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?”

“'British subject.'”

“Yes, I remember. 'Yet that, conceding much to the feelings '—no, that is too familiar—'making allowances for an irritability—'”

“I don't think you can say that, Skeff. He has now been seven weeks in confinement.”

“'Lucky dog that he has not been seven weeks worked almost to a skeleton, like me, with the cares of a whole nation on my head, and the eyes of Europe upon me.”

“Just let me say that you will look into his case, and do your best to get him out of prison.”

“With all my heart. It is fearfully undignified; but let it go, and I'll send off a messenger to the Prefetto Lanzi to deliver up the prisoner M'Gruder to me to-morrow morning, and we will interrogate him here.”

The roll of a drum was now heard in the street without, and from the balcony could be seen an immense crowd of people moving in front of an infantry regiment, who marched past, travel-stained and disordered, and with an indescribable something in their air that indicated, it might be defeat, it might be disaffection.

“Here's strange news,” said Sir Arthur, as he joined them. “The landlord tells me Garibaldi has landed in Calabria, near Reggio, beaten the royal troops, and is in full march on Naples. The regiment that you see there were ordered off to reinforce the advanced guard, but cried out, 'Viva Garibaldi!' and have been now recalled, and are to be sent into the fortress.”

“Look!” cried Skeff; “here comes the Artillery after them, a strong proof that they don't trust these fellows. Bella, I must write off the news at once.”

“Let me first finish about M'Gruder,” said she, as she sat down to the table.

“I wish we were all safe back in England,” said Lady Lyle, as she came up.

“I was just thinking the very same thing,” said Sir Arthur.

“Have no fears,” interposed Skeffy; “I shall order up the fleet from Malta. You shall have a frigate—a line-of-battle ship, if you like it better.”

“I'd much rather we had post-horses and an escort,” said Lady Lyle.

“Would that be possible, Darner?”

“All is possible, Sir Arthur, to power properly exercised. I 'll go down at once to the War Office, and see what can be done.”

“If it were perfectly safe,” said Bella, “I should like to drive through the streets and see what is going on; and as Alice refuses to go out, we are just enough for one carriage.” The project was agreed to, all the more readily that Skeff assured them his presence was au aegis that all parties would know how to respect; he was, in fact, as he put it, a sort of emblematized British lion, who with folded paws was about to take an airing for his own amusement.

“As we drive along,” whispered he to Bella, “just watch the recognitions fellows will throw me,—a look, a gesture, a sign, scarcely perceptible, but enough to say, 'Your Excellency may depend upon us.'”

And Bella felt a certain elation at the thought that she was the chosen one of a man so eminent and so distinguished. And, oh dear, let us not be severe upon her for it! If we could not make occasional swans of our geese in this life, we should be very ill off in matters of ornithology. Away they drove down the Chiaja and up the Toledo, where, amidst wild yells and cries for the King, and at times for Garibaldi, a dense mass of people surged and swayed like a mighty monster awaking out of slumber and arousing to deeds of violence.

The populace seemed intoxicated, but not with wine or with joy, but a sort of dare-devil recklessness which sought something—anything—to vent its passion upon. Lines of men linked arm in arm, and, filling the full breadth of the street, marched rapidly on, chanting wild songs; and it was strange to mark in these the old gray-headed feeble man coupled with the stalwart youth, or, perhaps, the mere boy. Here and there were groups listening to some street-orator, now greeting his words with a cheer, now with a burst of vociferous laughter; and through all these went other men, busily, eagerly whispering to this, conferring with that, now exerting every effort of persuasiveness, now seeming to employ incentives to vengeance.

Except the carriage where sat the Lyles, not another vehicle of any kind was to be seen; and as the horses moved slowly along through the dense crowd, many a rude jest and droll comment was passed upon the matti Inglesi,—the mad English,—who had taken such a time and place for a carriage airing. Nor was the courage of the act unrecognized, and twice or thrice a wild cheer proclaimed what they thought of a nation whose very ladies were above all fear and timidity.

The most striking, feature in all this tumult was that soldiers were seen everywhere mixed up with the civilians; not merely furloughed men in undress, but soldiers in full uniform and perfectly armed, but yet displaying, sometimes ostentatiously, by the way they carried their shakoes or their bayonets, or wore their coats open and unbuttoned, that they no longer respected the claims of discipline.

