After dinner, when Maltravers sought the drawing-rooms, he found

them filled with the customary snob of good society. In one corner he

discovered Castruccio Cesarini, playing on a guitar, slung across his

breast with a blue riband. The Italian sang well; many young ladies were

grouped round him, amongst others Florence Lascelles. Maltravers,

fond as he was of music, looked upon Castruccio’s performance as a

disagreeable exhibition. He had a Quixotic idea of the dignity of

talent; and though himself of a musical science, and a melody of voice

that would have thrown the room into ecstasies, he would as soon have

turned juggler or tumbler for polite amusement, as contend for the

bravos of a drawing-room. It was because he was one of the proudest men

in the world, that Maltravers was one of the least _vain_. He did

not care a rush for applause in small things. But Cesarini would have

summoned the whole world to see him play at push-pin, if he thought the

played it well.

“Beautiful! divine! charming!” cried the young ladies, as Cesarini

ceased; and Maltravers observed that Florence praised more earnestly

than the rest, and that Cesarini’s dark eye sparkled, and his pale cheek

flushed with unwonted brilliancy. Florence turned to Maltravers, and the

Italian, following her eyes, frowned darkly.

“You know the Signor Cesarini,” said Florence, joining Maltravers. “He

is an interesting and gifted person.”

“Unquestionably. I grieve to see him wasting his talents upon a soil

that may yield a few short-lived flowers, without one useful plant or

productive fruit.”

“He enjoys the passing hour, Mr. Maltravers; and sometimes, when I see

the mortifications that await sterner labour, I think he is right.”

“Hush!” said Maltravers; “his eyes are on us--he is listening

breathlessly for every word you utter. I fear that you have made an

unconscious conquest of a poet’s heart; and if so, he purchases the

enjoyment of the passing hour at a fearful price.”

“Nay,” said Lady Florence, indifferently, “he is one of those to

whom the fancy supplies the place of the heart. And if I give him an

inspiration, it will be an equal luxury to him whether his lyre be

strung to hope or disappointment. The sweetness of his verses will

compensate to him for any bitterness in actual life.”

“There are two kinds of love,” answered Maltravers,--“love and

self-love; the wounds of the last are often most incurable in those

who appear least vulnerable to the first. Ah, Lady Florence, were I

privileged to play the monitor, I would venture on one warning, however

much it might offend you.”

“And that is--”

“To forbear coquetry.”

Maltravers smiled as he spoke, but it was gravely--and at the same time

he moved gently away. But Lady Florence laid her hand on his arm.

“Mr. Maltravers,” said she, very softly, and with a kind of faltering in

her tone, “am I wrong to say that I am anxious for your good opinion?

Do not judge me harshly. I am soured, discontented, unhappy. I have no

sympathy with the world. These men whom I see around me--what are

they? the mass of them unfeeling and silken egotists--ill-judging,

ill-educated, well-dressed: the few who are called distinguished--how

selfish in their ambition, how passionless in their pursuits! Am I to

be blamed if I sometimes exert a power over such as these, which rather

proves my scorn of them than my own vanity?”

“I have no right to argue with you.”

“Yes, argue with me, convince me, guide me--Heaven knows that, impetuous

and haughty as I am, I need a guide,”--and Lady Florence’s eyes swam

with tears. Ernest’s prejudices against her were greatly shaken: he

was even somewhat dazzled by her beauty, and touched by her unexpected

gentleness; but still, his heart was not assailed, and he replied almost

coldly, after a short pause:

“Dear Lady Florence, look round the world--who so much to be envied

as yourself? What sources of happiness and pride are open to you! Why,

then, make to yourself causes of discontent?--why be scornful of those

who cross not your path? Why not look with charity upon God’s less

endowed children, beneath you as they may seem? What consolation have

you in hurting the hearts or the vanities of others? Do you raise

yourself even in your own estimation? You affect to be above your

sex--yet what character do you despise more in women than that which you

assume? Semiramis should not be a coquette. There now, I have offended

you--I confess I am very rude.”

“I am not offended,” said Florence, almost struggling with her tears;

and she added inly, “Ah, I am too happy!”--There are some lips from

which even the proudest women love to hear the censure which appears to

disprove indifference.

It was at this time that Lumley Ferrers, flushed with the success of his

schemes and projects, entered the room; and his quick eye fell upon

that corner, in which he detected what appeared to him a very alarming

flirtation between his rich cousin and Ernest Maltravers. He advanced to

the spot, and, with his customary frankness, extended a hand to each.

“Ah, my dear and fair cousin, give me your congratulations, and ask

me for my first frank, to be bound up in a collection of autographs by

distinguished senators--it will sell high one of these days. Your most

obedient, Mr. Maltravers;--how we shall laugh in our sleeves at the

humbug of politics, when you and I, the best friends in the world, sit

_vis-a-vis_ on opposite benches. But why, Lady Florence, have you never

introduced me to your pet Italian? _Allons_! I am his match in Alfieri,

whom, of course, he swears by, and whose verses, by the way, seem cut

out of box-wood--the hardest material for turning off that sort of

machinery that invention ever hit on.”

Thus saying, Ferrers contrived, as he thought, very cleverly, to divide

a pair that he much feared were justly formed to meet by nature--and, to

his great joy, Maltravers shortly afterwards withdrew.

Ferrers, with the happy ease that belonged to his complacent, though

plotting character, soon made Cesarini at home with him; and two or

three slighting expressions which the former dropped with respect to

Maltravers, coupled with some outrageous compliments to the Italian,

completely won the heart of the poet. The brilliant Florence was more

silent and subdued than usual; and her voice was softer, though graver,

when she replied to Castruccio’s eloquent appeals. Castruccio was one of

those men who _talk fine_. By degrees, Lumley lapsed into silence, and

listened to what took place between Lady Florence and the Italian,

while appearing to be deep in “The Views of the Rhine,” which lay on the

table.

“Ah,” said the latter, in his soft native tongue, “could you know how

I watch every shade of that countenance which makes my heaven! Is it

clouded? night is with me!--is it radiant? I am as the Persian gazing on

the sun!”

“Why do you speak thus to me? were you not a poet, I might be angry.”

“You were not angry when the English poet, that cold Maltravers, spoke

to you perhaps as boldly.”

Lady Florence drew up her haughty head. “Signor,” said she, checking,

however, her first impulse, and with mildness, “Mr. Maltravers neither

flatters nor--”

“Presumes, you were about to say,” said Cesarini, grinding his teeth.

“But it is well--once you were less chilling to the utterance of my deep

devotion.”

“Never, Signor Cesarini, never--but when I thought it was but the common

gallantry of your nation: let me think so still.”

“No, proud woman,” said Cesarini, fiercely, “no--hear the truth.”

Lady Florence rose indignantly.

“Hear me,” he continued. “I--I, the poor foreigner, the despised

minstrel, dare to lift up my eyes to you! I love you!”

Never had Florence Lascelles been so humiliated and confounded. However

she might have amused herself with the vanity of Cesarini, she had not

given him, as she thought, the warrant to address her--the great Lady

Florence, the prize of dukes and princes--in this hardy manner; she

almost fancied him insane. But the next moment she recalled the warning

of Maltravers, and felt as if her punishment had commenced.

“You will think and speak more calmly, sir, when we meet again,” and so

saying, she swept away.

Cesarini remained rooted to the spot, with his dark countenance

expressing such passions as are rarely seen in the aspects of civilised

men.

“Where do you lodge, Signor Cesarini?” asked the bland, familiar voice

of Ferrers. “Let us walk part of the way together--that is, when you are

tired of these hot rooms.”

Cesarini groaned. “You are ill,” continued Ferrers; “the air will

revive you--come.” He glided from the room, and the Italian mechanically

followed him. They walked together for some moments in silence, side

by side, in a clear, lovely, moonlight night. At length Ferrers said,

“Pardon me, my dear signor, but you may already have observed that I am

a very frank, odd sort of fellow. I see you are caught by the charms of

my cruel cousin. Can I serve you in any way?”

A man at all acquainted with the world in which we live would have been

suspicious of such cordiality in the cousin of an heiress, towards a

very unsuitable aspirant. But Cesarini, like many indifferent poets (but

like few good ones), had no common sense. He thought it quite natural

that a man who admired his poetry so much as Lumley had declared he did,

should take a lively interest in his welfare; and he therefore replied

warmly, “Oh, sir, this is indeed a crushing blow: I dreamed she loved

me. She was ever flattering and gentle when she spoke to me, and in

verse already I had told her of my love, and met with no rebuke.”

