When a very polite note from Lord Culduff to Mr. Cutbill expressed the deep regret he felt at not being able to receive that gentleman at dinner, as an affair of much moment required his immediate presence at Naples, the noble lord was more correct than it was his usual fate to be in matters of apology. The fact was, that his Lordship had left England several weeks before, charged with a most knotty and difficult mission to the Neapolitan court; and though the question involved the misery of imprisonment to some of the persons concerned, and had called forth more than one indignant appeal for information in the House, the great diplomatist sauntered leisurely over the Continent, stopping to chat with a Minister here, or dine with a reigning Prince there, not suffering himself to be hurried by the business before him, or in any way influenced by the petulant despatches and telegrams which F. O. persistently sent after him.

One of his theories was, that in diplomacy everything should be done in a sort of dignified languor that excluded all thought of haste or of emergency. “Haste implies pressure,” he would say, “and pressure means weakness: therefore, always seem slow, occasionally even to indolence.”

There was no denying it, he was a great master in that school of his art which professed to baffle every effort at inquiry. No man ever wormed a secret from him that he desired to retain, or succeeded in entrapping him into any accidental admission. He could talk for hours with a frankness that was positively charming. He could display a candor that seemed only short of indiscretion; and yet, when you left him, you found you had carried away nothing beyond some neatly turned aphorisms and a few very harmless imitations of Machiavelian subtlety. Like certain men who are fond of showing how they can snuff a candle with a bullet, he was continually exhibiting his skill at fence, with the added assurance that nothing would grieve him so ineffably as any display of his ability at your expense.

He knew well that these subtleties were no longer the mode; that men no longer tried to outwit each other in official intercourse; that the time for such feats of smartness had as much gone by as the age of high neckcloths and tight coats; but yet, as he adhered to the old dandyism of the Regency in his dress, he maintained the old traditions of finesse in his diplomacy, and could no more have been betrayed into a Truth than he could have worn a Jim Crow. For that mere plodding, commonplace race of men that now filled “the line” he had the most supreme contempt; men who had never uttered a smart thing, or written a clever one. Diplomacy without epigram was like a dinner without truffles. It was really pleasant to hear him speak of the great days of Metternich and Nesselrode and Talleyrand, when a frontier was settled by a bon mot, and a dynasty decided by a doggerel. The hoarse roar of the multitude had not in those times disturbed the polished solemnity of the council-chamber, and the high priests of statecraft celebrated their mysteries unmolested.

“The ninth telegram, my Lord,” said Temple, as he stood with a cipher despatch in his hand, just as Lord Culduff had reached his hotel at Naples.

“Transcribe it, my dear boy, and let us hear it.”

“I have, my Lord. It runs, 'Where is the special envoy? Let him report himself by telegraph.'”

“Reply, 'At dinner, at the HÔtel Victoria; in passably good health, and indifferent spirits. '”

“But, my Lord—”

“There, you 'd better dress. You are always late. And tell the people here to serve oysters every day till I countermand them; and taste the Capri, please; I prefer it to Sauterne, if it be good. The telegram can wait.”

“I was going to mention, my Lord, that Prince Castelmuro has called twice to-day, and begged he might be informed of your arrival. Shall I write him a line?”

“No. The request must be replied to by him to whom it was addressed,—the landlord, perhaps, or the laquaisde-place.”

“The King is most anxious to learn if you have come.”

“His Majesty shall be rewarded for his courteous impatience. I shall ask an audience to-morrow.”

“They told me dinner was served,” said Lady Culduff, angrily, as she entered the room, dressed as if for a court entertainment; “and I hurried down without putting on my gloves.”

“Let me kiss your Ladyship's hand so temptingly displayed,” said he, stooping and pressing it to his lips.

An impatient gesture of the shoulder, and a saucy curl of the lip were the only response to this gallantry.

A full half-hour before Lord Culduff appeared Temple Bramleigh re-entered, dressed for dinner.

“Giacomo is at his old tricks, Temple,” said she, as she walked the room impatiently. “His theory is that every one is to be in waiting on my Lord; and I have been here now close on three-quarters of an hour, expecting dinner to be announced. Will you please to take some trouble about the household, or let us have an attachÉ who will?”

“Giacomo is impossible—that's the fact; but it's no use saying so.”

“I know that,” said she, with a malicious twinkle of the eye. “The man who is so dexterous with rouge and pomatum cannot be spared. But can you tell me, Temple, why we came here? There was no earthly reason to quit a place that suited us perfectly because Lady Augusta Bramleigh wished to do us an impertinence.”

“Oh, but we ought to have been here six weeks ago. They are frantic at 'the Office' at our delay, and there will be a precious to-do about it in the House.”

“Culduff likes that. If he has moments that resemble happiness they are those when he is so palpably in the wrong that they would ruin any other man than himself.”

“Well, he has got one of them now, I can tell you.”