Patrols on foot or horseback would be met, too; but the men, under no restraint, would not only exchange words of greeting with the mob, but accept offers of wine or cigars; and it was seen that the officers were either powerless to prevent or unwilling to curb this indiscipline.

“What does all this portend, Damer?” asked Sir Arthur. “We hear cheers for the King; but all I see seems to threaten his downfall.”

Skeffy was puzzled, and a wiser man might have been puzzled; but his diplomatic instincts forbade such a humiliating avowal, and so he merely muttered something to the purport that “We” had not fully determined what was to be the issue; and that till “We” had made up our minds, all these signs and portents were mere street-noises.

If I am not perfectly just to him in this rendering of his explanation, I am, at least, merciful to my reader; and, leaving the party to follow out the exploration, I shall return to the drawing-room they had just quitted, and where Alice now sat alone, and deep in thought The yells and cries that filled the street outside, and the continual uproar that resounded through the city, were all unheeded by her; and so immersed was she in her reflection, that when a servant entered the room to present the card of a visitor, she was unaware of his presence till he had twice addressed her.

“It cannot be for us,” said she, looking at the name. “I do not know the Count d'Amalfi.”

“He hopes to be better remembered as Mr. Maitland,” said that gentleman, as, pushing wide the half-opened door, he approached her and made a low bow.

The servant had time to retire and shut the door before Alice had sufficiently recovered herself to ask Maitland to be seated. So coldly was the request conveyed, however, that if he was not determined on having an interview, he would have affected to make his call an offer of some sort of attention, and taken his leave almost on the instant Far different were his present intentions; and as he deposited his hat and cane, and took his place in front of her, there was a methodical slowness that indicated purpose.

“I am almost afraid to tell you, Mr. Maitland,” she began, “that I gave orders to be denied to all visitors. They have all gone out to drive, and—”

“It was for that reason that I took this opportunity to call, madam,” said he, very quietly, but in a tone of some decision. “I desired to see you all alone.”

“Not, surely, if you were aware that I did not receive?”

“Do not oblige me to convict myself, Mrs. Trafford; for I, too, shall be almost afraid to tell the truth;” and a very faint smile moved his mouth as he spoke.

“But, as I conjecture, you would like to meet my father—”

“My visit at present is for you,” said he, interrupting; “and as I cannot assure myself how long the opportunity may last, let me profit by it.”

She became very pale; some fear she certainly felt; but there was more of anger than fear in the thought that this man was, by his manner, almost asserting a right to see and speak with her.

“Mr. Maitland is too accomplished a man of the world to need being told that, when a person has declared an indisposition to receive, it is usually deemed enough to secure privacy.”

“Usually,—yes; but there are occasions which are not in this category.”

“And do you mean to say this is one of them, sir?” said she, haughtily.

“Most certainly, madam, this is one of them!” As Mait-land said this, he saw the color mount to her face; and he saw, too, how, now that her proud spirit was, as it were, challenged, she would not think of retreat, but brave him, whatever might come of it.

“Indeed!” said she, with a scornful laugh,—“indeed!” and the last syllable was drawn out in an accent of most insolent irony.

“Yes, madam,” he continued, in a tone perfectly calm and un impassioned; “our last relations together fully warrant me to say so much; and however presumptuous it might have been in me to aspire as I did, the gracious favor with which I was listened to seemed to plead for me.”

“What favor do you speak of, sir?” said she, with evident agitation.

“I must not risk the faint hope that remains to me, by recalling what you may not wish to remember; but I may at least ask you to bring to mind a certain evening—a certain night—when we walked together in the garden at Tilney.”

“I do not think I am likely to forget it, sir; some anonymous slanderer has made it the pretext of a most insolent calumny. I do not, I need not say, connect you in any way with this base scandal; but it is enough to make the incident the reverse of a pleasant memory.”

“And yet it was the happiest of my whole life.”

“It is unfortunate, sir, that we should look back to an event with feelings so diametrically opposite.”