“Did your verses really and plainly declare love, and in your own

person?”

“Why, the sentiment was veiled, perhaps--put into the mouth of a

fictitious character, or conveyed in an allegory.”

“Oh,” ejaculated Ferrers, thinking it very likely that the gorgeous

Florence, hymned by a thousand bards, had done little more than cast a

glance over the lines that had cost poor Cesarini such anxious toil,

and inspired him with such daring hope. “Oh!--and to-night she was more

severe--she is a terrible coquette, _la belle Florence_! But perhaps you

have a rival.”

“I feel it--I saw it--I know it.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“That accursed Maltravers! He crosses me in every path--my spirit quails

beneath his whenever we encounter. I read my doom.”

“If it be Maltravers,” said Ferrers, gravely, “the danger cannot be

great. Florence has seen but little of him, and he does not admire

her much; but she is a great match, and he is ambitious. We must guard

against this betimes, Cesarini--for know that I dislike Maltravers as

much as you do, and will cheerfully aid you in any plan to blight his

hopes in that quarter.”

“Generous, noble friend!--yet he is richer, better-born than I.”

“That may be: but to one in Lady Florence’s position, all minor grades

of rank in her aspirants seem pretty well levelled. Come, I don’t tell

you that I would not sooner she married a countryman and an equal--but

I have taken a liking to you, and I detest Maltravers. She is very

romantic--fond of poetry to a passion--writes it herself, I fancy. Oh,

you’ll just suit her; but, alas! how will you see her?”

“See her! What mean you?”

“Why, have you not declared love to-night? I thought I overheard you.

Can you for a moment fancy that, after such an avowal, Lady Florence

will again receive you--that is, if she mean to reject your suit?”

“Fool that I was! But no--she must, she shall.”

“Be persuaded; in this country violence will not do. Take my advice,

write an humble apology, confess your fault, invoke her pity; and,

declaring that you renounce for ever the character of a lover, implore

still to be acknowledged as a friend. Be quiet now, hear me out; I am

older than you; I know my cousin; this will pique her; your modesty will

soothe, while your coldness will arouse, her vanity. Meanwhile you will

watch the progress of Maltravers; I will be by your elbow; and between

us, to use a homely phrase, we will do for him. Then you may have your

opportunity, clear stage, and fair play.”

Cesarini was at first rebellious; but, at length, even he saw the

policy of the advice. But Lumley would not leave him till the advice was

adopted. He made Castruccio accompany him to a club, dictated the letter

to Florence, and undertook its charge. This was not all.

“It is also necessary,” said Lumley, after a short but thoughtful

silence, “that you should write to Maltravers.”

“And for what?”

“I have my reasons. Ask him, in a frank and friendly spirit, his opinion

of Lady Florence; state your belief that she loves you, and inquire

ingenuously what he thinks your chances of happiness in such a union.”

“But why this?”

“His answer may be useful,” returned Lumley, musingly. “Stay, I will

dictate the letter.”

Cesarini wondered and hesitated, but there was that about Lumley Ferrers

which had already obtained command over the weak and passionate poet.

He wrote, therefore, as Lumley dictated, beginning with some commonplace

doubts as to the happiness of marriage in general, excusing himself for

his recent coldness towards Maltravers, and asking him his confidential

opinion both as to Lady Florence’s character and his own chances of

success.

This letter, like the former one, Lumley sealed and despatched.

“You perceive,” he then said, briefly, to Cesarini, “that it is the

object of this letter to entrap Maltravers into some plain and honest

avowal of his dislike to Lady Florence; we may make good use of such

expressions hereafter, if he should ever prove a rival. And now go home

to rest: you look exhausted. Adieu, my new friend.”

“I have long had a presentiment,” said Lumley to his councillor SELF, as

he walked to Great George Street, “that that wild girl has conceived a

romantic fancy for Maltravers. But I can easily prevent such an accident

ripening into misfortune. Meanwhile, I have secured a tool, if I want

one. By Jove, what an ass that poet is! But so was Cassio; yet Iago made

use of him. If Iago had been born now, and dropped that foolish fancy

for revenge, what a glorious fellow he would have been! Prime minister

at least!”

Pale, haggard, exhausted, Castruccio Cesarini, traversing a length of

way, arrived at last at a miserable lodging in the suburb of Chelsea.

His fortune was now gone; gone in supplying the poorest food to a

craving and imbecile vanity: gone, that its owner might seem what nature

never meant him for: the elegant Lothario, the graceful man of pleasure,

the troubadour of modern life! gone in horses, and jewels, and fine

clothes, and gaming, and printing unsaleable poems on gilt-edged vellum;

gone, that he might not be a greater but a more fashionable man than

Ernest Maltravers! Such is the common destiny of those poor adventurers

who confine fame to boudoirs and saloons. No matter whether they be

poets or dandies, wealthy _parvenus_ or aristocratic cadets, all equally

prove the adage that the wrong paths to reputation are strewed with the

wrecks of peace, fortune, happiness, and too often honour! And yet this

poor young man had dared to hope for the hand of Florence Lascelles! He

had the common notion of foreigners, that English girls marry for

love, are very romantic; that, within the three seas, heiresses are

as plentiful as blackberries; and for the rest, his vanity had been

so pampered, that it now insinuated itself into every fibre of his

intellectual and moral system.

Cesarini looked cautiously round, as he arrived at his door; for he

fancied that, even in that obscure place, persons might be anxious to

catch a glimpse of the celebrated poet; and he concealed his residence

from all; dined on a roll when he did not dine out, and left his address

at “The Travellers.” He looked round, I say, and he did observe a tall

figure wrapped in a cloak that had indeed followed him from a distant

and more populous part of the town. But the figure turned round, and

vanished instantly. Cesarini mounted to his second floor. And about the

middle of the next day a messenger left a letter at his door, containing

one hundred pounds in a blank envelope. Cesarini knew not the writing of

the address; his pride was deeply wounded. Amidst all his penury, he

had not even applied to his own sister. Could it come from her, from De

Montaigne? He was lost in conjecture. He put the remittance aside for

a few days; for he had something fine in him, the poor poet! but bills

grew pressing, and necessity hath no law.

Two days afterwards, Cesarini brought to Ferrers the answer he had

received from Maltravers. Lumley had rightly foreseen that the high

spirit of Ernest would conceive some indignation at the coquetry of

Florence in beguiling the Italian into hopes never to be realised, and

that he would express himself openly and warmly. He did so, however,

with more gentleness than Lumley had anticipated.

“This is not exactly the thing,” said Ferrers, after twice reading the

letter; “still it may hereafter be a strong card in our hands--we will

keep it.”

So saying, he locked the letter up in his desk, and Cesarini soon forgot

its existence.

CHAPTER V.

“She was a phantom of delight,

When first she gleamed upon my sight:

A lovely apparition sent

To be a moment’s ornament.”--WORDSWORTH.

MALTRAVERS did not see Lady Florence again for some weeks; meanwhile,

Lumley Ferrers made his _debut_ in parliament. Rigidly adhering to

his plan of acting on a deliberate system, and not prone to overrate

himself, Mr. Ferrers did not, like most promising new members, try

the hazardous ordeal of a great first speech. Though bold, fluent, and

ready, he was not eloquent; and he knew that on great occasions,

when great speeches are wanted, great guns like to have the fire to

themselves. Neither did he split upon the opposite rock of “promising

young men,” who stick to “the business of the house” like leeches, and

quibble on details; in return for which labour they are generally voted

bores, who can never do anything remarkable. But he spoke frequently,

shortly, courageously, and with a strong dash of good-humoured

personality. He was the man whom a minister could get to say something

which other people did not like to say: and he did so with a frank

fearlessness that carried off any seeming violation of good taste.

He soon became a very popular speaker in the parliamentary clique;

especially with the gentlemen who crowd the bar, and never want to

hear the argument of the debate. Between him and Maltravers a visible

coldness now existed; for the latter looked upon his old friend (whose

principles of logic led him even to republicanism, and who had been

accustomed to accuse Ernest of temporising with plain truths, if he

demurred to their application to artificial states of society) as a

cold-blooded and hypocritical adventurer; while Ferrers, seeing that

Ernest could now be of no further use to him, was willing enough to

drop a profitless intimacy. Nay, he thought it would be wise to pick a

quarrel with him, if possible, as the best means of banishing a supposed

rival from the house of his noble relation, Lord Saxingham. But no

opportunity for that step presented itself; so Lumley kept a fit of

convenient rudeness, or an impromptu sarcasm, in reserve, if ever it

should be wanted.

