gambled--you have--”
“I have done nothing, sir, that should make me less worthy your esteem.
I repeat, I wish to consult you; I have outlived the hot days of my
youth--I am now alive to the claims of the world. I have talents, I
believe; and I have application, I know. I wish to fill a position in
the world that may redeem my past indolence, and do credit to my family.
Sir, I set your example before me, and I now ask your counsel, with the
determination to follow it.”
Templeton was startled; he half shaded his face with his hand, and
gazed searchingly upon the high forehead and bold eyes of his nephew. “I
believe you are sincere,” said he, after a pause.
“You may well believe so, sir.”
“Well, I will think of this. I like an honourable ambition--not too
extravagant a one,--_that_ is sinful; but a _respectable_ station in the
world is a proper object of desire, and wealth is a blessing; because,”
added the rich man, taking another slice of the pineapple,--“it enables
us to be of use to our fellow-creatures!”
“Sir, then,” said Ferrers, with daring animation--“then I avow that my
ambition is precisely of the kind you speak of. I am obscure, I desire
to be reputably known; my fortune is mediocre, I desire it to be
great. I ask you for nothing--I know your generous heart; but I wish
independently to work out my own career.”
“Lumley,” said Templeton, “I never esteemed you so much as I do now.
Listen to me--I will confide in you; I think the government are under
obligations to me.”
“I know it,” exclaimed Ferrers, whose eyes sparkled at the thought of a
sinecure--for sinecures then existed!
“And,” pursued the uncle, “I intend to ask them a favour in return.”
“Oh, sir!”
“Yes; I think--mark me--with management and address, I may--”
“Well, my dear sir!”
“Obtain a barony for myself and heirs; I trust I shall soon have a
family!”
Had somebody given Lumley Ferrers a hearty cuff on the ear, he would
have thought less of it than of this wind-up of his uncle’s ambitious
projects. His jaws fell, his eyes grew an inch larger, and he remained
perfectly speechless.
“Ay,” pursued Mr. Templeton, “I have long dreamed this; my character
is spotless, my fortune great. I have ever exerted my parliamentary
influence in favour of ministers; and, in this commercial country,
no man has higher claims than Richard Templeton to the honours of
a virtuous, loyal, and religious state. Yes, my boy,--I like your
ambition--you see I have some of it myself; and since you are sincere
in your wish to tread in my footsteps, I think I can obtain you a junior
partnership in a highly respectable establishment. Let me see; your
capital now is--
“Pardon me, sir,” interrupted Lumley, colouring with indignation despite
himself; “I honour commerce much, but my paternal relations are not such
as would allow me to enter into trade. And permit me to add,” continued
he, seizing with instant adroitness the new weakness presented to
him--“permit me to add, that those relations, who have been ever kind to
me, would, properly managed, be highly efficient in promoting your own
views of advancement; for your sake I would not break with them. Lord
Saxingham is still a minister--nay, he is in the cabinet.”
“Hem--Lumley--hem!” said Templeton, thoughtfully; “we will consider--we
will consider. Any more wine?”
“No, I thank you, sir.”
“Then I’ll just take my evening stroll, and think over matters. You
can rejoin Mrs. Templeton. And I say, Lumley,--I read prayers at nine
o’clock. Never forget your Maker, and He will not forget you. The barony
will be an excellent thing--eh?--an English peerage--yes--an English
peerage! very different from your beggarly countships abroad!”
So saying, Mr. Templeton rang for his hat and cane, and stepped into the
lawn from the window of the dining-room.
“‘The world’s mine oyster, which I with sword will open,’” muttered
Ferrers; “I would mould this selfish old man to my purpose; for, since
I have neither genius to write nor eloquence to declaim, I will at
least see whether I have not cunning to plot and courage to act.
Conduct--conduct--conduct--there lies my talent; and what is conduct but
a steady walk from a design to its execution?”
With these thoughts Ferrers sought Mrs. Templeton. He opened the
folding-doors very gently, for all his habitual movements were quick and
noiseless, and perceived that Mrs. Templeton sat by the window, and that
she seemed engrossed with a book which lay open on a little work-table
before her.
“Fordyce’s _Advice to Young Married Women_, I suppose. Sly jade!
However, I must not have her against me.”
He approached; still Mrs. Templeton did not note him; nor was it till
he stood facing her that he himself observed that her tears were falling
fast over the page.
He was a little embarrassed, and, turning towards the window, affected
to cough, and then said, without looking at Mrs. Templeton, “I fear I
have disturbed you.”
“No,” answered the same low, stifled voice that had before replied to
Lumley’s vain attempts to provoke conversation; “it was a melancholy
employment, and perhaps it is not right to indulge in it.”
“May I inquire what author so affected you.”
“It is but a volume of poems, and I am no judge of poetry; but it
contains thoughts which--which--” Mrs. Templeton paused abruptly, and
Lumley quietly took up the book.
“Ah!” said he, turning to the title-page--“my friend ought to be much
flattered.”
“Your friend?”
“Yes: this, I see, is by Ernest Maltravers, a very intimate ally of
mine.”
“I should like to see him,” cried Mrs. Templeton, almost with animation.
“I read but little; it was by chance that I met with one of his books,
and they are as if I heard a dear friend speaking to me. Ah! I should
like to see him!”
“I’m sure, madam,” said the voice of a third person, in an austere and
rebuking accent, “I do not see what good it would do your immortal soul
to see a man who writes idle verses, which appear to me, indeed, highly
immoral. I just looked into that volume this morning and found nothing
but trash--love-sonnets, and such stuff.”
Mrs. Templeton made no reply, and Lumley, in order to change the
conversation, which seemed a little too matrimonial for his taste, said,
rather awkwardly, “You are returned very soon, sir.”
“Yes, I don’t like walking in the rain!”
“Bless me, it rains, so, it does--I had not observed--”
“Are you wet, sir? had you not better--” began the wife timidly.
“No, ma’am, I’m not wet, I thank you. By the by, nephew, this new author
is a friend of yours. I wonder a man of his family should condescend
to turn author. He can come to no good. I hope you will drop his
acquaintance--authors are very unprofitable associates, I’m sure. I
trust I shall see no more of Mr. Maltravers’s books in my house.”
“Nevertheless, he is well thought of, sir, and makes no mean figure in
the world,” said Lumley, stoutly; for he was by no means disposed to
give up a friend who might be as useful to him as Mr. Templeton himself.
“Figure or no figure--I have not had many dealings with authors in my
day; and when I had I always repented it. Not sound, sir, not sound--all
cracked somewhere. Mrs. Templeton, have the kindness to get the
Prayer-book--my hassock must be fresh stuffed, it gives me quite a
pain in my knee. Lumley, will you ring the bell? Your aunt is very
melancholy. True religion is not gloomy; we will read a sermon on
Cheerfulness.”
“So, so,” said Mr. Ferrers to himself, as he undressed that night--“I
see that my uncle is a little displeased with my aunt’s pensive face--a
little jealous of her thinking of anything but himself: _tant mieux_.
I must work upon this discovery; it will not do for them to live too
happily with each other. And what with that lever, and what with his
ambitious projects, I think I see a way to push the good things of this
world a few inches nearer to Lumley Ferrers.”
CHAPTER III.
“The pride too of her step, as light
Along the unconscious earth she went,
Seemed that of one born with a right
To walk some heavenlier element.”
_Loves of the Angels._
“Can it be
That these fine impulses, these lofty thoughts
Burning with their own beauty, are but given
To make me the low slave of vanity?”--_Erinna._
“Is she not too fair
Even to think of maiden’s sweetest care?
The mouth and brow are contrasts.”--_Ibid._
IT was two or three evenings after the date of the last chapter, and
there was what the newspapers call “a select party” in one of the
noblest mansions in London. A young lady, on whom all eyes were bent,
and whose beauty might have served the painter for a model of Semiramis
or Zenobia, more majestic than became her years, and so classically
faultless as to have something cold and statue-like in its haughty
lineaments, was moving through the crowd that murmured applauses as she
passed. This lady was Florence Lascelles, the daughter of Lumley’s great
relation, the Earl of Saxingham, and supposed to be the richest heiress
in England. Lord Saxingham himself drew aside his daughter as she swept
along.
“Florence,” said he in a whisper, “the Duke of ------ is greatly struck
with you--be civil to him--I am about to present him.”
So saying, the earl turned to a small, dark, stiff-looking man, of about
twenty-eight years of age, at his left, and introduced the Duke of-----
introduction between the greatest match and the wealthiest heiress in
the peerage.
“Lady Florence,” said Lord Saxingham, “is as fond of horses as yourself,
duke, though not quite so good a judge.”
“I confess I _do_ like horses,” said the duke, with an ingenuous air.
Lord Saxingham moved away.
Lady Florence stood mute--one glance of bright contempt shot from her
large eyes; her lip slightly curled, and she then half turned aside, and
seemed to forget that her new acquaintance was in existence.
His grace, like most great personages, was not apt to take offence; nor
could he, indeed, ever suppose that any slight towards the Duke of ------
could be intended; still he thought it would be proper in Lady
Florence to begin the conversation; for he himself, though not shy, was
habitually silent, and accustomed to be saved the fatigue of defraying
the small charges of society. After a pause, seeing, however, that Lady
Florence remained speechless, he began:
“You ride sometimes in the Park, Lady Florence?”
“Very seldom.”
“It is, indeed, too warm for riding at present.”
“I did not say so.”
“Hem--I thought you did.”
Another pause.
“Did you speak, Lady Florence?”
“No.”
“Oh, I beg pardon--Lord Saxingham is looking very well.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“Your picture in the exhibition scarcely does you justice, Lady
Florence; yet Lawrence is usually happy.”
“You are very flattering,” said Lady Florence, with a lively and
perceptible impatience in her tone and manner. The young beauty was
thoroughly spoilt--and now all the scorn of a scornful nature was drawn
forth, by observing the envious eyes of the crowd were bent upon one
whom the Duke of ------ was actually talking to. Brilliant as were her
own powers of conversation, she would not deign to exert them--she was
an aristocrat of intellect rather than birth, and she took it into her
head that the duke was an idiot. She was very much mistaken. If she had
but broken up the ice, she would have found that the water below was not
shallow. The duke, in fact, like many other Englishmen, though he did
not like the trouble of showing forth, and had an ungainly manner, was
a man who had read a good deal, possessed a sound head and an honourable
mind, though he did not know what it was to love anybody, to care
much for anything, and was at once perfectly sated and yet perfectly
contented; for apathy is the combination of satiety and content.
Still Florence judged of him as lively persons are apt to judge of the
sedate; besides, she wanted to proclaim to him and to everybody else,
how little she cared for dukes and great matches; she, therefore, with a
slight inclination of her head, turned away, and extended her hand to
a dark young man, who was gazing on her with that respectful but
unmistakable admiration which proud women are never proud enough to
despise.
“Ah, signor,” said she, in Italian, “I am so glad to see you; it is a
relief, indeed, to find genius in a crowd of nothings.”
So saying, the heiress seated herself on one of those convenient couches
which hold but two, and beckoned the Italian to her side. Oh, how the
vain heart of Castruccio Cesarini beat!--what visions of love, rank,
wealth, already flitted before him!