Maitland gave no heed to the irony of her tone, but went on: “If I was conscious of my own unworthiness, I had certain things in my favor which served to give me courage,—not the least of these was your brother's friendship.”

“Mark was always proud of being Mr. Maitland's friend,” said she, rather touched by this haughty man's humility.

“That friendship became very precious to me when I knew his sister. Indeed, from that hour I loved him as a brother.”

“Forgive me, sir, if I interrupt you. At the time to which you allude we would seem to have been living in a perfect realm of misconceptions. Surely it is not necessary to revive them; surely, now that we have awoke, we need not take up the clew of a dream to assist our reflections.”

“What may be the misconceptions you refer to?” said he, with a voice much shaken and agitated.

“One was, it would appear, that Mr. Maitland made me certain professions. Another, that he was—that he had—that is, that he held—I cannot say it, sir; and I beg you to spare me what a rash temper might possibly provoke me to utter.”

“Say all that you will; I loved you, Alice.”

“You will force me to leave you, sir, if you thus forget yourself.”

“I loved you, and I love you still. Do not go, I beg, I implore you. As the proof of how I love you, I declare that I know all that you have heard of me, all that you have said of me,—every harsh and cruel word. Ay, Alice, I have read them as your hand traced them, and through all, I love you.”

“I will not stoop to ask how, sir; but I will say that the avowal has not raised you in my estimation.”

“If I have not your love, I will never ask for your esteem; I wanted your affection as a man wants that which would make his life a reality. I could have worked for you; I could have braved scores of things I have ever shrunk from; and I had a right to it.”

“A right!—what right?”

“The right of him who loved as I did, and was as ready to prove his love. The man who has done what I have is no adventurer, though that fair hand wrote him one. Remember that, madam; and remember that you are in a land where men accept no such slights as this you would pass upon me.” His eyes glared with passion as he spoke, and his dark cheeks grew purple. “You are not without those who must answer for your levity.”

“Now, sir, I leave you,” said she, rising.

“Not yet. You shall hear me out. I know why you have treated me thus falsely. I am aware who is my rival.”

“Let me pass, sir.”

He placed his back to the door, and folded his arms on his breast; but though he made an immense effort to seem calm, his lip shook as he spoke. “You shall hear me out. I tell you, I know my rival, and I am ready and prepared to stake my pretensions against his.”

“Go on, sir, go on; very little more in this strain will efface any memory I preserved of what you first appeared to me.”

“Oh, Alice!” cried he, in a voice of deep anguish. “It is despair has brought me to this. When I came, I thought I could have spoken with calm and self-restraint; but when I saw you—saw what I once believed might have been mine—I forgot all—all but my misery.”

“Suffer me to pass out, sir,” said she, coldly. He moved back, and opened the door wide, and held it thus as she swept past him, without a word or a look.

Maitland pressed his hat deep over his brow, and descended the stairs slowly, one by one. A carriage drove to the door as he reached it, and his friend Caffarelli sprang out and grasped his hand.

“Come quickly, Maitland!” cried he. “The King has left the palace. The army is moving out of Naples to take up a position at Capua. All goes badly. The fleet is wavering, and Garibaldi passed last night at Salerno.”

“And what do I care for all this? Let me pass.”

“Care for it! It is life or death, caro mio! In two hours more the populace will tear in pieces such men as you and myself, if we 're found here. Listen to those yells, Morte ai Reali! Is it with 'Death to the Royalists!' ringing in our ears we are to linger here?”

“This is as good a spot to die in as another,” said Maitland; and he lighted his cigar and sat down on the stone bench beside the door.

“The Twenty-fifth of the Line are in open revolt, and the last words of the King were, 'Give them to Maitland, and let him deal with them.'”

Maitland shrugged his shoulders, and smoked on.

“Genario has hoisted the cross of Savoy over the fort at Baia,” continued the other, “and no one can determine what is to be done. They all say, 'Ask Maitland.'”

“Imitate him! Do the same over the Royal Palace!” said the other, mockingly.

“There, there! Listen to that cry! The mob are pouring down the Chiaja. Come away.”

“Let us look at the scoundrels,” said Maitland, taking his friend's arm, and moving into the street Caffarelli pushed and half lifted him into the carriage, and they drove off at speed.