The season and the session were alike drawing to a close, when

Maltravers received a pressing invitation from Cleveland to spend a week

at his villa, which he assured Ernest would be full of agreeable

people; and as all business productive of debate or division was

over, Maltravers was glad to obtain fresh air, and a change of scene.

Accordingly, he sent down his luggage and favourite books, and one

afternoon in early August rode alone towards Temple Grove. He was much

dissatisfied, perhaps disappointed, with his experience of public life;

and with his high-wrought and over-refining views of the deficiencies

of others more prominent, he was in a humour to mingle also censure of

himself, for having yielded too much to the doubts and scruples that

often, in the early part of their career, beset the honest and sincere,

in the turbulent whirl of politics, and ever tend to make the robust

hues that should belong to action

“Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.”

His mind was working its way slowly towards those conclusions,

which sometimes ripen the best practical men out of the most exalted

theorists, and perhaps he saw before him the pleasing prospect

flatteringly exhibited to another, when he complained of being too

honest for party, viz., “of becoming a very pretty rascal in time!”

For several weeks he had not heard from his unknown correspondent, and

the time was come when he missed those letters, now continued for more

than two years; and which, in their eloquent mixture of complaint,

exhortation, despondent gloom and declamatory enthusiasm, had often

soothed him in dejection, and made him more sensible of triumph. While

revolving in his mind thoughts connected with these subjects--and,

somehow or other, with his more ambitious reveries were always mingled

musings of curiosity respecting his correspondent--he was struck by the

beauty of a little girl, of about eleven years old, who was walking with

a female attendant on the footpath that skirted the road. I said that he

was struck by her beauty, but that is a wrong expression; it was rather

the charm of her countenance than the perfection of her features which

arrested the gaze of Maltravers--a charm that might not have existed for

others, but was inexpressibly attractive to him, and was so much apart

from the vulgar fascination of mere beauty, that it would have equally

touched a chord at his heart, if coupled with homely features or a

bloomless cheek. This charm was in a wonderful innocent and dove-like

softness of expression. We all form to ourselves some _beau-ideal_ of

the “fair spirit” we desire as our earthly “minister,” and somewhat

capriciously gauge and proportion our admiration of living shapes

according as the _beau-ideal_ is more or less embodied or approached.

Beauty, of a stamp that is not familiar to the dreams of our fancy,

may win the cold homage of our judgment, while a look, a feature, a

something that realises and calls up a boyish vision, and assimilates

even distantly to the picture we wear within us, has a loveliness

peculiar to our eyes, and kindles an emotion that almost seems to

belong to memory. It is this which the Platonists felt when they wildly

supposed that souls attracted to each other on earth had been united in

an earlier being and a diviner sphere; and there was in the young

face on which Ernest gazed precisely this ineffable harmony with his

preconceived notions of the beautiful. Many a nightly and noonday

reverie was realised in those mild yet smiling eyes of the darkest blue;

in that ingenuous breadth of brow, with its slightly-pencilled arches,

and the nose, not cut in that sharp and clear symmetry which looks so

lovely in marble, but usually gives to flesh and blood a decided

and hard character, that better becomes the sterner than the gentler

sex--no; not moulded in the pure Grecian, nor in the pure Roman, cast;

but small, delicate, with the least possible inclination to turn upward,

that was only to be detected in one position of the head, and served

to give a prettier archness to the sweet flexile lips, which, from the

gentleness of their repose, seemed to smile unconsciously, but rather

from a happy constitutional serenity than from the giddiness of mirth.

Such was the character of this fair child’s countenance, on which

Maltravers turned and gazed involuntarily and reverently, with something

of the admiring delight with which we look upon the Virgin of a Rafaele,

or the sunset landscape of a Claude. The girl did not appear to feel

any premature coquetry at the evident, though respectful admiration she

excited. She met the eyes bent upon her, brilliant and eloquent as they

were, with a fearless and unsuspecting gaze, and pointed out to her

companion, with all a child’s quick and unrestrained impulse, the

shining and raven gloss, the arched and haughty neck, of Ernest’s

beautiful Arabian.

Now there happened between Maltravers and the young object of his

admiration a little adventure, which served, perhaps, to fix in her

recollection this short encounter with a stranger; for certain it

is that, years after, she did remember both the circumstances of the

adventure and the features of Maltravers. She wore one of those large

straw-hats which look so pretty upon children, and the warmth of the day

made her untie the strings which confined it. A gentle breeze arose, as

by a turn in the road the country became more open, and suddenly wafted

the hat from its proper post, almost to the hoofs of Ernest’s horse. The

child naturally made a spring forward to arrest the deserter, and her

foot slipped down the bank, which was rather steeply raised above

the road. She uttered a low cry of pain. To dismount--to regain the

prize--and to restore it to its owner, was, with Ernest, the work of

a moment; the poor girl had twisted her ankle and was leaning upon her

servant for support. But when she saw the anxiety, and almost the alarm,

upon the stranger’s face (and her exclamation of pain had literally

thrilled his heart--so much and so unaccountably had she excited his

interest), she made an effort at self-control, not common at her years,

and, with a forced smile, assured him she was not much hurt--that it was

nothing--that she was just at home.

“Oh, miss!” said the servant, “I am sure you are very bad. Dear heart,

how angry master will be! It was not my fault; was it, sir?”

“Oh, no, it was not your fault, Margaret; don’t be frightened--papa

sha’n’t blame you. But I’m much better now.” So saying, she tried to

walk; but the effort was in vain--she turned yet more pale, and though

she struggled to prevent a shriek, the tears rolled down her cheeks.

It was very odd, but Maltravers had never felt more touched--the tears

stood in his own eyes; he longed to carry her in his arms, but, child

as she was, a strange kind of nervous timidity forbade him. Margaret,

perhaps, expected it of him, for she looked hard in his face, before she

attempted a burthen to which, being a small, slight person, she was by

no means equal. However, after a pause, she took up her charge, who,

ashamed of her tears, and almost overcome with pain, nestled her head in

the woman’s bosom, and Maltravers walked by her side, while his docile

and well-trained horse followed at a distance, every now and then

putting its fore-legs on the bank and cropping away a mouthful of leaves

from the hedge-row.

“Oh, Margaret!” said the little sufferer, “I cannot bear it--indeed I

cannot.”

And Maltravers observed that Margaret had permitted the lame foot to

hang down unsupported, so that the pain must indeed have been scarcely

bearable. He could restrain himself no longer.

“You are not strong enough to carry her,” said he, sharply, to the

servant; and the next moment the child was in his arms. Oh, with what

anxious tenderness he bore her! and he was so happy when she turned her

face to him and smiled, and told him she now scarcely felt the pain.

If it were possible to be in love with a child of eleven years old,

Maltravers was almost in love. His pulses trembled as he felt her pure

breath on his cheek, and her rich beautiful hair was waved by the breeze

across his lips. He hushed his voice to a whisper as he poured forth all

the soothing and comforting expressions which give a natural eloquence

to persons fond of children--and Ernest Maltravers was the idol of

children;--he understood and sympathised with them; he had a great

deal of the child himself, beneath the rough and cold husk of his proud

reserve. At length they came to a lodge, and Margaret eagerly inquiring

“whether master and missus were at home,” seemed delighted to hear they

were not. Ernest, however, insisted on bearing his charge across the

lawn to the house, which, like most suburban villas, was but a stone’s

throw from the lodge; and, receiving the most positive promise that

surgical advice should be immediately sent for, he was forced to content

himself with laying the sufferer on a sofa in the drawing-room; and she

thanked him so prettily, and assured him she was so much easier, that

he would have given the world to kiss her. The child had completed her

conquest over him by being above the child’s ordinary littleness of

making the worst of things, in order to obtain the consequence and

dignity of being pitied;--she was evidently unselfish and considerate

for others. He did kiss her, but it was the hand that he kissed, and no

cavalier ever kissed his lady’s hand with more respect; and then, for

the first time, the child blushed--then, for the first time, she felt

as if the day would come when she should be a child no longer! Why

was this?--perhaps because it is an era in life--the first sign of a

tenderness that inspires respect, not familiarity!

“If ever again I could be in love,” said Maltravers, as he spurred on

his road, “I really think it would be with that exquisite child. My

feeling is more like that of love at first sight than any emotion which

beauty ever caused in me. Alice--Valerie--no; the _first_ sight of them

did not:--but what folly is this--a child of eleven--and I verging upon

thirty!”

Still, however, folly as it might be, the image of that young girl

haunted Maltravers for many days; till change of scene, the distractions

of society, the grave thoughts of manhood, and, above all, a series of

exciting circumstances about to be narrated, gradually obliterated a

strange and most delightful impression. He had learned, however, that

Mr. Templeton was the proprietor of the villa, which was the child’s

home. He wrote to Ferrers to narrate the incident, and to inquire after

the sufferer. In due time he heard from that gentleman that the child

was recovered, and gone with Mr. and Mrs. Templeton to Brighton, for

change of air and sea-bathing.

BOOK VIII.

Whither come Wisdom’s queen

And the snare-weaving Love?

EURIP. _Iphig. in Aul._ I. 1310.

CHAPTER I.

“Notitiam primosque gradus vicinia fecit.” *--OVID.

* Neighbourhood caused the acquaintance and first introduction.

CLEVELAND’S villa _was_ full, and of persons usually called agreeable.

Amongst the rest was Lady Florence Lascelles. The wise old man had ever

counselled Maltravers not to marry too young; but neither did he wish

him to put off that momentous epoch of life till all the bloom of heart

and emotion was passed away. He thought, with the old lawgivers, that

thirty was the happy age for forming a connection, in the choice of

which, with the reason of manhood, ought, perhaps, to be blended

the passion of youth. And he saw that few men were more capable than

Maltravers of the true enjoyments of domestic life. He had long thought,

also, that none were more calculated to sympathise with Ernest’s views,

and appreciate his peculiar character, than the gifted and brilliant

Florence Lascelles. Cleveland looked with toleration on her many

eccentricities of thought and conduct,--eccentricities which he imagined

would rapidly melt away beneath the influence of that attachment which

usually operates so great a change in women; and, where it is strongly

and intensely felt, moulds even those of the most obstinate character

into compliance or similitude with the sentiments or habits of its

object.

The stately self-control of Maltravers was, he conceived, precisely that

quality that gives to men an unconscious command over the very thoughts

of the woman whose affection they win: while, on the other hand, he

hoped that the fancy and enthusiasm of Florence would tend to render

sharper and more practical an ambition, which seemed to the sober man

of the world too apt to refine upon the means, and to _cui bono_

the objects of worldly distinction. Besides, Cleveland was one who

thoroughly appreciated the advantages of wealth and station; and the

rank and the dower of Florence were such as would force Maltravers into

a position in social life, which could not fail to make new exactions

upon talents which Cleveland fancied were precisely those adapted rather

to command than to serve. In Ferrers he recognised a man to _get_ into

power--in Maltravers one by whom power, if ever attained, would be

wielded with dignity, and exerted for great uses. Something, therefore,

higher than mere covetousness for the vulgar interests of Maltravers

made Cleveland desire to secure to him the heart and hand of the great

heiress; and he fancied that, whatever might be the obstacle, it would

not be in the will of Lady Florence herself. He prudently resolved,

however, to leave matters to their natural course. He hinted nothing

to one party or the other. No place for falling in love like a large

country house, and no time for it, amongst the indolent well-born, like

the close of a London season, when, jaded by small cares, and sickened

of hollow intimacies, even the coldest may well yearn for the tones of

affection--the excitement of an honest emotion.

Somehow or other it happened that Florence and Ernest, after the first

day or two, were constantly thrown together. She rode on horseback, and

Maltravers was by her side--they made excursions on the river, and they

sat on the same bench in the gliding pleasure-boat. In the evenings, the

younger guests, with the assistance of the neighbouring families, often

got up a dance in a temporary pavilion built out of the dining-room.

Ernest never danced. Florence did at first. But once, as she was

conversing with Maltravers, when a gay guardsman came to claim her

promised hand in the waltz, she seemed struck by a grave change in

Ernest’s face.

“Do you never waltz?” she asked, while the guardsman was searching for a

corner wherein safely to deposit his hat.

“No,” said he; “yet there is no impropriety in _my_ waltzing.”

“And you mean that there is in mine?”

“Pardon me--I did not say so.”

“But you think it.”

“Nay, on consideration, I am glad, perhaps, that you do waltz.”

“You are mysterious.”

“Well then, I mean, that you are precisely the woman I would never fall

in love with. And I feel the danger is lessened, when I see you destroy

any one of my illusions, or, I ought to say, attack any one of my

prejudices.”

Lady Florence coloured; but the guardsman and the music left her no

time for reply. However, after that night she waltzed no more. She was

unwell--she declared she was ordered not to dance, and so quadrilles

were relinquished as well as the waltz.

Maltravers could not but be touched and flattered by this regard for

his opinion; but Florence contrived to testify it so as to forbid

acknowledgment, since another motive had been found for it. The second

evening after that commemorated by Ernest’s candid rudeness, they

chanced to meet in the conservatory, which was connected with the

ball-room; and Ernest, pausing to inquire after her health, was struck

by the listless and dejected sadness which spoke in her tone and

countenance as she replied to him.

“Dear Lady Florence,” said he, “I fear you are worse than you will

confess. You should shun these draughts. You owe it to your friends to

be more careful of yourself.”

“Friends!” said Lady Florence, bitterly--“I have no friends!--even my

poor father would not absent himself from a cabinet dinner a week

after I was dead. But that is the condition of public life--its hot

and searing blaze puts out the lights of all lesser but not unholier

affections.--Friends! Fate, that made Florence Lascelles the envied

heiress, denied her brothers, sisters; and the hour of her birth lost

her even the love of a mother! Friends! where shall I find them?”

As she ceased, she turned to the open casement, and stepped out into

the verandah, and by the trembling of her voice Ernest felt that she had

done so to hide or to suppress her tears.

“Yet,” said he, following her, “there is one class of more distant

friends, whose interest Lady Florence Lascelles cannot fail to secure,

however she may disdain it. Among the humblest of that class, suffer me

to rank myself. Come, I assume the privilege of advice--the night air is

a luxury you must not indulge.”

“No, no, it refreshes me--it soothes. You misunderstand me, I have no

illness that still skies and sleeping flowers can increase.”

Maltravers, as is evident, was not in love with Florence, but he could

not fail, brought, as he had lately been, under the direct influence

of her rare and prodigal gifts, mental and personal, to feel for her a

strong and even affectionate interest--the very frankness with which he

was accustomed to speak to her, and the many links of communion there

necessarily were between himself and a mind so naturally powerful and

so richly cultivated, had already established their acquaintance upon an

intimate footing.

“I cannot restrain you, Lady Florence,” said he, half smiling, “but

my conscience will not let me be an accomplice. I will turn king’s

evidence, and hunt out Lord Saxingham to send him to you.”

Lady Florence, whose face was averted from his, did not appear to hear

him.

“And you, Mr. Maltravers,” turning quickly round--“you--have you

friends? Do you feel that there are, I do not say public, but private

affections and duties, for which life is made less a possession than a

trust?”

“Lady Florence--no!--I have friends, it is true, and Cleveland is of the

nearest; but the life within life--the second self, in whom we vest

the right and mastery over our own being--I know it not. But is it,” he

added, after a pause, “a rare privation? Perhaps it is a happy one.

I have learned to lean on my own soul, and not look elsewhere for the

reeds that a wind can break.”

“Ah, it is a cold philosophy--you may reconcile yourself to its wisdom

in the world, in the hum and shock of men; but in solitude, with

Nature--ah, no! While the mind alone is occupied, you may be contented

with the pride of stoicism; but there are moments when the _heart_

wakens as from a sleep--wakens like a frightened child--to feel itself

alone and in the dark.”

Ernest was silent, and Florence continued, in an altered voice: “This

is a strange conversation--and you must think me indeed a wild,

romance-reading person, as the world is apt to call me. But if I

live--I--pshaw!--life denies ambition to women.”

“If a woman like you, Lady Florence, should ever love, it will be one

in whose career you may perhaps find that noblest of all ambitions--the

ambition women only feel--the ambition for another!”