“I almost fancy,” said Castruccio, “that the old days of romance are
returned, when a queen could turn from princes and warriors to listen to
a troubadour.”
“Troubadours are now more rare than warriors and princes,” replied
Florence, with gay animation, which contrasted strongly with the
coldness she had manifested to the Duke of ------, “and therefore it
would not now be a very great merit in a queen to fly from dulness and
insipidity to poetry and wit.”
“Ah, say not wit,” said Cesarini; “wit is incompatible with the
grave character of deep feelings;--incompatible with enthusiasm, with
worship;--incompatible with the thoughts that wait upon Lady Florence
Lascelles.”
Florence coloured and slightly frowned; but the immense distinction
between her position and that of the young foreigner, with her own
inexperience, both of real life and the presumption of vain hearts,
made her presently forget the flattery that would have offended her in
another. She turned the conversation, however, into general channels,
and she talked of Italian poetry with a warmth and eloquence worthy of
the theme. While they thus conversed, a new guest had arrived, who, from
the spot where he stood, engaged with Lord Saxingham, fixed a steady and
scrutinising gaze upon the pair.
“Lady Florence has indeed improved,” said this new guest. “I could not
have conceived that England boasted any one half so beautiful.”
“She certainly is handsome, my dear Lumley,--the Lascelles cast of
countenance,” replied Lord Saxingham, “and so gifted! She is positively
learned--quite a _bas bleu_. I tremble to think of the crowd of poets
and painters who will make a fortune out of her enthusiasm. _Entre
nous_, Lumley, I could wish her married to a man of sober sense, like
the Duke of ------; for sober sense is exactly what she wants. Do
observe, she has been sitting just half an hour flirting with that
odd-looking adventurer, a Signor Cesarini, merely because he writes
sonnets and wears a dress like a stage-player!”
“It is the weakness of the sex, my dear lord,” said Lumley; “they like
to patronise, and they dote upon all oddities, from China monsters to
cracked poets. But I fancy, by a restless glance cast every now and then
around the room, that my beautiful cousin has in her something of the
coquette.”
“There you are quite right, Lumley,” returned Lord Saxingham, laughing;
“but I will not quarrel with her for breaking hearts and refusing
hands, if she do but grow steady at last, and settle into the Duchess
of------.”
“Duchess of ------!” repeated Lumley, absently; “well, I will go and
present myself. I see she is growing tired of the signor. I will sound
her as to the ducal impressions, my dear lord.”
“Do--I dare not,” replied the father; “she is an excellent girl, but
heiresses are always contradictory. It was very foolish to deprive me
of all control over her fortune. Come and see me again soon, Lumley. I
suppose you are going abroad?”
“No, I shall settle in England; but of my prospects and plans more
hereafter.”
With this, Lumley quietly glided away to Florence. There was something
in Ferrers that was remarkable from its very simplicity. His clear,
sharp features, with the short hair and high brow--the absolute
plainness of his dress, and the noiseless, easy, self-collected calm of
all his motions, made a strong contrast to the showy Italian, by whose
side he now stood. Florence looked up at him with some little surprise
at his intrusion.
“Ah, you don’t recollect me!” said Lumley, with his pleasant laugh.
“Faithless Imogen, after all your vows of constancy! Behold your Alonzo!
‘The worms they crept in and the worms they crept out.’
“Don’t you remember how you trembled when I told you that true story, as
we
‘Conversed as we sat on the green”?
“Oh!” cried Florence, “it is indeed you, my dear cousin--my dear Lumley!
What an age since we parted!”
“Don’t talk of age--it is an ugly word to a man of my years. Pardon,
signor, if I disturb you.”
And here Lumley, with a low bow, slid coolly into the place which
Cesarini, who had shyly risen, left vacant for him. Castruccio looked
disconcerted; but Florence had forgotten him in her delight at seeing
Lumley, and Cesarini moved discontentedly away, and seated himself at a
distance.
“And I come back,” continued Lumley, “to find you a confirmed beauty and
a professional coquette--don’t blush!”
“Do they, indeed, call me a coquette?”
“Oh, yes,--for once the world is just.”
“Perhaps I do deserve the reproach. Oh, Lumley, how I despise all that I
see and hear!”
“What, even the Duke of ------?”
“Yes, I fear even the Duke of ------ is no exception!”
“Your father will go mad if he hear you.”
“My father!--my poor father!--yes, he thinks the utmost that I, Florence
Lascelles, am made for, is to wear a ducal coronet, and give the best
balls in London.”
“And pray what was Florence Lascelles made for?”
“Ah! I cannot answer the question. I fear for Discontent and Disdain.”
“You are an enigma--but I will take pains and not rest till I solve
you.”
“I defy you.”
“Thanks--better defy than despise.
“Oh, you must be strangely altered, if I can despise you.”
“Indeed! what do you remember of me?”
“That you were frank, bold, and therefore, I suppose, true!--that
you shocked my aunts and my father by your contempt for the vulgar
hypocrisies of our conventional life. Oh, no! I cannot despise you.”
Lumley raised his eyes to those of Florence--he gazed on her long and
earnestly--ambitious hopes rose high within him.
“My fair cousin,” said he, in an altered and serious tone, “I see
something in your spirit kindred to mine; and I am glad that yours is
one of the earliest voices which confirm my new resolves on my return to
busy England!”
“And those resolves?”
“Are an Englishman’s--energetic and ambitious.”
“Alas, ambition! How many false portraits are there of the great
original!”
Lumley thought he had found a clue to the heart of his cousin, and he
began to expatiate, with unusual eloquence, on the nobleness of that
daring sin which “lost angels heaven.” Florence listened to him with
attention, but not with sympathy. Lumley was deceived. His was not an
ambition that could attract the fastidious but high-souled Idealist.
The selfishness of his nature broke out in all the sentiments that he
fancied would seem to her most elevated. Place--power--titles--all these
objects were low and vulgar to one who saw them daily at her feet.
At a distance the Duke of ------ continued from time to time to direct
his cold gaze at Florence. He did not like her the less for not seeming
to court him. He had something generous within him, and could understand
her. He went away at last, and thought seriously of Florence as a wife.
Not a wife for companionship, for friendship, for love; but a wife who
could take the trouble of rank off his hands--do him honour, and raise
him an heir, whom he might flatter himself would be his own.
From his corner also, with dreams yet more vain and daring, Castruccio
Cesarini cast his eyes upon the queen-like brow of the great heiress.
Oh, yes, she had a soul--she could disdain rank and revere genius!
What a triumph over De Montaigne--Maltravers--all the world, if he, the
neglected poet, could win the hand for which the magnates of the earth
sighed in vain! Pure and lofty as he thought himself, it was her birth
and her wealth which Cesarini adored in Florence. And Lumley, nearer
perhaps to the prize than either--yet still far off--went on conversing,
with eloquent lips and sparkling eyes, while his cold heart was planning
every word, dictating every glance, and laying out (for the most worldly
are often the most visionary) the chart for a royal road to fortune.
And Florence Lascelles, when the crowd had dispersed and she sought her
chamber, forgot all three; and with that morbid romance often peculiar
to those for whom Fate smiles the most, mused over the ideal image of
the one she _could_ love--“in maiden meditation _not_ fancy-free!”
CHAPTER IV.
“In mea vesanas habui dispendia vires,
Et valui poenas fortis in ipse meas.” *--OVID.
* I had the strength of a madman to my own cost, and employed that
strength in my own punishment.
“Then might my breast be read within,
A thousand volumes would be written there.”
EARL OF STIRLING.
ERNEST MALTRAVERS was at the height of his reputation; the work which
he had deemed the crisis that was to make or mar him was the most
brilliantly successful of all he had yet committed to the public.
Certainly, chance did as much for it as merit, as is usually the case
with works that become instantaneously popular. We may hammer away at
the casket with strong arm and good purpose, and all in vain; when some
morning a careless stroke hits the right nail on the head, and we secure
the treasure.
It was at this time, when in the prime of youth--rich, courted,
respected, run after--that Ernest Maltravers fell seriously ill. It was
no active or visible disease, but a general irritability of the nerves,
and a languid sinking of the whole frame. His labours began, perhaps, to
tell against him. In earlier life he had been as active as a hunter
of the chamois, and the hardy exercise of his frame counteracted the
effects of a restless and ardent mind. The change from an athletic to a
sedentary habit of life--the wear and tear of the brain--the absorbing
passion for knowledge which day and night kept all his faculties in a
stretch; made strange havoc in a constitution naturally strong. The poor
author! how few persons understand; and forbear with, and pity him!
He sells his health and youth to a rugged taskmaster. And, O blind and
selfish world, you expect him to be as free of manner, and as pleasant
of cheer, and as equal of mood, as if he were passing the most agreeable
and healthful existence that pleasure could afford to smooth the
wrinkles of the mind, or medicine invent to regulate the nerves of
the body. But there was, besides all this, another cause that operated
against the successful man!--His heart was too solitary. He lived
without the sweet household ties--the connections and amities he formed
excited for a moment, but possessed no charm to comfort or to soothe.
Cleveland resided so much in the country, and was of so much calmer
a temperament, and so much more advanced in age, that, with all the
friendship that subsisted between them, there was none of that daily and
familiar interchange of confidence which affectionate natures demand
as the very food of life. Of his brother (as the reader will conjecture
from never having been formally presented to him) Ernest saw but little.
Colonel Maltravers, one of the gayest and handsomest men of his time,
married a fine lady, lived principally at Paris, except when, for a
few weeks in the shooting season, he filled his country house with
companions who had nothing in common with Ernest: the brothers
corresponded regularly every quarter, and saw each other once a
year--this was all their intercourse. Ernest Maltravers stood in the
world alone, with that cold but anxious spectre--Reputation.
It was late at night. Before a table covered with the monuments of
erudition and thought sat a young man with a pale and worn countenance.
The clock in the room told with a fretting distinctness every moment
that lessened the journey to the grave. There was an anxious and
expectant expression on the face of the student, and from time to time
he glanced to the clock, and muttered to himself. Was it a letter from
some adored mistress--the soothing flattery from some mighty arbiter of
arts and letters--that the young man eagerly awaited? No; the aspirer
was forgotten in the valetudinarian. Ernest Maltravers was waiting the
visit of his physician, whom at that late hour a sudden thought had
induced him to summon from his rest. At length the well-known knock
was heard, and in a few moments the physician entered. He was one well
versed in the peculiar pathology of book men, and kindly as well as
skilful.
“My dear Mr. Maltravers, what is this? How are we?--not seriously ill, I
hope--no relapse--pulse low and irregular, I see, but no fever. You are
nervous.”
“Doctor,” said the student, “I did not send for you at this time of
night from the idle fear or fretful caprice of an invalid. But when I
saw you this morning, you dropped some hints which have haunted me ever
since. Much that it befits the conscience and the soul to attend to
without loss of time depends upon my full knowledge of my real state.
If I understand you rightly, I may have but a short time to live--is it
so?”
“Indeed!” said the doctor, turning away his face; “you have exaggerated
my meaning. I did not say that you were in what we technically call
danger.”
“Am I then likely to be a _long_-lived man?”
The doctor coughed--“That is uncertain, my dear young friend,” said he,
after a pause.