“Oh, I am aware of what you diplomatic people call great emergencies, critical conjunctures, and the like; but as Lord Watermore said the other evening, 'all your falls are like those in the circus—you always come down upon sawdust.'”

“There's precious little sawdust here. It's a case will make a tremendous noise in England. When a British subject has been ironed and—”

“Am I late? I shall be in despair, my Lady, if I have kept you waiting,” said Lord Culduff, entering in all the glory of red ribbon and Guelph, and with an unusually brilliant glow of youth and health in his features.

It was with a finished gallantry that he offered his arm; and his smile, as he led her to the dinner-room, was triumph itself. What a contrast to the moody discontent on her face; for she did not even affect to listen to his excuses, or bestow the slightest attention on his little flatteries and compliments. During the dinner Lord Culduff alone spoke. He was agreeable after his manner, which was certainly a very finished manner; and he gave little reminiscences of the last time he had been at Naples, and the people he had met, sketching their eccentricities and oddities most amusingly, for he was a master in those light touches of satire which deal with the ways of society, and, perhaps, to any one but his wife he would have been most entertaining and pleasant. She never deigned the very faintest recognition of what he said. She neither smiled when he was witty, nor looked shocked at his levities. Only once, when, by a direct appeal to her, silence was impossible, she said, with a marked spitefulness, “You are talking of something very long ago. I think I heard of that when I was a child.” There was a glow under his Lordship's rouge as he raised his glass to his lips, and an almost tremor in his voice when he spoke again.

“I 'm afraid you don't like Naples, my Lady?”

“I detest it.”

“The word is strong; let it be my care to try and induce you to recall it.”

“It will be lost time, my Lord. I always hated the place, and the people, too.”

“You were pleased with Rome, I think?”

“And that possibly was the reason we left it. I mean,” said she, blushing with shame at the rudeness that had escaped her, “I mean that one is always torn away from the place they are content to live in. It is the inevitable destiny.”

“Very pleasant claret that for hotel wine,” said Lord Culduff, passing the bottle to Temple. “The small race of travellers who frequent the Continent now rarely call for the better wines, and the consequence is that Margaux and Marcobrunner get that time to mature in the cellars which was denied to them in former times.”

A complete silence now ensued. At last Lord Culduff said, “Shall we have coffee?” and offering his arm with the same courteous gallantry as before, he led Lady Culduff into the drawing-room, bowing as he relinquished her hand, as though he stood in presence of a queen. “I know you are very tolerant,” said he, with a bewitching smile, “and as we shall have no visitors this evening, may I ask the favor of being permitted a cigarette—only one?”

“As many as you like. I am going to my room, my Lord.” And ere he could hasten to open the door, she swept haughtily out of the room and disappeared.

“We must try and make Naples pleasant for my Lady,” said Lord Culduff, as he drew his chair to the fire; but there was, somehow, a malicious twinkle in his eye, and a peculiar curl of the lip, as he spoke, that scarcely vouched for the loyalty of his words; and that Temple heard him with distrust seemed evident by his silence. “You 'd better go over to the Legation and say we have arrived. If Blagden asks when he may call, tell him at two tomorrow. Let them send over all the correspondence; and I think we shall want some one out of the chancellerie. Whom have they got? Throw your eye over the list.”

Opening a small volume bound in red morocco, Temple read out, “Minister and envoy, Sir Geoffrey Blagden, K.C.B.; first secretary, Mr. Tottenham; second secretaries, Ralph Howard, the Hon. Edward Eccles, and W. Thornton; third secretary, George Hilliard; attachÉ, Christopher Stepney.”

“I only know one of these men; indeed, I can scarcely say I know him. I knew his father, or his grandfather, perhaps. At all events, take some one who writes a full hand, with the letters very upright, and who seldom speaks, and never has a cold in his head.”

“You don't care for any one in particular?” asked Temple, meekly.

“Of course not; no more than for the color of the horse in a hansom. If Blagden hints anything about dining with him, say I don't dine out; though I serve her Majesty, I do not mean to destroy my constitution, and I know what a Legation dinner means, with a Scotchman for the chief of the mission. I 'm so thankful he 's not married, or we should have his wife calling on my Lady. You can dine there if you like; indeed, perhaps, you ought. If Blagden has an opera-box, say my Lady likes the theatre. I think that's all. Stay, don't let him pump you about my going to Vienna; and drop in on me when you come back.”

Lord Culduff was fast asleep in a deep arm-chair before his dressing-room fire when Temple returned. The young man looked wearied and worn out, as well he might; for the Minister had insisted on going over the whole “question” to him, far less, indeed, for his information or instruction, than to justify every step the Legation had taken, and to show the utter unfairness and ungenerosity of the Foreign Office in sending out a special mission to treat a matter which the accredited envoy was already bringing to a satisfactory conclusion.