“Ah! but I shall never love,” said Lady Florence, and her cheek grew

pale as the starlight shone on it; “still, perhaps,” she added quickly,

“I may at least know the blessing of friendship. Why now,” and here,

approaching Maltravers, she laid her hand with a winning frankness on

his arm--“why now, should not we be to each other as if love, as

you call it, were not a thing for earth--and friendship supplied its

place?--there is no danger of our falling in love with each other! You

are not vain enough to expect it in me, and I, you know, am a coquette;

let us be friends, confidants--at least till you marry, or I give

another the right to control my friendships and monopolise my secrets.”

Maltravers was startled--the sentiment Florence addressed to him, he, in

words not dissimilar, had once addressed to Valerie.

“The world,” said he, kissing the hand that yet lay on his arm, “the

world will--”

“Oh, you men!--the world, the world!--Everything gentle, everything

pure, everything noble, high-wrought and holy--is to be squared, and

cribbed, and maimed to the rule and measure of the world! The world--are

you, too, its slave? Do you not despise its hollow cant--its methodical

hypocrisy?”

“Heartily!” said Ernest Maltravers, almost with fierceness. “No man ever

so scorned its false gods and its miserable creeds--its war upon the

weak--its fawning upon the great--its ingratitude to benefactors--its

sordid league with mediocrity against excellence. Yes, in proportion as

I love mankind, I despise and detest that worse than Venetian oligarchy

which mankind set over them and call ‘THE WORLD.’”

And then it was, warmed by the excitement of released feelings, long

and carefully shrouded, that this man, ordinarily so calm and

self-possessed, poured burningly and passionately forth all those

tumultuous and almost tremendous thoughts, which, however much we may

regulate, control, or disguise them, lurk deep within the souls of all

of us, the seeds of the eternal war between the natural man and

the artificial; between our wilder genius and our social

conventionalities;--thoughts that from time to time break forth into the

harbingers of vain and fruitless revolutions, impotent struggles against

destiny;--thoughts that good and wise men would be slow to promulge and

propagate, for they are of a fire which burns as well as brightens,

and which spreads from heart to heart--as a spark spreads amidst

flax;--thoughts which are rifest where natures are most high, but belong

to truths that virtue dare not tell aloud. And as Maltravers spoke, with

his eyes flashing almost intolerable light--his breast heaving, his form

dilated, never to the eyes of Florence Lascelles did he seem so great:

the chains that bound the strong limbs of his spirit seemed snapped

asunder, and all his soul was visible and towering, as a thing that has

escaped slavery, and lifts its crest to heaven, and feels that it is

free.

That evening saw a new bond of alliance between these two

persons,--young, handsome, and of opposite sexes, they agreed to be

friends, and nothing more. Fools!

CHAPTER II.

“Idem velle, et idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia est.” *

SALLUST.

*To will the same thing and not to will the same thing, that at length

is firm friendship.

“_Carlos._ That letter.

_Princess Eboli._ Oh, I shall die. Return it instantly.”

SCHILLER: _Don Carlos_.

IT seemed as if the compact Maltravers and Lady Florence had entered

into removed whatever embarrassment and reserve had previously existed.

They now conversed with an ease and freedom not common in persons of

different sexes before they have passed their grand climacteric. Ernest,

in ordinary life, like most men of warm emotions and strong imagination,

if not taciturn, was at least guarded. It was as if a weight were taken

from his breast, when he found one person who could understand him best

when he was most candid. His eloquence--his poetry--his intense and

concentrated enthusiasm found a voice. He could talk to an individual

as he would have written to the public--a rare happiness to the men of

books.

Florence seemed to recover her health and spirits as by a miracle; yet

she was more gentle, more subdued, than of old--there was less effort

to shine, less indifference whether she shocked. Persons who had not

met her before, wondered why she was dreaded in society. But at times a

great natural irritability of temper--a quick suspicion of the motives

of those around her--an imperious and obstinate vehemence of will, were

visible to Maltravers, and served, perhaps, to keep him heart-whole.

He regarded her through the eyes of the intellect, not those of the

passions--he thought not of her as a woman--her very talents, her very

grandeur of idea and power of purpose, while they delighted him in

conversation, diverted his imagination from dwelling on her beauty.

He looked on her as something apart from her sex;--a glorious creature

spoilt by being a woman. He once told her so, laughing, and Florence

considered it a compliment. Poor Florence, her scorn of her sex avenged

her sex, and robbed her of her proper destiny!

Cleveland silently observed their intimacy, and listened with a quiet

smile to the gossips who pointed out _tetes-a-tetes_ by the terrace, and

loiterings by the lawn, and predicted what would come of it all. Lord

Saxingham was blind. But his daughter was of age, in possession of her

princely fortune, and had long made him sensible of her independence of

temper. His lordship, however, thoroughly misunderstood the character of

her pride, and felt fully convinced she would marry no one less than

a duke; as for flirtations, he thought them natural and innocent

amusements. Besides, he was very little at Temple Grove. He went to

London every morning, after breakfasting in his own room--came back to

dine, play at whist, and talk good-humoured nonsense to Florence in his

dressing-room, for the three minutes that took place between his sipping

his wine-and-water and the appearance of his valet. As for the other

guests, it was not their business to do more than gossip with each

other; and so Florence and Maltravers went on their way unmolested,

though not unobserved. Maltravers, not being himself in love, never

fancied that Lady Florence loved him, or that she would be in any danger

of doing so. This is a mistake a man often commits--a woman never. A

woman always knows when she is loved, though she often imagines she is

loved when she is not. Florence was not happy, for happiness is a calm

feeling. But she was excited with a vague, wild, intoxicating emotion.

She had learned from Maltravers that she had been misinformed by

Ferrers, and that no other claimed empire over his heart; and whether or

not he loved her, still for the present they seemed all in all to each

other; she lived but for the present day, she would not think of the

morrow.

Since that severe illness which had tended so much to alter Ernest’s

mode of life, he had not come before the public as an author. Latterly,

however, the old habit had broken out again. With the comparative

idleness of recent years, the ideas and feelings which crowd so fast on

the poetical temperament, once indulged, had accumulated within him to

an excess that demanded vent. For with some, to write is not a vague

desire, but an imperious destiny. The fire is kindled and must break

forth; the wings are fledged, and the birds must leave their nest. The

communication of thought to man is implanted as an instinct in those

breasts to which Heaven has intrusted the solemn agencies of genius.

In the work which Maltravers now composed he consulted Florence: his

confidence delighted her--it was a compliment she could appreciate.

Wild, fervid, impassioned, was that work--a brief and holiday

creation--the youngest and most beloved of the children of his brain.

And as day by day the bright design grew into shape, and thought and

imagination found themselves “local habitations,” Florence felt as if

she were admitted into the palace of the genii, and made acquainted with

the mechanism of those spells and charms with which the preternatural

powers of mind design the witchery of the world. Ah, how different in

depth and majesty were those intercommunications of idea between Ernest

Maltravers and a woman scarcely inferior to himself in capacity and

acquirement, from that bridge of shadowy and dim sympathies which the

enthusiastic boy had once built up between his own poetry of knowledge

and Alice’s poetry of love!

It was one late afternoon in September, when the sun was slowly going

down its western way, that Lady Florence, who had been all that

morning in her own room, paying off, as she said, the dull arrears of

correspondence, rather on Lord Saxingham’s account than her own; for he

punctiliously exacted from her the most scrupulous attention to cousins

fifty times removed, provided they were rich, clever, well off, or in

any way of consequence:--it was one afternoon that, relieved from these

avocations, Lady Florence strolled through the grounds with Cleveland.

The gentlemen were still in the stubble-fields, the ladies were out in

barouches and pony phaetons, and Cleveland and Lady Florence were alone.

Apropos of Florence’s epistolary employment, their conversation fell

upon that most charming species of literature, which joins with the

interest of a novel the truth of a history--the French memoir and

letter-writers. It was a part of literature in which Cleveland was

thoroughly at home.

“Those agreeable and polished gossips,” said he, “how well they

contrived to introduce nature into art! Everything artificial seemed so

natural to them. They even feel by a kind of clockwork, which seems to

go better than the heart itself. Those pretty sentiments, those delicate

gallantries, of Madame de Sevigne to her daughter, how amiable they are;

but, somehow or other, I can never fancy them the least motherly. What

an ending for a maternal epistle is that elegant compliment--‘Songez

que de tons les coeurs ou vous regnez, il n’y en a aucun ou votre

empire soit si bien etabli que dans le mien.’* I can scarcely fancy Lord

Saxingham writing so to you, Lady Florence.”

* Think that of all the hearts over which you reign, there is not one in

which your empire can be so well established as in mine.

“No, indeed,” replied Lady Florence, smiling. “Neither papas nor

mammas in England are much addicted to compliment; but I confess I

like preserving a sort of gallantry even in our most familiar

connections--why should we not carry the imagination into all the

affections?”

“I can scarce answer the why,” returned Cleveland; “but I think it would

destroy the reality. I am rather of the old school. If I had a daughter,

and asked her to get my slippers, I am afraid I should think it a little

wearisome if I had, in receiving them, to make _des belles phrases_ in

return.”

While they were thus talking, and Lady Florence continued to press her

side of the question, they passed through a little grove that conducted

to an arm of the stream which ornamented the grounds, and by its quiet

and shadowy gloom was meant to give a contrast to the livelier features

of the domain. Here they came suddenly upon Maltravers. He was walking

by the side of the brook, and evidently absorbed in thought.

It was the trembling of Lady Florence’s hand as it lay on Cleveland’s

arm, that induced him to stop short in an animated commentary on

Rochefoucauld’s character of Cardinal de Retz, and look round.

“Ha, most meditative Jacques!” said he; “and what new moral hast thou

been conning in our Forest of Ardennes?”

“Oh, I am glad to see you; I wished to consult you, Cleveland. But

first, Lady Florence, to convince you and our host that my rambles

have not been wholly fruitless, and that I could not walk from Dan to

Beersheba and find all barren, accept my offering--a wild rose that I

discovered in the thickest part of the wood. It is not a civilised rose.

Now, Cleveland, a word with you.”

“And now, Mr. Maltravers, I am _de trop_,” said Lady Florence.

“Pardon me, I have no secrets from you in this matter--or rather these

matters; for there are two to be discussed. In the first place, Lady

Florence, that poor Cesarini,--you know and like him--nay, no blushes.”

“Did I blush?--then it was in recollection of an old reproach of yours.”

“At its justice?--well, no matter. He is one for whom I always felt a

lively interest. His very morbidity of temperament only increases my

anxiety for his future fate. I have received a letter from De Montaigne,

his brother-in-law, who seems seriously uneasy about Castruccio. He

wishes him to leave England at once, as the sole means of restoring his

broken fortunes. De Montaigne has the opportunity of procuring him a

diplomatic situation, which may not again occur--and--but you know the

man--what shall we do? I am sure he will not listen to me; he looks on

me as an interested rival for fame.”

“Do you think I have any subtler eloquence?” said Cleveland. “No, I

am an author, too. Come, I think your ladyship must be the

arch-negotiator.”

“He has genius, he has merit,” said Maltravers, pleadingly; “he wants

nothing but time and experience to wean him from his foibles. _Will_ you

try to save him, Lady Florence?”

“Why? nay, I must not be obdurate; I will see him when I go to town. It

is like you, Mr. Maltravers, to feel this interest in one--”

“Who does not like me, you would say; but he will some day or other.

Besides, I owe him deep gratitude. In his weaker qualities I have seen

many which all literary men might incur, without strict watch over

themselves; and let me add, also, that his family have great claims on

me.”

“You believe in the soundness of his heart, and in the integrity of his

honour?” said Cleveland, inquiringly.

“Indeed I do; these are, these must be, the redeeming qualities of

poets.”

Maltravers spoke warmly; and such at that time was his influence over

Florence, that his words formed--alas, too fatally!--her estimate of

Castruccio’s character, which had at first been high, but which his own

presumption had latterly shaken. She had seen him three or four times in

the interval between the receipt of his apologetic letter and her visit

to Cleveland, and he had seemed to her rather sullen than humbled. But

she felt for the vanity she herself had wounded.

“And now,” continued Maltravers, “for my second subject of consultation.

But that is political; will it weary Lady Florence?”

“Oh, no; to politics I am never indifferent: they always inspire me with

contempt or admiration, according to the motives of those who bring the

science into action. Pray say on.”

“Well,” said Cleveland, “one confidant at a time; you will forgive me,

for I see my guests coming across the lawn, and I may as well make a

diversion in your favour. Ernest can consult _me_ at any time.”

Cleveland walked away; but the intimacy between Maltravers and Florence

was of so frank a nature that there was nothing embarrassing in the

thought of a _tete-a-tete_.

“Lady Florence,” said Ernest, “there is no one in the world with whom

I can confer so cheerfully as with you. I am almost glad of Cleveland’s

absence, for, with all his amiable and fine qualities, ‘the world is

too much with him,’ and we do not argue from the same data. Pardon my

prelude--now to my position. I have received a letter from Mr. ------.

That statesman, whom none but those acquainted with the chivalrous

beauty of his nature can understand or appreciate, sees before him the

most brilliant career that ever opened in this country to a public

man not born an aristocrat. He has asked me to form one of the new

administration that he is about to create: the place offered to me is

above my merits, nor suited to what I have yet done, though, perhaps,

it be suited to what I may yet do. I make that qualification, for

you know,” added Ernest, with a proud smile, “that I am sanguine and

self-confident.”

“You accept the proposal?”

“Nay,--should I not reject it? Our politics are the same only for

the moment, our ultimate objects are widely different. To serve with

Mr.------, I must make an unequal compromise--abandon nine opinions to

promote one. Is not this a capitulation of that great citadel, one’s own

conscience? No man will call me inconsistent, for, in public life, to

agree with another on a party question is all that is required; the

thousand questions not yet ripened, and lying dark and concealed in the

future, are not inquired into and divined; but I own I shall deem myself

worse than inconsistent. For this is my dilemma,--if I use this noble

spirit merely to advance one object, and then desert him where he halts,

I am treacherous to him; if I halt with him, but one of my objects

effected, I am treacherous to myself. Such are my views. It is with pain

I arrive at them, for, at first, my heart beat with a selfish ambition.”

“You are right, you are right,” exclaimed Florence, with glowing cheeks;

“how could I doubt you? I comprehend the sacrifice you make; for a proud

thing is it to soar above the predictions of foes in that palpable road

to honour which the world’s hard eyes can see, and the world’s cold

heart can measure; but prouder is it to feel that you have never

advanced one step to the goal, which remembrance would retract. No, my

friend, wait your time, confident that it must come, when conscience and

ambition can go hand-in-hand--when the broad objects of a luminous and

enlarged policy lie before you like a chart, and you can calculate every

step of the way without peril of being lost. Ah, let them still

call loftiness of purpose and whiteness of soul the dreams of a

theorist,--even if they be so, the Ideal in this case is better than the

Practical. Meanwhile your position is not one to forfeit lightly. Before

you is that throne in literature which it requires no doubtful step

to win, if you have, as I believe, the mental power to attain it. An

ambition that may indeed be relinquished, if a more troubled career can

better achieve those public purposes at which both letters and policy

should aim, but which is not to be surrendered for the rewards of a

place-man, or the advancement of a courtier.”

It was while uttering these noble and inspiring sentiments, that

Florence Lascelles suddenly acquired in Ernest’s eyes a loveliness with

which they had not before invested her.

“Oh,” he said, as, with a sudden impulse, he lifted her hand to his

lips, “blessed be the hour in which you gave me your friendship! These

are the thoughts I have longed to hear from living lips, when I have

been tempted to believe patriotism a delusion, and virtue but a name.”

Lady Florence heard, and her whole form seemed changed,--she was no

longer the majestic sibyl, but the attached, timorous, delighted woman.

It so happened that in her confusion she dropped from her hand the

flower Maltravers had given her, and involuntarily glad of a pretext to

conceal her countenance, she stooped to take it from the ground. In so

doing, a letter fell from her bosom--and Maltravers, as he bent forwards

to forestall her own movement, saw that the direction was to himself,

and in the handwriting of his unknown correspondent. He seized the

letter, and gazed in flattered and entranced astonishment, first on the

writing, next on the detected writer. Florence grew deadly pale, and

covering her face with her hands, burst into tears.

“O fool that I was,” cried Ernest, in the passion of the moment, “not to

know--not to have felt that there were not two Florences in the world!

But if the thought had crossed me, I would not have dared to harbour

it.”

“Go, go,” sobbed Florence; “leave me, in mercy leave me!”

“Not till you bid me rise,” said Ernest, in emotion scarcely less deep

than hers, as he sank on his knee at her feet.

Need I go on?--When they left that spot, a soft confession had been

made--deep vows interchanged, and Ernest Maltravers was the accepted

suitor of Florence Lascelles.

CHAPTER III.

“A hundred fathers would in my situation tell you that, as

you are of noble extraction, you should marry a nobleman.

But I do not say so. I will not sacrifice my child to any

prejudice.”

KOTZEBUE. _Lover’s Vows_.

“Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all

Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.”

SHAKSPEARE. _Henry VI._

“Oh, how this spring of love resembleth

Th’ uncertain glory of an April day;

Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,

And by and by a cloud takes all away!”

SHAKSPEARE. _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_.

WHEN Maltravers was once more in his solitary apartment, he felt as in

a dream. He had obeyed an impulse, irresistible, perhaps, but one with

which the _conscience of his heart_ was not satisfied. A voice whispered

to him, “Thou hast deceived her and thyself--thou dost not love her!”

In vain he recalled her beauty, her grace, her genius--her singular and

enthusiastic passion for himself--the voice still replied, “Thou dost

not love. Bid farewell for ever to thy fond dreams of a life more

blessed than that of mortals. From the stormy sea of the future are

blotted out eternally for thee--Calypso and her Golden Isle. Thou canst

no more paint on the dim canvas of thy desires the form of her with

whom thou couldst dwell for ever. Thou hast been unfaithful to thine own

ideal--thou hast given thyself for ever and for ever to another--thou

hast renounced hope--thou must live as in a prison, with a being with

whom thou hast not the harmony of love.”

“No matter,” said Maltravers, almost alarmed, and starting from these

thoughts, “I am betrothed to one who loves me--it is folly and dishonour

to repent and to repine. I have gone through the best years of youth

without finding the Egeria with whom the cavern would be sweeter than

a throne. Why live to the grave a vain and visionary Nympholept? Out of

the real world could I have made a nobler choice?”

While Maltravers thus communed with himself, Lady Florence passed into

her father’s dressing-room, and there awaited his return from London.

She knew his worldly views--she knew also the pride of her affianced,

and, she felt that she alone could mediate between the two.

Lord Saxingham at last returned--busy, bustling, important, and

good-humoured as usual. “Well, Flory, well?--glad to see you--quite

blooming, I declare,--never saw you with such a colour--monstrous like

me, certainly. We always had fine complexions and fine eyes in our

family. But I’m rather late--first bell rung--we _ci-devant jeunes

hommes_ are rather long dressing, and you are not dressed yet, I see.”

“My dearest father, I wished to speak with you on a matter of much

importance.”

“Do you?--what, immediately?”

“Yes.”

“Well--what is it?--your Slingsby property, I suppose.”

“No, my dear father--pray sit down and hear me patiently.”

Lord Saxingham began to be both alarmed and curious--he seated himself

in silence, and looked anxiously in the face of his daughter.

“You have always been very indulgent to me,” commenced Florence, with

a half smile, “and I have had my own way more than most young ladies.

Believe me, my dear father. I am most grateful not only for your

affection but your esteem. I have been a strange wild girl, but I am

now about to reform; and as the first step, I ask your consent to give

myself a preceptor and a guide--”

“A what!” cried Lord Saxingham.

“In other words, I am about to--to--well, the truth must out--to marry.”

“Has the Duke of ------ been here to-day?”

“Not that I know of. But it is no duke to whom I have promised my

hand--it is a nobler and rarer dignity that has caught my ambition. Mr.

Maltravers has--”

“Mr. Maltravers!--Mr. Devil!--the girl’s mad!--don’t talk to me,

child, I won’t consent to any such nonsense. A country gentleman--very

respectable, very clever, and all that, but it’s no use talking--my

mind’s made up. With your fortune, too!”

“My dear father, I will not marry without your consent, though my

fortune is settled on me, and I am of age.”

“There’s a good child--and now let me dress--we shall be late.”

“No, not yet,” said Lady Florence, throwing her arm carelessly round her

father’s neck--“I shall marry Mr. Maltravers, but it will be with your

full approval. Just consider, if I married the Duke of ------, he would

expect all my fortune, such as it is. Ten thousand a year is at my

disposal; if I marry Mr. Maltravers, it will be settled on you--I always

meant it--it is a poor return for your kindness, your indulgence--but it

will show that your own Flory is not ungrateful.”

“I won’t hear.”

“Stop--listen to reason. You are not rich--you are entitled but to a

small pension if you ever resign office, and your official salary, I

have often heard you say, does not prevent you from being embarrassed.

To whom should a daughter give from her superfluities but to a

parent?--from whom should a parent receive, but from a child, who can

never repay his love?--Ah, this is nothing; but you--you who have never

crossed her lightest whim--do not you destroy all the hopes of happiness

your Florence can ever form.”

Florence wept, and Lord Saxingham, who was greatly moved, let fall a few

tears also. Perhaps it is too much to say that the pecuniary part of the

proffered arrangement entirely won him over; but still the way it was

introduced softened his heart. He possibly thought that it was better to

have a good and grateful daughter in a country gentleman’s wife, than a

sullen and thankless one in a duchess. However that may be, certain it

is, that before Lord Saxingham began his toilet, he promised to make no

obstacle to the marriage, and all he asked in return was, that at least

three months (but that, indeed, the lawyers would require) should elapse

before it took place; and on this understanding Florence left him,

radiant and joyous as Flora herself, when the sun of spring makes the

world a garden. Never had she thought so little of her beauty, and never

had it seemed so glorious, as that happy evening. But Maltravers was

pale and thoughtful, and Florence in vain sought his eyes during the

dinner, which seemed to her insufferably long. Afterwards, however,

they met and conversed apart the rest of the evening; and the beauty of

Florence began to produce upon Ernest’s heart its natural effect; and

that evening--ah, how Florence treasured the remembrance of every hour,

every minute of its annals!

It would have been amusing to witness the short conversation between

Lord Saxingham and Maltravers, when the latter sought the earl at night

in his lordship’s room. To Lord Saxingham’s surprise, not a word did

Maltravers utter of his own subordinate pretensions to Lady Florence’s

hand. Coldly, drily, and almost haughtily, did he make the formal

proposals, “as if [as Lord Saxingham afterwards said to Ferrers] the

man were doing me the highest possible honour in taking my daughter, the

beauty of London, with fifty thousand a year, off my hands.” But this

was quite Maltravers!--if he had been proposing to the daughter of a

country curate, without a sixpence, he would have been the humblest of

the humble. The earl was embarrassed and discomposed--he was almost awed

by the Siddons-like countenance and Coriolanus-like air of his future

son-in-law-he even hinted nothing of the compromise as to time which

he had made with his daughter. He thought it better to leave it to Lady

Florence to arrange that matter. They shook hands frigidly and parted.

Maltravers went next into Cleveland’s room, and communicated all to the

delighted old man, whose congratulations were so fervid that Maltravers

felt it would be a sin not to fancy himself the happiest, man in the

world. That night he wrote his refusal of the appointment offered him.

The next day, Lord Saxingham went to his office in Downing Street as

usual, and Lady Florence and Ernest found an opportunity to ramble

through the grounds alone.

There it was that occurred those confessions, sweet alike to utter and

to hear. Then did Florence speak of her early years--of her self-formed

and solitary mind--of her youthful dreams and reveries. Nothing around

her to excite interest or admiration, or the more romantic, the higher,

or the softer qualities of her nature, she turned to contemplation and

to books. It is the combination of the faculties with the affections,

exiled from action, and finding no worldly vent, which produces Poetry,

the child of passion and of thought. Hence, before the real cares of

existence claim them, the young, who are abler yet lonelier than their

fellows, are nearly always poets; and Florence was a poetess. In minds

like this, the first book that seems to embody and represent their own

most cherished and beloved trains of sentiment and ideas, ever creates

a reverential and deep enthusiasm. The lonely, and proud, and melancholy

soul of Maltravers, which made itself visible in all his creations,

became to Florence like a revealer of the secrets of her own nature.