“Be plain with me. The plans of life must be based upon such
calculations as we can reasonably form of its probable duration. Do not
fancy that I am weak enough or coward enough to shrink from any abyss
which I have approached unconsciously; I desire--I adjure--nay, I
command you to be explicit.”
There was an earnest and solemn dignity in his patient’s voice and
manner which deeply touched and impressed the good physician.
“I will answer you frankly,” said he; “you overwork the nerves and
the brain; if you do not relax, you will subject yourself to confirmed
disease and premature death. For several months--perhaps for years
to come--you should wholly cease from literary labour. Is this a hard
sentence? You are rich and young--enjoy yourself while you can.”
Maltravers appeared satisfied--changed the conversation--talked easily
on other matters for a few minutes: nor was it till he had dismissed
his physician that he broke forth with the thoughts that were burning in
him.
“Oh!” cried he aloud, as he rose and paced the room with rapid strides;
“now, when I see before me the broad and luminous path, am I to be
condemned to halt and turn aside? A vast empire rises on my view,
greater than that of Caesars and conquerors--an empire durable and
universal in the souls of men, that time itself cannot overthrow; and
Death marches with me, side by side, and the skeleton hand waves me back
to the nothingness of common men.”
He paused at the casement--he threw it open, and leant forth and gasped
for air. Heaven was serene and still, as morning came coldly forth
amongst the waning stars; and the haunts of men, in their thoroughfare
of idleness and of pleasure, were desolate and void. Nothing, save
Nature, was awake.
“And if, O stars!” murmured Maltravers, from the depth of his excited
heart--“if I have been insensible to your solemn beauty--if the Heaven
and the Earth had been to me but as air and clay--if I were one of a
dull and dim-eyed herd--I might live on, and drop into the grave from
the ripeness of unprofitable years. It is because I yearn for the great
objects of an immortal being, that life shrinks and shrivels up like a
scroll. Away! I will not listen to these human and material monitors,
and consider life as a thing greater than the things that I would live
for. My choice is made, glory is more persuasive than the grave.”
He turned impatiently from the casement--his eyes flashed--his chest
heaved--he trod the chamber with a monarch’s air. All the calculations
of prudence, all the tame and methodical reasonings with which, from
time to time, he had sought to sober down the impetuous man into the
calm machine, faded away before the burst of awful and commanding
passions that swept over his soul. Tell a man, in the full tide of his
triumphs, that he bears death within him; and what crisis of thought can
be more startling and more terrible!
Maltravers had, as we have seen, cared little for fame, till fame had
been brought within his reach: then, with every step he took, new
Alps had arisen. Each new conjecture brought to light a new truth that
demanded enforcement or defence. Rivalry and competition chafed his
blood, and kept his faculties at their full speed. He had the generous
race-horse spirit of emulation. Ever in action, ever in progress,
cheered on by the sarcasms of foes, even more than by the applause of
friends, the desire of glory had become the habit of existence. When we
have commenced a career, what stop is there till the grave?--where is
the definite barrier of that ambition which, like the eastern bird,
seems ever on the wing, and never rests upon the earth? Our names are
not settled till our death: the ghosts of what we have done are made our
haunting monitors--our scourging avengers--if ever we cease to do,
or fall short of the younger past. Repose is oblivion; to pause is to
unravel all the web that we have woven--until the tomb closes over
us, and men, just when it is too late, strike the fair balance between
ourselves and our rivals; and we are measured, not by the least, but
by the greatest triumphs we have achieved. Oh, what a crushing sense of
impotence comes over us, when we feel that our frame cannot support our
mind--when the hand can no longer execute what the soul, actively as
ever, conceives and desires!--the quick life tied to the dead form--the
ideas fresh as immortality, gushing forth rich and golden, and the
broken nerves, and the aching frame, and the weary eyes!--the spirit
athirst for liberty and heaven--and the damning, choking consciousness
that we are walled up and prisoned in a dungeon that must be our
burial-place! Talk not of freedom--there is no such thing as freedom to
a man whose body is the gaol, whose infirmities are the racks, of his
genius!
Maltravers paused at last, and threw himself on his sofa, wearied and
exhausted. Involuntarily, and as a half unconscious means of escaping
from his conflicting and profitless emotions, he turned to several
letters, which had for hours lain unopened on his table. Every one, the
seal of which he broke, seemed to mock his state--every one seemed to
attest the felicity of his fortunes. Some bespoke the admiring sympathy
of the highest and wisest--one offered him a brilliant opening into
public life--another (it was from Cleveland) was fraught with all the
proud and rapturous approbation of a prophet whose auguries are at last
fulfilled. At that letter Maltravers sighed deeply, and paused before he
turned to the others. The last he opened was in an unknown hand, nor was
any name affixed to it. Like all writers of some note, Maltravers was
in the habit of receiving anonymous letters of praise, censure, warning,
and exhortation--especially from young ladies at boarding schools, and
old ladies in the country; but there was that in the first sentences of
the letter, which he now opened with a careless hand, that riveted his
attention. It was a small and beautiful handwriting, yet the letters
were more clear and bold than they usually are in feminine caligraphy.
“Ernest Maltravers,” began this singular effusion, “have you weighed
yourself? Are you aware of your capacities? Do you feel that for you
there may be a more dazzling reputation that that which appears to
content you? You who seem to penetrate into the subtlest windings of the
human heart, and to have examined nature as through a glass--you, whose
thoughts stand forth like armies marshalled in defence of truth, bold
and dauntless, and without a stain upon their glittering armour;--are
you, at your age, and with your advantages, to bury yourself amidst
books and scrolls? Do you forget that action is the grand career for men
who think as you do? Will this word-weighing and picture-writing--the
cold eulogies of pedants--the listless praises of literary idlers,
content all the yearnings of your ambition? You were not made solely for
the closet; ‘The Dreams of Pindus, and the Aonian Maids’ cannot endure
through the noon of manhood. You are too practical for the mere poet,
and too poetical to sink into the dull tenor of a learned life. I have
never seen you, yet I know you--I read your spirit in your page; that
aspiration for something better and greater than the great and the
good, which colours all your passionate revelations of yourself and
others--cannot be satisfied merely by ideal images. You cannot be
contented, as poets and historians mostly are, by becoming great only
from delineating great men, or imagining great events, or describing
a great era. Is it not worthier of you to be what you fancy or relate?
Awake, Maltravers, awake! Look into your heart, and feel your proper
destinies. And who am I that thus address you?--a woman whose soul is
filled with you--a woman in whom your eloquence has awakened, amidst
frivolous and vain circles, the sense of a new existence--a woman who
would make you, yourself, the embodied ideal of your own thoughts and
dreams, and who would ask from earth no other lot than that of following
you on the road of fame with the eyes of her heart. Mistake me not; I
repeat that I have never seen you, nor do I wish it; you might be
other than I imagine, and I should lose an idol, and be left without
a worship. I am a kind of visionary Rosicrucian: it is a spirit that I
adore, and not a being like myself. You imagine, perhaps, that I have
some purpose to serve in this--I have no object in administering to your
vanity; and if I judge you rightly, this letter is one that might make
you vain without a blush. Oh, the admiration that does not spring from
holy and profound sources of emotion--how it saddens us or disgusts!
I have had my share of vulgar homage, and it only makes me feel doubly
alone. I am richer than you are--I have youth--I have what they call
beauty. And neither riches, youth, nor beauty ever gave me the silent
and deep happiness I experience when I think of you. This is a worship
that might, I repeat, well make even you vain. Think of these words, I
implore you. Be worthy, not of my thoughts, but of the shape in which
they represent you: and every ray of glory that surrounds you
will brighten my own way, and inspire me with a kindred emulation.
Farewell.--I may write to you again, but you will never discover me; and
in life I pray that we may never meet!”
CHAPTER V.
“Our list of nobles next let Amri grace.”
_Absalom and Achitophel_.
“Sine me vacivum tempus ne quod dem mihi Laboris.” *--TER.
* Suffer me to employ my spare time in some kind of labour.
“I CAN’T think,” said one of a group of young men, loitering by the
steps of a clubhouse in St. James’s Street--“I can’t think what has
chanced to Maltravers. Do you observe (as he walks--there--the other
side of the way) how much he is altered? He stoops like an old man, and
hardly ever lifts his eyes from the ground. He certainly seems sick and
sad.”
“Writing books, I suppose.”
“Or privately married.”
“Or growing too rich--rich men are always unhappy beings.”
“Ha, Ferrers, how are you?”
“So-so. What’s the news?” replied Lumley.
“Rattler pays forfeit.”
“O! but in politics?”
“Hang politics--are you turned politician?”
“At my age, what else is there left to do?”
“I thought so, by your hat; all politicians sport odd-looking hats: it
is very remarkable, but that is the great symptom of the disease.”
“My hat!--_is_ it odd?” said Ferrers, taking off the commodity in
question, and seriously regarding it.
“Why, who ever saw such a brim?”
“Glad you think so.”
“Why, Ferrers?”
“Because it is a prudent policy in this country to surrender something
trifling up to ridicule. If people can abuse your hat or your carriage,
or the shape of your nose, or a wart on your chin, they let slip a
thousand more important matters. ‘Tis the wisdom of the camel-driver,
who gives up his gown for the camel to trample on, that he may escape
himself.”
“How droll you are, Ferrers! Well, I shall turn in, and read the papers;
and you--”
“Shall pay my visits and rejoice in my hat.”
“Good day to you; by the by, your friend, Maltravers, has just passed,
looking thoughtful, and talking to himself. What’s the matter with him?”
“Lamenting, perhaps, that he, too, does not wear an odd hat for
gentlemen like you to laugh at, and leave the rest of him in peace. Good
day.”
On went Ferrers, and soon found himself in the Mall of the Park. Here he
was joined by Mr. Templeton.
“Well, Lumley,” said the latter (and it may be here remarked that Mr.
Templeton now exhibited towards his nephew a greater respect of manner
and tone than he had thought it necessary to observe before)--“well,
Lumley, and have you seen Lord Saxingham?”
“I have, sir; and I regret to say--”
“I thought so--I thought it,” interrupted Templeton: “no gratitude in
public men--no wish, in high place, to honour virtue!”
“Pardon me; Lord Saxingham declares that he should be delighted to
forward your views--that no man more deserves a peerage; but that--”
“Oh, yes; always _buts_!”
“But that there are so many claimants at present whom it is impossible
to satisfy; and--and--but I feel I ought not to go on.”
“Proceed, sir, I beg.”
“Why, then, Lord Saxingham is (I must be frank) a man who has a great
regard for his own family. Your marriage (a source, my dear uncle, of
the greatest gratification to _me_) cuts off the probable chance of your
fortune and title, if you acquire the latter, descending to--”
“Yourself!” put in Templeton, drily. “Your relation seems, for the first
time, to have discovered how dear your interests are to him.”
“For me, individually, sir, my relation does not care a rush--but he
cares a great deal for any member of his house being rich and in high
station. It increases the range and credit of his connections; and Lord
Saxingham is a man whom connections help to keep great. To be plain with
you, he will not stir in this business, because he does not see how his
kinsman is to be benefited, or his house strengthened.”
“Public virtue!” exclaimed Templeton.
“Virtue, my dear uncle, is a female: as long as she is private property,
she is excellent; but public virtue, like any other public lady, is a
common prostitute.”
