАТЬ