Sir Arthur Lyle was a county dignity, and somewhat fond of showing it. It is true he could not compete with the old blood of the land, or contest place with an O'Neil or an O'Hara; but his wealth gave him a special power, and it was a power that all could appreciate. There was no mistake about one who could head a subscription by a hundred pounds, or write himself patron of a school or a hospital with a thousand! And then his house was more splendid, his servants more numerous, their liveries finer, his horses better, than his neighbors; and he was not above making these advantages apparent. Perhaps his Indian experiences may have influenced his leanings, and taught him to place a higher value on show and all the details of external greatness. On everything that savored of a public occasion, he came with all the pomp and parade of a sovereign. A meeting of poor-law guardians, a committee of the county infirmary, a board of railway directors, were all events to be signalized by his splendid appearance.

His coach and four, and his outriders—for he had outriders—were admirable in all their appointments. Royalty could not have swung upon more perfectly balanced nor easier springs, nor could a royal team have beat the earth with a grander action or more measured rhythm. The harness—bating the excess of splendor—was perfect. It was massive and well-fitting. As for the servants, a master of the horse could not have detected an inaccurate fold in their cravats, nor a crease in their silk stockings. Let the world be as critical or slighting as it may, these things are successes. They are trifles only to him who has not attempted them. Neither is it true to say that money can command them; for there is much in them that mere money cannot do. There is a keeping in all details,—a certain “tone” throughout, and, above all, a discipline the least flaw in which would convert a solemn display into a mockery.

Neighbors might criticise the propriety or canvass the taste of so much ostentation, but none, not the most sarcastic or scrutinizing, could say one word against the display itself; and so, when on a certain forenoon the dense crowd of the market-place scattered and fled right and left to make way for the prancing leaders of that haughty equipage, the sense of admiration overcame even the unpleasant feeling of inferiority, and that flunkeyism that has its hold on humanity felt a sort of honor in being hunted away by such magnificence.

Through the large square—or Diamond, as the Northerns love to call it—of the town they came, upsetting apple-stalls and crockery-booths, and frightening old peasant women, who, with a goose under one arm and a hank of yarn under the other, were bent on enterprises of barter and commerce. Sir Arthur drove up to the bank, of which he was the governor, and on whose steps, to receive him, now stood the other members of the board. With his massive gold watch in hand, he announced that the fourteen miles had been done in an hour and sixteen minutes, and pointed to the glossy team, whose swollen veins stood out like whipcord, to prove that there was no distress to the cattle. The board chorused assent, and one—doubtless an ambitious man—actually passed his hand down the back sinews of a wheeler, and said, “Cool as spring-water, I pledge my honor.” Sir Arthur smiled benignly, looked up at the sky, gave an approving look at the sun as though to say, “Not bad for Ireland,” and entered the bank.

It was about five o'clock in the same evening when the great man again appeared at the same place; he was flushed and weary-looking. Some rebellious spirits—is not the world full of them?—had dared to oppose one of his ordinances. They had ventured to question some subsidy that he would accord or refuse to some local line of railroad. The opposition had deeply offended him; and though he had crushed it, it had wounded him. He was himself the bank!—its high repute, its great credit, its large connection, were all of his making; and that same Mr. M'Candlish who had dared to oppose him was a creature of his own,—that is, he had made him a tithe-valuator, or a road-inspector, or a stamp distributor, or a something or other of the hundred petty places which he distributed just as the monks of old gave alms at the gates of their convents.

Sir Arthur whispered a word to Mr. Boyd, the secretary, as he passed downstairs. “How does M'Candlish stand with the bank? He has had advances lately; send me a note of them.” And thus, bent on reprisals, he stood waiting for that gorgeous equipage which was now standing fully ready in the inn yard, while the coachman was discussing a chop and a pot of porter. “Why is not he ready?” asked Sir Arthur, impatiently.

“He was getting a nail in Blenheim's off foreshoe, sir,” was the ready reply; and as Blenheim was a blood bay sixteen-three, and worth two hundred and fifty pounds, there was no more to be said; and so Sir Arthur saw the rest of the board depart on jaunting-cars, gigs, or dog-carts, as it might be,—humble men with humble conveyances, that could take them to their homes without the delays that wait upon greatness.

“Anything new stirring, Boyd?” asked Sir Arthur, trying not to show that he was waiting for the pleasure of his coachman.

“No, sir; all dull as ditch-water.”

“We want rain, I fancy,—don't we?”

“We 'd not be worse for a little, sir. The after-grass, at least, would benefit by it.”

“Why don't you pave this town better, Boyd? I 'm certain it was these rascally stones twisted Blenheim's shoe.”

“Our corporation will do nothing, sir,—nothing,” said the other, in a whisper.

“Who is that fellow with the large whiskers, yonder,—on the steps of the hotel? He looks as if he owned the town.”

“A foreigner, Sir Arthur; a Frenchman or a German, I believe. He came over this morning to ask if we knew the address of Mr. Norman Maitland.”

“Count Caffarelli,” muttered Sir Arthur to himself; “what a chance that I should see him! How did he come?”

“Posted, sir; slept at Cookstown last night, and came here to breakfast.”

Though the figure of the illustrious stranger was very far from what Sir Arthur was led to expect, he knew that personal appearance was not so distinctive abroad as in England, and so he began to con over to himself what words of French he could muster, to make his advances. Now, had it been Hindostanee that was required, Sir Arthur would have opened his negotiations with all the florid elegance that could be wished; but French was a tongue in which he had never been a proficient, and, in his ordinary life, had little need of. He thought, however, that his magnificent carriage and splendid horses would help him out of the blunders of declensions and genders, and that what he wanted in grammar he could make up in greatness. “Follow me to M'Grotty's,” said he to his coachman, and took the way across the square.

Major M'Caskey—for it was no other than that distinguished gentleman—was standing with both hands in the pockets of a very short shooting-jacket, and a clay pipe in his mouth, as Sir Arthur, courteously uncovering, bowed his way up the steps, saying something in which l'honneur, la fÉlicitÉ, and infiniment flattÉ, floated amidst a number of less intelligibly rendered syllables, ended the whole with “Ami de mon ami, M. Norman Maitland.”

Major M'Caskey raised his hat straight above his head and replaced it, listening calmly to the embarrassed attempts of the other, and then coldly replied in French, “I have the honor to be the friend of M. Maitland,—how and when can I see him?”

“If you will condescend to be my guest, and allow me to offer you a seat with me to Lyle Abbey, you will see your friend.” And, as Sir Arthur spoke, he pointed to his carriage.

“Ah, and this is yours? Pardie! it's remarkably well done. I accept at once. Fetch down my portmanteau and the pistol-case,” said he to a small, ill-looking boy in a shabby green livery, and to whom he spoke in a whisper; while, turning to Sir Arthur, he resumed his French.

“This I call a real piece of good-fortune,—I was just saying to myself, 'Here I am; and though he says, Come! how are we to meet?'”

“But you knew, Count, that we were expecting you.”

“Nothing of the kind. All I knew was his message, 'Come here.' I had no anticipation of such pleasant quarters as you promise me.”

Seated in the post of honor on the right of Sir Arthur, the Major, by way of completing the measure of his enjoyments, asked leave to smoke. The permission was courteously accorded, and away they rolled over the smooth highway to the pleasant measure of that stirring music,—the trot of four spanking horses.

Two—three—four efforts did Sir Arthur make at conversation, but they all ended in sad failure. He wanted to say something about the crops, but he did not remember the French for “oats;” he wished to speak of the road, but he knew not the phrase for “grand jury;” he desired to make some apology for a backward season, but he might as well have attempted to write a Greek ode; and so he sat and smiled and waved his hand, pointing out objects of interest, and interjectionally jerking out, “Bons—braves—trÈs braves—but poor—pauvres—trÈs pauvres—light soil—lÉgÈre, you understand,” and with a vigorous “hem” satisfied himself that he had said something intelligible. After this no more attempts at conversation were made; for the Major had quietly set his companion down for an intense bore, and fell back upon his tobacco for solace.

“LÀ!” cried the Baronet, after a long silence—and he pointed with his finger to a tall tower, over which a large flag was waving, about half a mile away,—“LÀ! Notre chateau—Lyle Abbey—moi;” and he tapped his breast to indicate the personal interest that attached to the spot.

“Je vous en fais mes compliments,” cried M'Caskey, who chuckled at the idea of such quarters, and very eloquently went on to express the infinite delight it gave him to cultivate relations with a family at once so amiable and so distinguished. The happy hazard which brought him was in reality another tie that bound him to the friendship of that “cher Maitland.” Delivered of this, the Major emptied his pipe, replaced it in its case, and then, taking off his hat, ran his hands through his hair, arranged his shirt-collar, and made two or three other efforts at an improvised toilet.

“We are late—en retard—I think,” said Sir Arthur, as they drew up at the door, where two sprucely dressed servants stood to receive them. “We dine—at eight—eight,” said he, pointing to that figure on his watch. “You 'll have only time to dress,—dress;” and he touched the lappet of his coat, for he was fairly driven to pantomime to express himself. “Hailes,” cried he to a servant in discreet black, “show the Count to his room, and attend to him; his own man has not come on, it seems,” and then, with many bows and smiles and courteous gestures, consigned his distinguished guest to the care of Mr. Hailes, and walked hurriedly upstairs to his own room.

“Such a day as I have had,” cried he, as he entered the dressing-room, where Lady Lyle was seated with a French novel. “Those fellows at the bank, led on by that creature M'Candlish, had the insolence to move an amendment to that motion of mine about the drainage loan. I almost thought they'd have given me a fit of apoplexy; but I crushed them: and I told Boyd, 'If I see any more of this, I don't care from what quarter it comes,—if these insolences be repeated,—I' ll resign the direction. It's no use making excuses, pleading that you misunderstood this or mistook that, Boyd,' said I. 'If it occurs again, I go.' And then, as if this was not enough, I 've had to talk French all the way out. By the way, where's Maitland?”

“Talk French! what do you mean by that?”

“Where's Maitland, I say?”

“He's gone off with Mark to Larne. They said they 'd not be back to dinner.”

“Here's more of it; we shall have this foreign fellow on our hands till he comes,—this Italian Count. I found him at M'Grotty's, and brought him back with me.”

“And what is he like? is he as captivating as his portrait bespeaks?”

“He is, to my mind, as vulgar a dog as ever I met: he smoked beside me all the road, though he saw how his vile tobacco set me a-coughing; and he stretched his legs over the front seat of the carriage, where, I promise you, his boots have left their impress on the silk lining; and he poked his cane at Crattle's wig, and made some impertinent remark which I could n't catch. I never was very enthusiastic about foreigners, and the present specimen has not made a convert of me.”

“Maitland likes him,” said she, languidly.

“Well, then, it is an excellent reason not to like Maitland. There's the second bell already. By the way, this Count, I suppose, takes you in to dinner?”

“I suppose so, and it is very unpleasant, for I am out of the habit of talking French. I 'll make Alice sit on the other side of him and entertain him.”

The news that the distinguished Italian friend of Mr. Norman Maitland had arrived created a sort of sensation in the house; and as the guests dropped into the drawing-room before dinner, there was no other topic than the Count. The door at last opened for his entree; and he came in unannounced, the servant being probably unable to catch the name he gave. In the absence of her father and mother, Mrs. Trafford did the honors, and received him most courteously, presenting the other guests to him, or him to them, as it might be. When it came to the turn of the Commodore, he started, and muttered, “Eh, very like, the born image of him!” and coloring deeply at his own awkwardness, mumbled out a few unmeaning commonplaces. As for the Major, he eyed him with one of his steadiest stares,—unflinching, un-blenching; and even said to Mrs. Trafford in a whisper, “I didn't catch the name; was it Green you said?” Seated between Lady Lyle and Mrs. Trafford, M'Caskey felt that he was the honored guest of the evening: Maitland's absence, so feelingly deplored by the others, gave him little regret; indeed, instinct told him that they were not men to like each other, and he was all the happier that he had the field for a while his own. It was not a very easy task to be the pleasant man of an Irish country-house, in a foreign tongue; but if any man could have success, it was M'Caskey. The incessant play of his features, the varied tones of his voice, his extraordinary gestures, appealed to those who could not follow his words, and led them very often to join in the laughter which his sallies provoked from others. He was, it is true, the exact opposite to all they had been led to expect,—he was neither well-looking, nor distinguished, nor conciliatory in manner,—there was not a trace of that insinuating softness and gentleness Maitland had spoken of,—he was, even to those who could not follow his speech, one of the most coolly unabashed fellows they had ever met, and made himself at home with a readiness that said much more for his boldness than for his breeding; and yet, withal, each was pleased in turn to see how he out-talked some heretofore tyrant of conversation, how impudently he interrupted a bore, and how mercilessly he pursued an antagonist whom he had vanquished. It is not at all improbable, too, that he owed something of bis success to that unconquerable objection people feel at confessing that they do not understand a foreign language,—the more when that language is such a cognate one as French. What a deal of ecstasy does not the polite world expend upon German drama and Italian tragedy, and how frequently are people moved to every imaginable emotion, without the slightest clew to the intention of the charmer! If he was great at the dinner-table, he was greater in the drawing-room. Scarcely was coffee served than he was twanking away with a guitar, and singing a Spanish muleteer song, with a jingling imitation of bells for the accompaniment; or seated at the piano, he carolled out a French canzonette descriptive of soldier life, far more picturesque than it was proper; and all this time there was the old Commodore cruising above and below him, eying and watching him,—growing perfectly feverish with the anxiety of his doubts, and yet unable to confirm or refute them. It was a suspicious craft; he felt that he had seen it before, and knew the rig well, and yet he was afraid to board and say, “Let me look at your papers.”

“I say, Beck, just go slyly up and say something accidentally about Barbadoes; don't ask any questions, but remark that the evening is close, or the sky threatening, or the air oppressive, just as it used to be before a tornado there.” The old sailor watched her, as he might have watched a boat-party on a cutting-out expedition; he saw her draw nigh the piano; he thought he could trace all the ingenious steps by which she neared her object; and he was convinced that she had at last thrown the shell on board him; but what was his grievous disappointment, as he saw that the little fellow had turned to her with a look of warmest admiration, and actually addressed a very ardent 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 the man; he followed me about all night, till some one carried him off to play cribbage; but he 'd leave his game every now and then to come and stare at me, till I gave him a look that said, 'If you do that again, we 'll have a talk over it in the morning.'”

“To prevent which you must leave this to-night, sir,” said Maitland. “I am not in the habit of carrying followers about with me to the country-houses where I visit.”

A very prolonged whistle was M'Caskey's first reply to this speech, and then he said: “They told me you were one of the cleverest fellows in Europe, but I don't believe a word of it; for if you were, you would never try to play the game of bully with a man of my stamp. Bigger men than Mr. Norman Maitland have tried that, and did n't come so well out of it.”

An insolent toss of the head, as he threw away his cigar, was all Maitland's answer. At last he said, “I suppose, sir, you cannot wish to drive me to say that I do not know you?”

“It would be awkward, certainly; for then I 'd be obliged to declare that I do know you.”

Instantly Maitland seized the other's arm; but M'Caskey, though not by any means so strong a man, flung off the grasp, and started back, saying, “Hands off, or I'll put a bullet through you. We've both of us lived long enough amongst foreigners to know that these are liberties that cost blood.”

“This is very silly and very unprofitable,” said Maitland, with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “There ought not, there cannot be, any quarrel between you and me. Though it is no fault of yours that this blunder has occurred, the mistake has its unpleasant side, and may lead to some embarrassment, the more as this old sea-captain is sure to remember you if you meet again. There 's only one thing for it, therefore,—get away as fast as you can. I 'll supply the pretext, and show Sir Arthur in confidence how the whole affair occurred.”

M'Caskey shook his head dubiously. “This is not to my liking, sir; it smacks of a very ignominious mode of retreat. I am to leave myself to be discussed by a number of perhaps not over-favorable critics, and defended by one who even shrinks from saying he knows me. No, no; I can't do this.”

“But remember you are not the person to whom these people meant to offer their hospitality.”

“I am Major Miles M'Caskey,” said he, drawing himself up to the full height of his five feet four inches; “and there is no mistake whatever in any consideration that is shown to the man who owns that name.”

“Yes, but why are you here,—how have you come?”

“I came by the host's invitation, and I look to you to explain how the blunder occurred, and to recognize me afterwards. That is what I expect, and what I insist on.”

“And if your old friend the Commodore, whose memory for ugly anecdotes seems inexhaustible, comes out with any unpleasant reminiscences of West Indian life—”

“Leave that to me, Mr. Norman Maitland. I 'll take care to see my friend, as you call him, and I 'll offer you a trifling wager he 'll not be a whit more anxious to claim my acquaintance than you are.”

“You appear to have no small reliance on your powers of intimidation, Major,” said Maitland, with a sneering smile.

“They have never failed me, for I have always backed them with a very steady hand and a correct eye, both of which are much at your service.”

Maitland lifted his hat and bowed an acknowledgment.

“I think we are losing our time, each of us, Major M'Caskey. There need be no question of etiquette here. You are, if I understand the matter aright, under my orders. Well, sir, these orders are, that you now start for Castle Durrow, and be prepared by Tuesday next to make me a full report of your proceedings, and produce for me, if necessary, the men you have engaged.”

The change effected in the Major's manner at these words was magical; he touched his hat in salute, and listened with all show of respect.

“It is my intention, if satisfied with your report, to recommend you for the command of the legion, with the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel,” continued Maitland; “and I have already written about those advances you mentioned.”

“I 'll take care that you are satisfied with me,” said M'Caskey, respectfully; “I'll start within half an hour.”

“This is all as it should be. I hope it is our first and last misunderstanding;” and he held out his hand frankly, which the other grasped and shook cordially. “How are you off for ready cash? Treat me as a comrade, and say freely.”

“Not over flush, but I suppose I can rub on,” said the Major, with some confusion.

“I have some thirty sovereigns here,” said Maitland; “take them, and we'll settle all when we meet.”

M'Caskey put the purse in his pocket, and, with the uneasy consciousness of a man ashamed of what he was doing, muttered out a few unmeaning words of thanks, and said, “Good-bye!”

“These condottieri rascals have been troublesome fellows in all ages,” said Maitland, as he smoked away alone; “and I suspect they are especially unsuited to our present-day life and its habits. I must rid myself of the Major.”