“Pshaw!” grunted Templeton, who was too much out of humour to read his
nephew the lecture he might otherwise have done upon the impropriety of
his simile; for Mr. Templeton was one of those men who hold it vicious
to talk of vice as existing in the world; he was very much shocked to
hear anything called by its proper name.
“Has not Mrs. Templeton some connections that may be useful to you?”
“No, sir!” cried the uncle, in a voice of thunder.
“Sorry to hear it--but we cannot expect all things: you have married
for love--you have a happy home, a charming wife--this is better than a
title and a fine lady.”
“Mr. Lumley Ferrers, you may spare me your consolations. My wife--”
“Loves you dearly, I dare say,” said the imperturbable nephew. “She has
so much sentiment, is so fond of poetry. Oh, yes, she must love one who
has done so much for her.”
“Done so much; what do you mean?”
“Why, with your fortune--your station--your just ambition--you,
who might have married any one; nay, by remaining unmarried, have
conciliated all my interested, selfish relations--hang them--you have
married a lady without connections--and what more could you do for her?”
“Pooh, pooh; you don’t know all.”
Here Templeton stopped short, as if about to say too much, and frowned;
then, after a pause, he resumed, “Lumley, I have married, it is true.
You may not be my heir, but I will make it up to you--that is, if you
deserve my affection.”
“My dear unc--”
“Don’t interrupt me, I have projects for you. Let our interests be
the same. The title may yet descend to you. I may have no male
offspring--meanwhile, draw on me to any reasonable amount--young men
have expenses--but be prudent, and if you want to get on in the world,
never let the world detect you in a scrape. There, leave me now.”
“My best, my heartfelt thanks!”
“Hush--sound Lord Saxingham again; I must and will have this bauble--I
have set my heart on it.” So saying, Templeton waved away his nephew,
and musingly pursued his path towards Hyde Park Corner, where his
carriage awaited him. As soon as he entered his demesnes, he saw
his wife’s daughter running across the lawn to greet him. His heart
softened; he checked the carriage and descended: he caressed her, he
played with her, he laughed as she laughed. No parent could be more
fond.
“Lumley Ferrers has talent to do me honour,” said he, anxiously, “but
his principles seem unstable. However, surely that open manner is the
sign of a good heart.”
Meanwhile, Ferrers, in high spirits, took his way to Ernest’s house. His
friend was not at home, but Ferrers never wanted a host’s presence in
order to be at home himself. Books were round him in abundance, but
Ferrers was not one of those who read for amusement. He threw himself
into an easy-chair, and began weaving new meshes of ambition and
intrigue. At length the door opened, and Maltravers entered.
“Why, Ernest, how ill you are looking!”
“I have not been well, but I am now recovering. As physicians recommend
change of air to ordinary patients--so I am about to try change of
habit. Active I must be--action is the condition of my being; but I must
have done with books from the present. You see me in a new character.”
“How?”
“That of a public man--I have entered parliament.”
“You astonish me!--I have read the papers this morning. I see not even a
vacancy, much less an election.”
“It is all managed by the lawyer and the banker. In other words, my seat
is a close borough.”
“No bore of constituents. I congratulate you, and envy. I wish I were in
parliament myself.”
“You! I never fancied you bitten by the political mania.”
“Political!--no. But it is the most respectable way, with luck, of
living on the public. Better than swindling.”
“A candid way of viewing the question. But I thought at one time you
were half a Benthamite, and that your motto was, ‘The greatest happiness
of the greatest number.’”
“The greatest number to me is number _one_. I agree with the
Pythagoreans--unity is the perfect principle of creation! Seriously, how
can you mistake the principles of opinion for the principles of conduct?
I am a Benthamite, a benevolist, as a logician--but the moment I leave
the closet for the world, I lay aside speculation for others, and act
for myself.”
“You are, at least, more frank than prudent in these confessions.”
“There you are wrong. It is by affecting to be worse than we are that
we become popular--and we get credit for being both honest and practical
fellows. My uncle’s mistake is to be a hypocrite in words: it rarely
answers. Be frank in words, and nobody will suspect hypocrisy in your
designs.”
Maltravers gazed hard at Ferrers--something revolted and displeased
his high-wrought Platonism in the easy wisdom of his old friend. But he
felt, almost for the first time, that Ferrers was a man to get on in the
world--and he sighed; I hope it was for the world’s sake.
After a short conversation on indifferent matters, Cleveland was
announced; and Ferrers, who could make nothing out of Cleveland, soon
withdrew. Ferrers was now becoming an economist in his time.
“My dear Maltravers,” said Cleveland, when they were alone, “I am so
glad to see you; for, in the first place, I rejoice to find you are
extending your career of usefulness.”
“Usefulness--ah, let me think so! Life is so uncertain and so short,
that we cannot too soon bring the little it can yield into the great
commonwealth of the Beautiful or the Honest; and both belong to and make
up the Useful. But in politics, and in a highly artificial state, what
doubts beset us! what darkness surrounds! If we connive at abuses, we
juggle with our own reason and integrity--if we attack them, how much,
how fatally we may derange that solemn and conventional ORDER which is
the mainspring of the vast machine! How little, too, can one man, whose
talents may not be in that coarse road--in that mephitic atmosphere, be
enabled to effect!”
“He may effect a vast deal even without eloquence or labour:--he may
effect a vast deal, if he can set one example, amidst a crowd of selfish
aspirants and heated fanatics, of an honest and dispassionate man.
He may effect more, if he may serve among the representatives of that
hitherto unrepresented thing--Literature; if he redeem, by an ambition
above place and emolument, the character for subservience that
court-poets have obtained for letters--if he may prove that speculative
knowledge is not disjoined from the practical world, and maintain the
dignity of disinterestedness that should belong to learning. But the
end of a scientific morality is not to serve others only, but also to
perfect and accomplish our individual selves; our own souls are a solemn
trust to our own lives. You are about to add to your experience of human
motives and active men; and whatever additional wisdom you acquire
will become equally evident and equally useful, no matter whether it be
communicated through action or in books. Enough of this, my dear Ernest.
I have come to dine with you, and make you accompany me to-night to
a house where you will be welcome, and I think interested. Nay,
no excuses. I have promised Lord Latimer that he shall make your
acquaintance, and he is one of the most eminent men with whom political
life will connect you.”
And to this change of habits, from the closet to the senate, had
Maltravers been induced by a state of health, which, with most men,
would have been an excuse for indolence. Indolent he could not be; he
had truly said to Ferrers, that “action was the condition of his being.”
If THOUGHT, with its fever and aching tension, had been too severe a
taskmaster on the nerves and brain, the coarse and homely pursuit of
practical politics would leave the imagination and intellect in repose,
while it would excite the hardier qualities and gifts, which animate
without exhausting. So, at least, hoped Maltravers. He remembered the
profound saying in one of his favourite German authors, “that to keep
the mind and body in perfect health, it is necessary to mix habitually
and betimes in the common affairs of men.” And the anonymous
correspondent;--had her exhortations any influence on his decision? I
know not. But when Cleveland left him, Maltravers unlocked his desk, and
re-perused the last letter he had received from the Unknown. The _last_
letter!--yes, those epistles had now become frequent.
CHAPTER VI.
* * * * “Le brillant de votre esprit donne un si grand
eclat a votre teint et a vos yeux, que quoiqu’il semble
que l’esprit ne doit toucher que les oreilles, il est
pourtaut certain que la votre eblouit les yeux.” *
_Lettres de Madame de Sevigne_.
* The brilliancy of your wit gives so great a lustre to your complexion
and your eyes, that, though it seems that wit should only reach the
ears, it is altogether certain that yours dazzles the eyes.
AT Lord Latimer’s house were assembled some hundreds of those persons
who are rarely found together in London society; for business, politics,
and literature draught off the most eminent men, and usually leave
to houses that receive the world little better than indolent rank or
ostentatious wealth. Even the young men of pleasure turn up their noses
at parties now-a-days, and find society a bore. But there are some dozen
or two of houses, the owners of which are both apart from and above the
fashion, in which a foreigner may see, collected under the same roof,
many of the most remarkable men of busy, thoughtful, majestic England.
Lord Latimer himself had been a cabinet minister. He retired from public
life on pretence of ill-health; but, in reality, because its anxious
bustle was not congenial to a gentle and accomplished, but somewhat
feeble, mind. With a high reputation and an excellent cook he enjoyed a
great popularity, both with his own party and the world in general; and
he was the centre of a small, but distinguished circle of acquaintances,
who drank Latimer’s wine, and quoted Latimer’s sayings, and liked
Latimer much better, because, not being author or minister, he was not
in their way.
Lord Latimer received Maltravers with marked courtesy, and even
deference, and invited him to join his own whist-table, which was one
of the highest compliments his lordship could pay to his intellect. But
when his guest refused the proffered honour, the earl turned him over
to the countess, as having become the property of the womankind; and was
soon immersed in his aspirations for the odd trick.
Whilst Maltravers was conversing with Lady Latimer, he happened to
raise his eyes, and saw opposite to him a young lady of such
remarkable beauty, that he could scarcely refrain from an admiring
exclamation.--“And who,” he asked, recovering himself, “is that lady?
It is strange that even I, who go so little into the world, should be
compelled to inquire the name of one whose beauty must already have made
her celebrated.”
“Oh, Lady Florence Lascelles--she came out last year. She is, indeed,
most brilliant, yet more so in mind and accomplishments than face. I
must be allowed to introduce you.”
At this offer, a strange shyness, and as it were reluctant distrust,
seized Maltravers--a kind of presentiment of danger and evil. He drew
back, and would have made some excuse, but Lady Latimer did not heed his
embarrassment, and was already by the side of Lady Florence Lascelles. A
moment more, and beckoning to Maltravers, the countess presented him to
the lady. As he bowed and seated himself beside his new acquaintance, he
could not but observe that her cheeks were suffused with the most lively
blushes, and that she received him with a confusion not common even in
ladies just brought out, and just introduced to “a lion.” He was rather
puzzled than flattered by these tokens of an embarrassment, somewhat
akin to his own; and the first few sentences of their conversation
passed off with a certain awkwardness and reserve. At this moment, to
the surprise, perhaps to the relief, of Ernest, they were joined by
Lumley Ferrers.
“Ah, Lady Florence, I kiss your hands--I am charmed to find you
acquainted with my friend Maltravers.”
“And Mr. Ferrers, what makes him so late to-night?” asked the fair
Florence, with a sudden ease, which rather startled Maltravers.
“A dull dinner, _voila tout_--I have no other excuse.” And Ferrers,
sliding into a vacant chair on the other side of Lady Florence,
conversed volubly and unceasingly, as if seeking to monopolise her
attention.
Ernest had not been so much captivated with the manner of Florence as he
had been struck with her beauty, and now, seeing her apparently engaged
with another, he rose and quietly moved away. He was soon one of a knot
of men who were conversing on the absorbing topics of the day; and as
by degrees the exciting subject brought out his natural eloquence and
masculine sense, the talkers became listeners, the knot widened into a
circle, and he himself was unconsciously the object of general attention
and respect.
“And what think you of Mr. Maltravers?” asked Ferrers, carelessly; “does
he keep up your expectations?”