“No, no, my dear boy, no blue-books, no correspondence. I shook my religious principles in early life by reading Gibbon, and I never was quite sure of my grammar since I studied diplomatic despatches. Just tell me the matter as you 'd tell a scandal or a railway accident.”

“Where shall I begin, then?”

“Begin where we come in.”

“Ah, but I can't tell where that is. You know, of course, that there was a filibustering expedition which landed on the coast, and encountered the revenue guard, and overpowered them, and were in turn attacked, routed, and captured by the Royal troops.”

“Ta, ta, ta! I don't want all that. Come down to the events of June—June 27 they call it.”

“Well, it was on that day when the 'Ercole' was about to get under weigh, with two hundred of these fellows sentenced to the galleys for life, that a tremendous storm broke over the Bay of Naples. Since the memorable hurricane of '92 there had been nothing like it. The sea-wall of the Chiaja was washed away, and a frigate was cast on shore at Caserta with her bowsprit in the palace windows; all the lower town was under water, and many lives lost. But the damage at sea was greatest of all: eight fine ships were lost, the crews having, with some few exceptions, perished with them.”

“Can't we imagine a great disaster—a very great disaster? I'll paint my own storm, so pray go on.”

“Amongst the merchant shipping was a large American bark which rode out the gale, at anchor, for several hours; but, as the storm increased, her captain, who was on shore, made signal to the mate to slip his cable and run for safety to Castellamare. The mate, a young Englishman, named Rogers—”

“Samuel Rogers?”

“The same, my Lord, though it is said not to be his real name. He, either misunderstanding the signal,—or, as some say, wilfully mistaking its meaning,—took to his launch, with the eight men he had with him, and rowed over to a small despatch-boat of the Royal Navy, which was to have acted as convoy to the 'Ercole,' but whose officers were unable to get on board of her, so that she was actually under the command of a petty officer. Rogers boarded her, and proposed to the man in command to get up the steam and try to save the lives of the people who were perishing on every hand. He refused; an altercation ensued, and the English—for they were all English—overpowered them and sent them below—”

“Don't say under hatches, my dear boy, or I shall expect to see you hitching your trousers next.”

Temple reddened, but went on: “They got up steam in all haste, and raised their anchor, but only at the instant that the 'Ercole' foundered, quite close to them, and the whole sea was covered with the soldiers and the galley-slaves, who had jumped overboard, and the ship went down. Rogers made for them at once, and rescued above a hundred,—chiefly of the prisoners; but he saved also many of the crew, and the soldiers. From four o'clock till nigh seven, he continued to cruise back and forward through the bay, assisting every one who needed help, and saving life on every side. As the gale abated, yielding to the piteous entreaties of the prisoners, whom he well knew were political offenders, he landed them all near Baia, and was quietly returning to the mooring-ground whence he had taken the despatch-boat, when he was boarded by two armed boats' crews of the Royal Navy, ironed and carried off to prison.”

“That will do; I know the rest. Blagden asked to have them tried in open court, and was told that the trial was over, and that they had been condemned to death, but the sentence was commuted by royal mercy to hard labor at the galleys. I knew your long story before you told it, but listened to hear what new element you might have interpolated since you saw the people at the Legation. I find you, on the whole, very correct. How the Neapolitan Government and H. M.'s Ministers have mistaken, mystified, and slanged each other; how they have misinterpreted law and confounded national right; how they have danced a reel through all justice, and changed places with each other some half-dozen times, so that an arbiter—if there were one—would put them both out of court—I have read already in the private correspondence. Even the people in Parliament, patent bunglers as they are in foreign customs, began to ask themselves, Is Filangieri in the pay of her Majesty? and how comes it that Blagden is in the service of Naples?”

“Oh, it 's not so bad as that!”

“Yes, it's fully as bad as that. Such a muddled correspondence was probably never committed to print. They thought it a controversy, but the combatants never confronted each other. One appealed to humanity, the other referred to the law; one went off in heroics about gallantry, and the other answered by the galleys. People ought to be taught that diplomatists do not argue, or if they do, they are mere tyros at their trade. Diplomatists insinuate, suppose, suggest, hope, fear, and occasionally threaten; and with these they take in a tolerably wide sweep of human motives. There, go to bed now, my dear boy; you have had enough of precepts for one evening; tell Giacomo not to disturb me before noon—I shall probably write late into the night.”

Temple bowed and took his leave; but scarcely had he reached the stairs than Lord Culduff laid himself in his bed and went off into a sound sleep. Whether his rest was disturbed by dreams; whether his mind went over the crushing things he had in store for the Neapolitan Minister, or the artful excuses he intended to write home; whether he composed sonorous sentences for a blue-book, or invented witty epigrams for a “private and confidential;” or whether he only dreamed of a new preparation of glycerine and otto of roses, which he had seen advertised as an “invaluable accessory to the toilet,” this history does not, perhaps need not, record.

As, however, we are not about to follow the course of his diplomatic efforts in our next chapter, it is pleasant to take leave of him in his repose.