Lady Florence had sunk into a reverie, and Ferrers repeated his
question.
“He is younger than I imagined him,--and--and--”
“Handsomer, I suppose, you mean.”
“No! calmer and less animated.”
“He seems animated enough now,” said Ferrers; “but your ladylike
conversation failed in striking the Promethean spark. ‘Lay that
flattering unction to your soul.’”
“Ah, you are right--he must have thought me very--”
“Beautiful, no doubt.”
“Beautiful!--I hate the word, Lumley. I wish I were not handsome--I
might then get some credit for my intellect.”
“Humph!” said Ferrers, significantly.
“Oh, you don’t think so, sceptic,” said Florence, shaking her head with
a slight laugh, and an altered manner.
“Does it matter what I think,” said Ferrers, with an attempted touch at
the sentimental, “when Lord This, and Lord That, and Mr. So-and-so, and
Count What-d’ye-call-him, are all making their way to you, to dispossess
me of my envied monopoly?”
While Ferrers spoke, several of the scattered loungers grouped around
Florence, and the conversation, of which she was the cynosure,
became animated and gay. Oh, how brilliant she was, that peerless
Florence!--with what petulant and sparkling grace came wit and wisdom,
and even genius, from those ruby lips! Even the assured Ferrers felt his
subtle intellect as dull and coarse to hers, and shrank with a reluctant
apprehension from the arrows of her careless and prodigal repartees. For
there was a scorn in the nature of Florence Lascelles which made her
wit pain more frequently than it pleased. Educated even to
learning--courageous even to a want of feminacy--she delighted to sport
with ignorance and pretension, even in the highest places; and the laugh
that she excited was like lightning;--no one could divine where next it
might fall.
But Florence, though dreaded and unloved, was yet courted, flattered,
and the rage. For this there were two reasons: first, she was a
coquette, and secondly, she was an heiress.
Thus the talkers in the room were divided into two principal groups,
over one of which Maltravers may be said to have presided; over the
other, Florence. As the former broke up, Ernest was joined by Cleveland.
“My dear cousin,” said Florence, suddenly, and in a whisper, as she
turned to Lumley, “your friend is speaking of me--I see it. Go, I
implore you, and let me know what he says!”
“The commission is not flattering,” said Ferrers, almost sullenly.
“Nay, a commission to gratify a woman’s curiosity is ever one of the
most flattering embassies with which we can invest an able negotiator.”
“Well, I must do your bidding, though I disown the favour.” Ferrers
moved away, and joined Cleveland and Maltravers.
“She is, indeed, beautiful: so perfect a contour I never beheld: she
is the only woman I ever saw in whom the aquiline features seem more
classical than even the Greek.”
“So, that is your opinion of my fair cousin!” cried Ferrers, “you are
caught.”
“I wish he were,” said Cleveland. “Ernest is now old enough to settle,
and there is not a more dazzling prize in England--rich, high-born,
lovely, and accomplished.”
“And what say you?” asked Lumley, almost impatiently, to Maltravers.
“That I never saw one whom I admire more or could love less,” replied
Ernest, as he quitted the rooms.
Ferrers looked after him, and muttered to himself; he then rejoined
Florence, who presently rose to depart, and taking Lumley’s arm, said,
“Well, I see my father is looking round for me--and so for once I will
forestall him. Come, Lumley, let us join him; I know he wants to see
you.
“Well?” said Florence, blushing deeply, and almost breathless, as they
crossed the now half-empty apartments.
“Well, my cousin?”
“You provoke me--well, then, what said your friend?”
“That you deserved your reputation of beauty, but that you were not his
style. Maltravers is in love, you know.”
“In love?”
“Yes, a pretty Frenchwoman! quite romantic--an attachment of some years’
standing.”
Florence turned away her face, and said no more.
“That’s a good fellow, Lumley,” said Lord Saxingham; “Florence is never
more welcome to my eyes than at half-past one o’clock A.M., when I
associate her with thoughts of my natural rest, and my unfortunate
carriage-horses. By the by, I wish you would dine with me next
Saturday.”
“Saturday: unfortunately I am engaged to my uncle.”
“Oh! he has behaved handsomely to you?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Templeton pretty well?”
“I fancy so.”
“As ladies wish to be, etc.?” whispered his lordship.
“No, thank Heaven!”
“Well, if the old man could but make you his heir, we might think twice
about the title.”
“My dear lord, stop! one favour--write me a line to hint that
delicately.”
“No--no letters; letters always get into the papers.”
“But cautiously worded--no danger of publication, on my honour.”
“I’ll think of it. Good night.”
BOOK VII.
Every man should strive to be as good as possible, but not
suppose himself to be the only thing that is good.
--PLOTIN. EN. 11. lib. ix. c. 9.
CHAPTER I.
“Deceit is the strong but subtle chain which runs through
all the members of a society, and links them together;
trick or be tricked is the alternative; ‘tis the way of
the world, and without it intercourse would drop.”
_Anonymous writer_ of 1722.
“A lovely child she was, of looks serene,
And motions which o’er things indifferent shed
The grace and gentleness from whence they came.”
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
“His years but young, but his experience old.”--SHAKESPEARE.
“He after honour hunts, I after love.”--_Ibid._
LUMLEY FERRERS was one of the few men in the world who act upon a
profound, deliberate, and organized system--he had done so even from
a boy. When he was twenty-one, he had said to himself, “Youth is the
season for enjoyment: the triumphs of manhood, the wealth of age, do not
compensate for a youth spent in unpleasurable toils.” Agreeably to this
maxim, he had resolved not to adopt any profession; and being fond of
travel, and of a restless temper, he had indulged abroad in all the
gratifications that his moderate income could afford him: that income
went farther on the Continent than at home, which was another reason
for the prolongation of his travels. Now, when the whims and passions of
youth were sated; and, ripened by a consummate and various knowledge of
mankind, his harder capacities of mind became developed and centred into
such ambition as it was his nature to conceive, he acted no less upon a
regular and methodical plan of conduct, which he carried into details.
He had little or nothing within himself to cross his cold theories by
contradictory practice; for he was curbed by no principles and regulated
but by few tastes: and our tastes are often checks as powerful as our
principles. Looking round the English world, Ferrers saw, that at his
age and with an equivocal position, and no chances to throw away, it was
necessary that he should cast off all attributes of the character of the
wanderer and the _garcon_.
“There is nothing respectable in lodgings and a cab,” said Ferrers to
himself--that “_self_” was his grand confidant!--“nothing stationary.
Such are the appliances of a here-to-day-gone-to-morrow kind of life.
One never looks substantial till one pays rates and taxes, and has a
bill with one’s butcher!”
Accordingly, without saying a word to anybody, Ferrers took a long lease
of a large house, in one of those quiet streets that proclaim the owners
do not wish to be made by fashionable situations--streets in which, if
you have a large house, it is supposed to be because you can afford one.
He was very particular in its being a respectable street--Great George
Street, Westminster, was the one he selected.
No frippery or baubles, common to the mansions of young bachelors--no
buhl, and marquetrie, and Sevres china, and cabinet pictures,
distinguished the large dingy drawing-rooms of Lumley Ferrers. He bought
all the old furniture a bargain of the late tenant--tea-coloured chintz
curtains, and chairs and sofas that were venerable and solemn with the
accumulated dust of twenty-five years. The only things about which
he was particular were a very long dining-table that would hold
four-and-twenty, and a new mahogany sideboard. Somebody asked him why
he cared about such articles. “I don’t know,” said he “but I observe
all respectable family-men do--there must be something in it--I shall
discover the secret by and by.”
In this house did Mr. Ferrers ensconce himself with two middle-aged
maidservants, and a man out of livery, whom he chose from a multitude
of candidates, because the man looked especially well fed. Having thus
settled himself, and told every one that the lease of his house was
for sixty-three years, Lumley Ferrers made a little calculation of his
probable expenditure, which he found, with good management, might amount
to about one-fourth more than his income.
“I shall take the surplus out of my capital,” said he, “and try the
experiment for five years; if it don’t do, and pay me profitably, why,
then either men are not to be lived upon, or Lumley Ferrers is a much
duller clog than he thinks himself!”
Mr. Ferrers had deeply studied the character of his uncle, as a prudent
speculator studies the qualities of a mine in which he means to invest
his capital, and much of his present proceedings was intended to act
upon the uncle as well as upon the world. He saw that the more he could
obtain for himself, not a noisy, social, fashionable reputation, but
a good, sober, substantial one, the more highly Mr. Templeton would
consider him, and the more likely he was to be made his uncle’s
heir,--that is, provided Mrs. Templeton did not supersede the nepotal
parasite by indigenous olive-branches. This last apprehension died away
as time passed, and no signs of fertility appeared. And, accordingly,
Ferrers thought he might prudently hazard more upon the game on which
he now ventured to rely. There was one thing, however, that greatly
disturbed his peace; Mr. Templeton, though harsh and austere in his
manner to his wife, was evidently attached to her; and, above all, he
cherished the fondest affection for his stepdaughter. He was as anxious
for her health, her education, her little childish enjoyments, as if he
had been not only her parent, but a very doting one. He could not bear
her to be crossed or thwarted. Mr. Templeton, who had never spoiled
anything before, not even an old pen (so careful, and calculating, and
methodical was he), did his best to spoil this beautiful child whom he
could not even have the vain luxury of thinking he had produced to the
admiring world. Softly, exquisitely lovely was that little girl; and
every day she increased in the charm of her person, and in the caressing
fascination of her childish ways. Her temper was so sweet and docile,
that fondness and petting, however injudiciously exhibited, only seemed
yet more to bring out the colours of a grateful and tender nature.
Perhaps the measured kindness of more reserved affection might have been
the true way of spoiling one whose instincts were all for exacting and
returning love. She was a plant that suns less warm might have nipped
and chilled. But beneath an uncapricious and unclouded sunshine she
sprang up in a luxurious bloom of heart and sweetness of disposition.
Every one, even those who did not generally like children, delighted
in this charming creature, excepting only Mr. Lumley Ferrers. But that
gentleman, less mild than Pope’s Narcissa,--
“To make a wash, had gladly stewed the child!”
He had seen how very common it is for a rich man, married late in life,
to leave everything to a young widow and her children by her former
marriage, when once attached to the latter; and he sensibly felt that
he himself had but a slight hold over Templeton by the chain of the
affections. He resolved, therefore, as much as possible, to alienate his
uncle from his young wife; trusting that, as the influence of the wife
was weakened, that of the child would be lessened also; and to raise in
Templeton’s vanity and ambition an ally that might supply to himself
the want of love. He pursued his twofold scheme with masterly art and
address. He first sought to secure the confidence and regard of the
melancholy and gentle mother; and in this--for she was peculiarly
unsuspicious and inexperienced, he obtained signal and complete success.
His frankness of manner, his deferential attention, the art with which
he warded off from her the spleen or ill-humour of Mr. Templeton, the
cheerfulness that his easy gaiety threw over a very gloomy house, made
the poor lady hail his visits and trust in his friendship. Perhaps
she was glad of any interruption to _tetes-a-tetes_ with a severe and
ungenial husband, who had no sympathy for the sorrows, of whatever
nature they might be, which preyed upon her, and who made it a point of
morality to find fault wherever he could.
The next step in Lumley’s policy was to arm Templeton’s vanity against
his wife, by constantly refreshing his consciousness of the sacrifices
he had made by marriage, and the certainty that he would have attained
all his wishes had he chosen more prudently. By perpetually, but
most judiciously, rubbing this sore point, he, as it were, fixed the
irritability into Templeton’s constitution, and it reacted on all
his thoughts, aspiring or domestic. Still, however, to Lumley’s great
surprise and resentment, while Templeton cooled to his wife, he only
warmed to her child. Lumley had not calculated enough upon the thirst
and craving for affection in most human hearts; and Templeton, though
not exactly an amiable man, had some excellent qualities; if he had less
sensitively regarded the opinion of the world, he would neither have
contracted the vocabulary of cant, nor sickened for a peerage--both his
affectation of saintship, and his gnawing desire of rank, arose from an
extraordinary and morbid deference to opinion, and a wish for worldly
honours and respect, which he felt that his mere talents could not
secure to him. But he was, at bottom, a kindly man--charitable to the
poor, considerate to his servants, and had within him the want to love
and be loved, which is one of the desires wherewith the atoms of the
universe are cemented and harmonised. Had Mrs. Templeton evinced love
to him, he might have defied all Lumley’s diplomacy, been consoled for
worldly disadvantages, and been a good and even uxorious husband. But
she evidently did not love him, though an admirable, patient, provident
wife; and her daughter _did_ love him--love him as well even as she
loved her mother; and the hard worldling would not have accepted a
kingdom as the price of that little fountain of pure and ever-refreshing
tenderness. Wise and penetrating as Lumley was, he never could
thoroughly understand this weakness, as he called it; for we never know
men entirely, unless we have complete sympathies with men in all their
natural emotions; and Nature had left the workmanship of Lumley Ferrers
unfinished and incomplete, by denying him the possibility of caring for
anything but himself.
His plan for winning Templeton’s esteem and deference was, however,
completely triumphant. He took care that nothing in his _menage_ should
appear “_extravagant_;” all was sober, quiet, and well-regulated.
He declared that he had so managed as to live within his income: and
Templeton receiving no hint for money, nor aware that Ferrers had on the
Continent consumed a considerable portion of his means, believed him.
Ferrers gave a great many dinners, but he did not go on that foolish
plan which has been laid down by persons who pretend to know life, as
a means of popularity--he did not profess to give dinners better than
other people. He knew that, unless you are a very rich or a very great
man, no folly is equal to that of thinking that you soften the hearts
of your friends by soups _a la bisque_, and Johannisberg at a guinea a
bottle. They all go away saying, “What right has that d----d fellow
to give a better dinner than we do? What horrid taste! What ridiculous
presumption.”
No; though Ferrers himself was a most scientific epicure, and held
the luxury of the palate at the highest possible price, he dieted his
friends on what he termed “respectable fare.” His cook put plenty
of flour into the oyster sauce; cod’s head and shoulders made his
invariable fish; and four _entrees_, without flavour or pretence, were
duly supplied by the pastry-cook, and carefully eschewed by the host.
Neither did Mr. Ferrers affect to bring about him gay wits and brilliant
talkers. He confined himself to men of substantial consideration, and
generally took care to be himself the cleverest person present; while
he turned the conversation on serious matters crammed for the
occasion--politics, stocks, commerce, and the criminal code. Pruning
his gaiety, though he retained his frankness, he sought to be known as
a highly-informed, painstaking man, who would be sure to rise. His
connections, and a certain nameless charm about him, consisting chiefly
in a pleasant countenance, a bold yet winning candour, and the absence
of all _hauteur_ or pretence, enabled him to assemble round this
plain table, which, if it gratified no taste, wounded no self-love, a
sufficient number of public men of rank, and eminent men of business, to
answer his purpose. The situation he had chosen, so near the Houses of
Parliament, was convenient to politicians, and, by degrees, the large
dingy drawing-rooms became a frequent resort for public men to talk over
those thousand underplots by which a party is served or attached. Thus,
though not in parliament himself, Ferrers became insensibly associated
with parliamentary men and things, and the ministerial party, whose
politics he espoused, praised him highly, made use of him, and meant,
some day or other, to do something for him.
While the career of this able and unprincipled man thus opened--and
of course the opening was not made in a day--Ernest Maltravers was
ascending by a rough, thorny, and encumbered path, to that eminence on
which the monuments of men are built. His success in public life was
not brilliant nor sudden. For, though he had eloquence and knowledge, he
disdained all oratorical devices; and though he had passion and energy,
he could scarcely be called a warm partisan. He met with much envy, and
many obstacles; and the gracious and buoyant sociality of temper
and manners that had, in early youth, made him the idol of his
contemporaries at school or college, had long since faded away into a
cold, settled, and lofty, though gentle reserve, which did not attract
towards him the animal spirits of the herd. But though he spoke seldom,
and heard many, with half his powers, more enthusiastically cheered, he
did not fail of commanding attention and respect; and though no darling
of cliques and parties, yet in that great body of the people who were
ever the audience and tribunal to which, in letters or in politics,
Maltravers appealed, there was silently growing up, and spreading wide,
a belief in his upright intentions, his unpurchasable honour, and his
correct and well-considered views. He felt that his name was safely
invested, though the return for the capital was slow and moderate. He
was contented to abide his time.
Every day he grew more attached to that true philosophy which makes a
man, as far as the world will permit, a world to himself; and from the
height of a tranquil and serene self-esteem, he felt the sun shine above
him, when malignant clouds spread sullen and ungenial below. He did not
despise or wilfully shock opinion, neither did he fawn upon and flatter
it. Where he thought the world should be humoured, he humoured--where
contemned, he contemned it. There are many cases in which an honest,
well-educated, high-hearted individual is a much better judge than the
multitude of what is right and what is wrong; and in these matters he is
not worth three straws if he suffer the multitude to bully or coax him
out of his judgment. The Public, if you indulge it, is a most damnable
gossip, thrusting its nose into people’s concerns, where it has no right
to make or meddle; and in those things, where the Public is impertinent,
Maltravers scorned and resisted its interference as haughtily as he
would the interference of any insolent member of the insolent whole.
It was this mixture of deep love and profound respect for the eternal
PEOPLE, and of calm, passionless disdain for that capricious charlatan,
the momentary PUBLIC, which made Ernest Maltravers an original and
solitary thinker; and an actor, in reality modest and benevolent, in
appearance arrogant and unsocial. “Pauperism, in contradistinction to
poverty,” he was wont to say, “is the dependence upon other people for
existence, not on our own exertions; there is a moral pauperism in
the man who is dependent on others for that support of moral
life--self-respect.”
Wrapped in this philosophy, he pursued his haughty and lonesome way,
and felt that in the deep heart of mankind, when prejudices and envies
should die off, there would be a sympathy with his motives and his
career. So far as his own health was concerned, the experiment
had answered. No mere drudgery of business--late hours and dull
speeches--can produce the dread exhaustion which follows the efforts
of the soul to mount into the higher air of severe thought or intense
imagination. Those faculties which had been overstrained now lay
fallow--and the frame rapidly regained its tone. Of private comfort and
inspiration Ernest knew but little. He gradually grew estranged from his
old friend Ferrers, as their habits became opposed. Cleveland lived more
and more in the country, and was too well satisfied with his quondam
pupil’s course of life and progressive reputation to trouble him with
exhortation or advice. Cesarini had grown a literary lion, whose genius
was vehemently lauded by all the reviews--on the same principle as that
which induces us to praise foreign singers or dead men;--we must praise
something, and we don’t like to praise those who jostle ourselves.
Cesarini had therefore grown prodigiously conceited--swore that England
was the only country for true merit; and no longer concealed his jealous
anger at the wider celebrity of Maltravers. Ernest saw him squandering
away his substance, and prostituting his talents to drawing-room
trifles, with a compassionate sigh. He sought to warn him, but Cesarini
listened to him with such impatience that he resigned the office of
monitor. He wrote to De Montaigne, who succeeded no better. Cesarini was
bent on playing his own game. And to one game, without a metaphor, he
had at last come. His craving for excitement vented itself at Hazard,
and his remaining guineas melted daily away.
But De Montaigne’s letters to Maltravers consoled him for the loss of
less congenial friends. The Frenchman was now an eminent and celebrated
man; and his appreciation of Maltravers was sweeter to the latter than
would have been the huzzas of crowds. But, all this while, his vanity
was pleased and his curiosity roused by the continued correspondence of
his unseen Egeria. That correspondence (if so it may be called, being
all on one side) had now gone on for a considerable time, and he
was still wholly unable to discover the author: its tone had of late
altered--it had become more sad and subdued--it spoke of the hollowness
as well as the rewards of fame; and, with a touch of true womanly
sentiment, often hinted more at the rapture of soothing dejection,
than of sharing triumph. In all these letters, there was the undeniable
evidence of high intellect and deep feeling; they excited a strong and
keen interest in Maltravers, yet the interest was not that which made
him wish to discover, in order that he might love, the writer. They
were for the most part too full of the irony and bitterness of a man’s
spirit, to fascinate one who considered that gentleness was the essence
of a woman’s strength. Temper spoke in them, no less than mind and
heart, and it was not the sort of temper which a man who loves women to
be womanly could admire.
“I hear you often spoken of” (ran one of these strange epistles), “and I
am almost equally angry whether fools presume to praise or to blame you.
This miserable world we live in, how I loathe and disdain it!--yet I
desire you to serve and to master it! Weak contradiction, effeminate
paradox! Oh! rather a thousand times that you would fly from its mean
temptations and poor rewards!--if the desert were your dwelling-place
and you wished one minister, I could renounce all--wealth, flattery,
repute, womanhood--to serve you.
* * * * *
“I once admired you for your genius. My disease has fastened on me,
and I now almost worship you for yourself. I have seen you, Ernest
Maltravers,--seen you often,--and when you never suspected that these
eyes were on you. Now that I have seen, I understand you better. We can
not judge men by their books and deeds. Posterity can know nothing of
the beings of the past. A thousand books never written--a thousand deeds
never done--are in the eyes and lips of the few greater than the herd.
In that cold, abstracted gaze, that pale and haughty brow, I read the
disdain of obstacles, which is worthy of one who is confident of the
goal. But my eyes fill with tears when I survey you!--you are sad, you
are alone! If failures do not mortify you, success does not elevate. Oh,
Maltravers, I, woman as I am, and living in a narrow circle, I, even
I, know at last that to have desires nobler, and ends more august, than
others, is but to surrender waking life to morbid and melancholy dreams.
* * * * *
“Go more into the world, Maltravers--go more into the world, or quit
it altogether. Your enemies must be met; they accumulate, they grow
strong--you are too tranquil, too slow in your steps towards the
prize which should be yours, to satisfy my impatience, to satisfy
your friends. Be less refined in your ambition that you may be more
immediately useful. The feet of clay after all are the swiftest in the
race. Even Lumley Ferrers will outstrip you if you do not take heed.
* * * * *
“Why do I run on thus!--you--you love another, yet you are not less
the ideal that I could love--if ever I loved any one. You love--and
yet--well--no matter.”
CHAPTER II.
“Well, but this is being only an official nobleman. No matter,
‘tis still being a nobleman, and that’s his aim.”
_Anonymous writer of 1772_.
“La musique est le seul des talens qui jouissent de lui-meme;
tons les autres veulent des temoins.” *--MARMONTEL.
* Music is the sole talent which gives pleasure of itself; all the
others require witnesses.
“Thus the slow ox would gaudy trappings claim.”--HORACE.
MR. TEMPLETON had not obtained his peerage, and, though he had met with
no direct refusal, nor made even a direct application to headquarters,
he was growing sullen. He had great parliamentary influence, not close
borough, illegitimate influence, but very proper orthodox influence of
character, wealth, and so forth. He could return one member at least
for a city--he could almost return one member for a county, and in
three boroughs any activity on his part could turn the scale in a close
contest. The ministers were strong, but still they could not afford
to lose supporters hitherto zealous--the example of desertion is
contagious. In the town which Templeton had formerly represented, and
which he now almost commanded, a vacancy suddenly occurred--a candidate
started on the opposition side and commenced a canvass; to the
astonishment and panic of the Secretary of the Treasury, Templeton
put forward no one, and his interest remained dormant. Lord Saxingham
hurried to Lumley.
“My dear fellow, what is this?--what can your uncle be about? We shall
lose this place--one of our strongholds. Bets run even.”
“Why, you see, you have all behaved very ill to my uncle--I am really
sorry for it, but I can do nothing.”
“What, this confounded peerage! Will that content him, and nothing short
of it?”
“Nothing.”
“He must have it, by Jove!”
“And even that may come too late.”
“Ha! do you think so?”
“Will you leave the matter to me?”
“Certainly--you are a monstrous clever fellow, and we all esteem you.”
“Sit down and write as I dictate, my dear lord.”
“Well,” said Lord Saxingham, seating himself at Lumley’s enormous
writing-table--“well, go on.”
“_My dear Mr. Templeton_--”
“Too familiar,” said Lord Saxingham.
“Not a bit; go on.”
“_My dear Mr. Templeton:_--
“_We are anxious to secure your parliamentary influence in C------ to
the proper quarter, namely, to your own family, as the best defenders of
the administration, which you honour by your support. We wish signally,
at the same time, to express our confidence in your principles, and our
gratitude for your countenance._”
“D-----d sour countenance!” muttered Lord Saxingham.
“_Accordingly,_” continued Ferrers, “_as one whose connection with you
permits the liberty, allow me to request that you will suffer our joint
relation, Mr. Ferrers, to be put into immediate nomination._”
Lord Saxingham threw down the pen and laughed for two minutes without
ceasing. “Capital, Lumley, capital--Very odd I did not think of it
before.”
“Each man for himself, and God for us all,” returned Lumley, gravely:
“pray go on, my dear lord.”
“_We are sure you could not have a representative that would, more
faithfully reflect your own opinions and our interests. One word more. A
creation of peers will probably take place in the spring, among which
I am sure your name would be to his Majesty a gratifying addition; the
title will of course be secured to your sons--and failing the latter, to
your nephew._
“_With great regard and respect,_
“_Truly yours,_
“_SAXINGHAM._”
“There, inscribe that ‘Private and confidential,’ and send it express to
my uncle’s villa.”
“It shall be done, my dear Lumley--and this contents me as much as it
does you. You are really a man to do us credit. You think it will be
arranged?”
“No doubt of it.”
“Well, good day. Lumley, come to me when it is all settled: Florence is
always glad to see you; she says no one amuses her more. And I am
sure that is rare praise, for she is a strange girl,--quite a Timon in
petticoats.”
Away went Lord Saxingham.
“Florence glad to see me!” said Lumley, throwing his arms behind him,
and striding to and fro the room--“Scheme the Second begins to smile
upon me behind the advancing shadow of Scheme One. If I can but succeed
in keeping away other suitors from my fair cousin until I am in a
condition to propose myself, why, I may carry off the greatest match in
the three kingdoms. _Courage, mon brave Ferrers, courage!_”
It was late that evening when Ferrers arrived at his uncle’s villa. He
found Mrs. Templeton in the drawing-room seated at the piano. He entered
gently; she did not hear him, and continued at the instrument. Her voice
was so sweet and rich, her taste so pure, that Ferrers, who was a good
judge of music, stood in delighted surprise. Often as he had now been
a visitor, even an inmate, at the house, he had never before heard Mrs.
Templeton play any but sacred airs, and this was one of the popular
songs of sentiment. He perceived that her feeling at last overpowered
her voice, and she paused abruptly, and turning round, her face was so
eloquent of emotion, that Ferrers was forcibly struck by its expression.
He was not a man apt to feel curiosity for anything not immediately
concerning himself; but he did feel curious about this melancholy and
beautiful woman. There was in her usual aspect that inexpressible look
of profound resignation which betokens a lasting remembrance of a bitter
past: a prematurely blighted heart spoke in her eyes, in her smile, her
languid and joyless step. But she performed the routine of her quiet
duties with a calm and conscientious regularity which showed that grief
rather depressed than disturbed her thoughts. If her burden were heavy,
custom seemed to have reconciled her to bear it without repining; and
the emotion which Ferrers now traced in her soft and harmonious features
was of a nature he had only once witnessed before--viz., on the first
night he had seen her, when poetry, which is the key of memory, had
evidently opened a chamber haunted by mournful and troubled ghosts.
“Ah! dear madam,” said Ferrers, advancing, as he found himself
discovered, “I trust I do not disturb you. My visit is unseasonable; but
my uncle--where is he?”
“He has been in town all the morning; he said he should dine out, and I
now expect him every minute.”
“You have been endeavouring to charm away the sense of his absence. Dare
I ask you to continue to play? It is seldom that I hear a voice so
sweet and skill so consummate. You must have been instructed by the best
Italian masters.”
“No,” said Mrs. Templeton, with a very slight colour in her delicate
cheek, “I learned young, and of one who loved music and felt it; but who
was not a foreigner.”
“Will you sing me that song again?--you give the words a beauty I never
discovered in them; yet they (as well as the music itself), are by my
poor friend whom Mr. Templeton does not like--Maltravers.”
“Are they his also?” said Mrs. Templeton, with emotion; “it is strange I
did not know it. I heard the air in the streets, and it struck me much.
I inquired the name of the song and bought it--it is very strange!”
“What is strange?”
“That there is a kind of language in your friend’s music and poetry
which comes home to me, like words I have heard years ago! Is he young,
this Mr. Maltravers?”
“Yes, he is still young.”
“And, and--”
Here Mrs. Templeton was interrupted by the entrance of her husband.
He held the letter from Lord Saxingham--it was yet unopened. He seemed
moody; but that was common with him. He coldly shook hands with Lumley;
nodded to his wife, found fault with the fire, and throwing himself into
his easy-chair, said, “So, Lumley, I think I was a fool for taking your
advice--and hanging back about this new election. I see by the evening
papers that there is shortly to be a creation of peers. If I had shown
activity on behalf of the government I might have shamed them into
gratitude.”
“I think I was right, sir,” replied Lumley; “public men are often
alarmed into gratitude, seldom shamed into it. Firm votes, like old
friends, are most valued when we think we are about to lose them; but
what is that letter in your hand?”
“Oh, some begging petition, I suppose.”
“Pardon me--it has an official look.” Templeton put on his spectacles,
raised the letter, examined the address and seal, hastily opened it,
and broke into an exclamation very like an oath: when he had
concluded--“Give me your hand, nephew--the thing is settled--I am to
have the peerage. You were right--ha, ha!--my dear wife, you will be my
lady, think of that--aren’t you glad?--why don’t your ladyship smile?
Where’s the child--where is she, I say?”
“Gone to bed, sir,” said Mrs. Templeton, half frightened.
“Gone to bed! I must go and kiss her. Gone to bed, has she? Light that
candle, Lumley.” [Here Mr. Templeton rang the bell.] “John,” said he,
as the servant entered,--“John, tell James to go the first thing in the
morning to Baxter’s, and tell him not to paint my chariot till he hears
from me. I must go kiss the child--I must, really.”
“D--- the child,” muttered Lumley, as, after giving the candle to his
uncle, he turned to the fire; “what the deuce has she got to do with
the matter? Charming little girl--yours, madam! how I love her! My uncle
dotes on her--no wonder!”
“He is, indeed, very, very, fond of her,” said Mrs. Templeton, with a
sigh that seemed to come from the depth of her heart.
“Did he take a fancy to her before you were married?”
“Yes, I believe--oh yes, certainly.”
“Her own father could not be more fond of her.”
Mrs. Templeton made no answer, but lighted her candle, and wishing
Lumley good night, glided from the room.
“I wonder if my grave aunt and my grave uncle took a bite at the apple
before they bought the right of the tree. It looks suspicious; yet no,
it can’t be; there is nothing of the seducer or the seductive about the
old fellow. It is not likely--here he comes.”
In came Templeton, and his eyes were moist, and his brow relaxed.
“And how is the little angel, sir?” asked Ferrers.
“She kissed me, though I woke her up; children are usually cross when
wakened.”
“Are they?--little dears! Well, sir, so I was right, then; may I see the
letter?”
“There it is.”
Ferrers drew his chair to the fire, and read his own production with all
the satisfaction of an anonymous author.
“How kind!--how considerate!--how delicately put!--a double favour! But
perhaps, after all, it does not express your wishes.”
“In what way?”
“Why--why--about myself.”
“_You!_--is there anything about _you_ in it?--I did not observe
_that_--let me see.”
“Uncles never selfish!--mem. for commonplace book!” thought Ferrers.
The uncle knit his brows as he re-perused the letter. “This won’t do,
Lumley,” said he very shortly, when he had done.
“A seat in parliament is too much honour for a poor nephew, then, sir?”
said Lumley, very bitterly, though he did not feel at all bitter; but
it was the proper tone. “I have done all in my power to advance your
ambition, and you will not even lend a hand to forward me one step in my
career. But, forgive me, sir, I have no right to expect it.”
“Lumley,” replied Templeton, kindly, “you mistake me. I think much more
highly of you than I did--much: there is a steadiness, a sobriety about
you most praiseworthy, and you shall go into parliament if you wish it;
but not for C------. I will give my interest there to some other friend
of the government, and in return they can give you a treasury borough!
That is the same thing to you.”
Lumley was agreeably surprised--he pressed his uncle’s hand warmly, and
thanked him cordially. Mr. Templeton proceeded to explain to him that it
was inconvenient and expensive sitting for places where one’s family was
known, and Lumley fully subscribed to all.
“As for the settlement of the peerage, that is all right,” said
Templeton; and then he sank into a reverie, from which he broke
joyously--“yes, that is all right. I have projects, objects--this
may unite them all--nothing can be better--you will be the next
lord--what--I say, what title shall we have?”
“Oh, take a sounding one--you have very little landed property, I
think?”
“Two thousand a year in ------shire, bought a bargain.”
“What’s the name of the place?”
“Grubley.”
“Lord Grubley!--Baron Grubley of Grubley--oh, atrocious! Who had the
place before you?”
“Bought it of Mr. Sheepshanks--very old family.”
“But surely some old Norman once had the place?”
“Norman, yes! Henry the Second gave it to his barber--Bertram Courval.”
“That’s it!--that’s it! Lord de Courval--singular coincidence!--descent
from the old line. Herald’s College soon settle all that. Lord de
Courval!--nothing can sound better. There must be a village or hamlet
still called Courval about the property.”
“I am afraid not. There is Coddle End!”
“Coddle End!--Coddle End!--the very thing, sir--the very thing--clear
corruption from Courval!--Lord de Courval of Courval! Superb! Ha! ha!”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Templeton, and he had hardly laughed before since he
was thirty.
The relations sat long and conversed familiarly. Ferrers slept at the
villa, and his sleep was sound; for he thought little of plans once
formed and half executed; it was the hunt that kept him awake, and he
slept like a hound when the prey was down. Not so Templeton, who did
not close his eyes all night.--“Yes, yes,” thought he, “I must get
the fortune and the title in one line by a prudent management. Ferrers
deserves what I mean to do for him. Steady, good-natured, frank, and
will get on--yes, yes, I see it all. Meanwhile I did well to prevent
his standing for C------; might pick up gossip about Mrs. T., and other
things that might be unpleasant. Ah, I’m a shrewd fellow!”
CHAPTER III.
“_Lauzun._--There, Marquis, there, I’ve done it.
_Montespan._--Done it! yes! Nice doings!”
_The Duchess de la Valliere_.
LUMLEY hastened to strike while the iron was hot. The next morning he
went straight to the Treasury--saw the managing secretary, a clever,
sharp man, who, like Ferrers, carried off intrigue and manoeuvre by a
blunt, careless, bluff manner.
Ferrers announced that he was to stand for the free, respectable, open
city of C------, with an electoral population of 2,500. A very showy
place it was for a member in the old ante-reform times, and was
considered a thoroughly independent borough. The secretary congratulated
and complimented him.
“We have had losses lately in _our_ elections among the larger
constituencies,” said Lumley.
“We have indeed--three towns lost in the last six months. Members do die
so very unseasonably.”
“Is Lord Staunch yet provided for?” asked Lumley. Now Lord Staunch was
one of the popular show-fight great guns of the administration--not in
office, but that most useful person to all governments, an out-and-out
supporter upon the most independent principles--who was known to have
refused place and to value himself on independence--a man who helped the
government over the stile when it was seized with a temporary lameness,
and who carried “great weight with him in the country.” Lord Staunch had
foolishly thrown up a close borough in order to contest a large city,
and had failed in the attempt. His failure was everywhere cited as a
proof of the growing unpopularity of ministers.
“Is Lord Staunch yet provided for?” asked Lumley.
“Why, he must have his old seat--Three-Oaks. Three-Oaks is a nice, quiet
little place; most respectable constituency--all Staunch’s own family.”
“Just the thing for him; yet, ‘tis a pity that he did not wait to stand
for C------; my uncle’s interest would have secured him.”
“Ay, I thought so the moment C------ was vacant. However, it is too late
now.”
“It would be a great triumph if Lord Staunch could show that a large
constituency volunteered to elect him without expense.”
“Without expense!--Ah, yes, indeed! It would prove that purity of
election still exists--that British institutions are still upheld.”
“It might be done, Mr. ------.”
“Why, I thought that you--”
“Were to stand--that is true--and it will be difficult to manage my
uncle; but he loves me much--you know I am his heir--I believe I could
do it; that is, if you think it would be _a very great advantage_ to the
party, and _a very great service_ to the government.”
“Why, Mr. Ferrers, it would indeed be both.”
“And in that case I could have Three-Oaks.”
“I see--exactly so; but to give up so respectable a seat--really it is a
sacrifice.”
“Say no more, it shall be done. A deputation shall wait on Lord Staunch
directly. I will see my uncle, and a despatch shall be sent down to
C------ to-night; at least, I hope so. I must not be too confident.
My uncle is an old man, nobody but myself can manage him; I’ll go this
instant.”
“You may be sure your kindness will be duly appreciated.”
Lumley shook hands cordially with the secretary and retired. The
secretary was not “humbugged,” nor did Lumley expect he should be. But
the secretary noted this of Lumley Ferrers (and that gentleman’s object
was gained), that Lumley Ferrers was a man who looked out for office,
and if he did tolerably well in parliament, that Lumley Ferrers was a
man who ought to be _pushed_.
Very shortly afterwards the _Gazette_ announced the election of Lord
Staunch for C------, after a sharp but decisive contest. The ministerial
journals rang with exulting paeans; the opposition ones called the
electors of C------ all manner of hard names, and declared that Mr.
Stout, Lord Staunch’s opponent, would petition--which he never did. In
the midst of the hubbub, Mr. Lumley Ferrers quietly and unobservedly
crept into the representation of Three-Oaks.
On the night of his election he went to Lord Saxingham’s; but what there
happened deserves another chapter.
CHAPTER IV.
“Je connois des princes du sang, des princes etrangers, des
grands seigneurs, des ministres d’etat, des magistrats, et
des philosophes qui fileroient pour l’amour de vous. En
pouvez-vous demander davantage?” *
_Lettres de Madame de Sevigne_
* I know princes of the blood, foreign princes, great lords, ministers
of state, magistrates, and philosophers who would even spin for love of
you. What can you ask more?
“_Lindore._ I--I believe it will choke me. I’m in love * * * Now
hold your tongue. Hold your tongue, I say.
“_Dalner._ You in love! Ha! ha!
“_Lind._ There, he laughs.
“_Dal._ No; I am really sorry for you.”
_German Play (False Delicacy)_.
* * * “What is here?
Gold.”--SHAKSPEARE.
IT happened that that evening Maltravers had, for the first time,
accepted one of many invitations with which Lord Saxingham had honoured
him. His lordship and Maltravers were of different political parties,
nor were they in other respects adapted to each other. Lord Saxingham
was a clever man in his way, but worldly even to a proverb among worldly
people. That “man was born to walk erect and look upon the stars,” is
an eloquent fallacy that Lord Saxingham might suffice to disprove. He
seemed born to walk with a stoop; and if he ever looked upon any
stars, they were those which go with a garter. Though of celebrated and
historical ancestry, great rank, and some personal reputation, he had
all the ambition of a _parvenu_. He had a strong regard for office, not
so much from the sublime affection for that sublime thing,--power over
the destinies of a glorious nation,--as because it added to that vulgar
thing--importance in his own set. He looked on his cabinet uniform as
a beadle looks on his gold lace. He also liked patronage, secured good
things to distant connections, got on his family to the remotest degree
of relationship; in short, he was of the earth, earthy. He did not
comprehend Maltravers; and Maltravers, who every day grew prouder and
prouder, despised him. Still, Lord Saxingham was told that Maltravers
was a rising man, and he thought it well to be civil to rising men, of
whatever party; besides, his vanity was flattered by having men who are
talked of in his train. He was too busy and too great a personage to
think Maltravers could be other than sincere, when he declared himself,
in his notes, “very sorry,” or “much concerned,” to forego the honour of
dining with Lord Saxingham on the, &c., &c.; and therefore continued
his invitations, till Maltravers, from that fatality which undoubtedly
regulates and controls us, at last accepted the proffered distinction.
He arrived late--most of the guests were assembled; and, after
exchanging a few words with his host, Ernest fell back into the general
group, and found himself in the immediate neighbourhood of Lady Florence
Lascelles. This lady had never much pleased Maltravers, for he was not
fond of masculine or coquettish heroines, and Lady Florence seemed to
him to merit both epithets; therefore, though he had met her often since
the first day he had been introduced to her, he had usually contented
himself with a distant bow or a passing salutation. But now, as he
turned round and saw her, she was, for a miracle, sitting alone; and
in her most dazzling and noble countenance there was so evident an
appearance of ill health, that he was struck and touched by it. In fact,
beautiful as she was, both in face and form, there was something in the
eye and the bloom of Lady Florence, which a skilful physician would have
seen with prophetic pain. And, whenever occasional illness paled the
roses of the cheek, and sobered the play of the lips, even an ordinary
observer would have thought of the old commonplace proverb--“that the
brightest beauty has the briefest life.” It was some sentiment of
this kind, perhaps, that now awakened the sympathy of Maltravers. He
addressed her with more marked courtesy than usual, and took a seat by
her side.
“You have been to the House, I suppose, Mr. Maltravers?” said Lady
Florence.
“Yes, for a short time; it is not one of our field nights--no division
was expected; and by this time, I dare say, the House has been counted
out.”
“Do you like the life?”
“It has excitement,” said Maltravers, evasively.
“And the excitement is of a noble character?”
“Scarcely so, I fear--it is so made up of mean and malignant
motives,--there is in it so much jealousy of our friends, so much
unfairness to our enemies;--such readiness to attribute to others the
basest objects,--such willingness to avail ourselves of the poorest
stratagems! The ends may be great, but the means are very ambiguous.”
“I knew _you_ would feel this,” exclaimed Lady Florence, with a
heightened colour.
“Did you?” said Maltravers, rather interested as well as surprised. “I
scarcely imagined it possible that you would deign to divine secrets so
insignificant.”
“You did not do me justice, then,” returned Lady Florence, with an arch
yet half-painful smile; “for--but I was about to be impertinent.”
“Nay, say on.”
“For--then--I do not imagine you to be one apt to do injustice to
yourself.”
“Oh, you consider me presumptuous and arrogant; but that is common
report, and you do right, perhaps, to believe it.”
“Was there ever any one unconscious of his own merit?” asked Lady
Florence, proudly. “They who distrust themselves have good reason for
it.”
“You seek to cure the wound you inflicted,” returned Maltravers,
smiling.
“No; what I said was an apology for myself, as well as for you. You need
no words to vindicate you; you are a man, and can bear out all arrogance
with the royal motto _Dieu et mon droit_. With you deeds can support
pretension; but I am a woman--it was a mistake of Nature.”
“But what triumphs that man can achieve bring so immediate, so palpable
a reward as those won by a woman, beautiful and admired--who finds every
room an empire, and every class her subjects?”
“It is a despicable realm.”
“What!--to command--to win--to bow to your worship--the greatest, and
the highest, and the sternest; to own slaves in those whom men recognise
as their lords! Is such a power despicable? If so, what power is to be
envied?”
Lady Florence turned quickly round to Maltravers, and fixed on him her
large dark eyes, as if she would read into his very heart. She turned
away with a blush and a slight frown--“There is mockery on your lip,”
said she.
Before Maltravers could answer, dinner was announced, and a foreign
ambassador claimed the hand of Lady Florence. Maltravers saw a young
lady with gold oats in her very light hair, fall to his lot, and
descended to the dining-room, thinking more of Lady Florence Lascelles
than he had ever done before.
He happened to sit nearly opposite to the young mistress of the house
(Lord Saxingham, as the reader knows, was a widower and Lady Florence
an only child); and Maltravers was that day in one of those felicitous
moods in which our animal spirits search and carry up, as it were,
to the surface, our intellectual gifts and acquisitions. He conversed
generally and happily; but once, when he turned his eyes to appeal to
Lady Florence for her opinion on some point in discussion, he caught her
gaze fixed upon him with an expression that checked the current of his
gaiety, and cast him into a curious and bewildered reverie. In that gaze
there was earnest and cordial admiration; but it was mixed with so much
mournfulness, that the admiration lost its eloquence, and he who noticed
it was rather saddened than flattered.