She conceived an intense and mysterious interest in the man whose mind

exercised so pervading a power over her own. She made herself acquainted

with his pursuits, his career--she fancied she found a symmetry and

harmony between the actual being and the breathing genius--she imagined

she understood what seemed dark and obscure to others. He whom she

had never seen grew to her a never-absent friend. His ambition, his

reputation, were to her like a possession of her own. So at length, in

the folly of her young romance, she wrote to him, and dreaming of no

discovery, anticipating no result, the habit once indulged became to

her that luxury which writing for the eye of the world is to an author

oppressed with the burthen of his own thoughts. At length she saw him,

and he did not destroy her illusion. She might have recovered from the

spell if she had found him ready at once to worship at her shrine. The

mixture of reserve and frankness--frankness of language, reserve of

manner--which belonged to Maltravers, piqued her. Her vanity became the

auxiliary to her imagination. At length they met at Cleveland’s house;

their intercourse became more unrestrained--their friendship was

established, and she discovered that she had wilfully implicated her

happiness in indulging her dreams; yet even then she believed that

Maltravers loved her, despite his silence upon the subject of love. His

manner, his words bespoke his interest in her, and his voice was ever

soft when he spoke to women; for he had much of the old chivalric

respect and tenderness for the sex. What was general it was natural

that she should apply individually--she who had walked the world but

to fascinate and to conquer. It was probable that her great wealth and

social position imposed a check on the delicate pride of Maltravers--she

hoped so--she believed it--yet she felt her danger, and her own pride at

last took alarm. In such a moment she had resumed the character of the

unknown correspondent--she had written to Maltravers--addressed her

letter to his own house, and meant the next day to have gone to London,

and posted it there. In this letter she had spoken of his visit to

Cleveland, of his position with herself. She exhorted him, if he loved

her, to confess, and if not, to fly. She had written artfully and

eloquently--she was desirous of expediting her own fate; and then, with

that letter in her bosom, she had met Maltravers, and the reader has

learned the rest. Something of all this the blushing and happy Florence

now revealed: and when she ended with uttering the woman’s soft fear

that she had been too bold, is it wonderful that Maltravers, clasping

her to his bosom, felt the gratitude, and the delighted vanity, which

seemed even to himself like love? And into love those feelings rapidly

and deliciously will merge, if fate and accident permit!

And now they were by the side of the water; and the sun was gently

setting as on the eve before. It was about the same hour, the fairest of

an autumn day; none were near--the slope of the hill hid the house from

their view. Had they been in the desert they could not have been more

alone. It was not silence that breathed around them, as they sat on that

bench with the broad beech spreading over them its trembling canopy

of leaves;--but those murmurs of living nature which are sweeter than

silence itself--the songs of birds--the tinkling bell of the sheep on

the opposite bank--the wind sighing through the trees, and the gentle

heaving of the glittering waves that washed the odorous reed and

water-lily at their feet. They had both been for some moments silent;

and Florence now broke the pause, but in tones more low than usual.

“Ah!” said she, turning towards him, “these hours are happier than we

can find in that crowded world whither your destiny must call us. For

me, ambition seems for ever at an end. I have found all; I am no longer

haunted with the desire of gaining a vague something,--a shadowy empire,

that we call fame or power. The sole thought that disturbs the

calm current of my soul, is the fear to lose a particle of the rich

possession I have gained.”

“May your fears ever be as idle!”

“And you really love me! I repeat to myself ever and ever that one

phrase. I could once have borne to lose you, now it would be my death. I

despaired of ever being loved for myself; my wealth was a fatal dower;

I suspected avarice in every vow, and saw the base world lurk at

the bottom of every heart that offered itself at my shrine. But you,

Ernest,--you, I feel, never could weigh gold in the balance--and you--if

you love--love me for myself.”

“And I shall love thee more with every hour.”

“I know not that: I dread that you will love me less when you know me

more. I fear I shall seem to you exacting--I am jealous already. I was

jealous even of Lady T------, when I saw you by her side this morning. I

would have your every look--monopolise your every word.”

This confession did not please Maltravers, as it might have done if he

had been more deeply in love. Jealousy, in a woman of so vehement and

imperious a nature, was indeed a passion to be dreaded.

“Do not say so, dear Florence,” said he, with a very grave smile;

“for love should have implicit confidence as its bond and nature--and

jealousy is doubt, and doubt is the death of love.”

A shade passed over Florence’s too expressive face, and she sighed

heavily.

It was at this time that Maltravers, raising his eyes, saw the form of

Lumley Ferrers approaching towards them from the opposite end of the

terrace: at the same instant, a dark cloud crept over the sky, the

waters seemed overcast and the breeze fell: a chill and strange

presentiment of evil shot across Ernest’s heart, and, like many

imaginative persons, he was unconsciously superstitious as to

presentiments.

“We are no longer alone,” said he, rising; “your cousin has doubtless

learned our engagement, and comes to congratulate your suitor.”

“Tell me,” he continued musingly, as they walked on to meet Ferrers,

“are you very partial to Lumley? what think you of his character?--it is

one that perplexes me; sometimes I think it has changed since we parted

in Italy--sometimes I think it has not changed, but ripened.”

“Lumley, I have known from a child,” replied Florence, “and see much to

admire and like in him; I admire his boldness and candour; his scorn

of the world’s littleness and falsehood; I like his good-nature--his

gaiety--and fancy his heart better than it may seem to the superficial

observer.”

“Yet he appears to me selfish and unprincipled.”

“It is from a fine contempt for the vices and follies of men that he has

contracted the habit of consulting his own resolute will--and,

believing everything done in this noisy stage of action a cheat, he has

accommodated his ambition to the fashion. Though without what is termed

genius, he will obtain a distinction and power that few men of genius

arrive at.”

“Because _genius_ is essentially honest,” said Maltravers. “However, you

teach me to look on him more indulgently. I suspect the real frankness

of men whom I know to be hypocrites in public life--but, perhaps, I

judge by too harsh a standard.”

“Third persons,” said Ferrers, as he now joined them, “are seldom

unwelcome in the country; and I flatter myself that I am the exact thing

wanting to complete the charm of this beautiful landscape.”

“You are ever modest, my cousin.”

“It is my weak side, I know; but I shall improve with years and wisdom.

What say you, Maltravers?” and Ferrers passed his arm affectionately

through Ernest’s.

“By the by, I am too familiar--I am sunk in the world. I am a thing to

be sneered at by you old-family people. I am next heir to a bran-new

Brummagem peerage. ‘Gad, I feel brassy already!”

“What, is Mr. Templeton--”

“Mr. Templeton is no more; he is defunct, extinguished--out of the

ashes rises the phoenix Lord Vargrave. We had thought of a more sounding

title; De Courval has a nobler sound,--but my good uncle has nothing of

the Norman about him: so we dropped the De as ridiculous--Vargrave is

euphonious and appropriate. My uncle has a manor of that name--Baron

Vargrave of Vargrave.”

“Ah--I congratulate you.”

“Thank you. Lady Vargrave may destroy all my hopes yet. But nothing

venture, nothing have. My uncle will be gazetted to-day. Poor man, he

will be delighted; and as he certainly owes it much to me, he will, I

suppose, be very grateful--or hate me ever afterwards--that is a toss

up. A benefit conferred is a complete hazard between the thumb of pride

and the forefinger of affection. Heads gratitude, tails hatred! There,

that’s a simile in the fashion of the old writers: ‘Well of English

undefiled!’ humph!”

“So that beautiful child is Mrs. Templeton’s, or rather Lady Vargrave’s,

daughter by a former marriage?” said Maltravers, abstractedly.

“Yes, it is astonishing how fond he is of her. Pretty little

creature--confoundedly artful though. By the way, Maltravers, we had

an unexpectedly stormy night the last of the session--strong

division--ministers hard pressed. I made quite a good speech for them. I

suppose, however, there will be some change--the moderates will be taken

in. Perhaps by next session I may congratulate you.”

Ferrers looked hard at Maltravers while he spoke. But Ernest replied

coldly, and evasively, and they were now joined by a party of idlers,

lounging along the lawn in expectation of the first dinner-bell.

Cleveland was in high consultation about the proper spot for a new

fountain; and he summoned Maltravers to give his opinion whether it

should spring from the centre of a flower-bed or beneath the drooping

shade of a large willow. While this interesting discussion was going

on, Ferrers drew aside his cousin, and pressing her hand affectionately,

said, in a soft and tender voice:

“My dear Florence--for in such a time permit me to be familiar--I

understand from Lord Saxingham, whom I met in London, that you are

engaged to Maltravers. Busy as I was, I could not rest without coming

hither to offer my best and most earnest wish for your happiness. I may

seem a careless, I am considered a selfish, person; but my heart is warm

to those who really interest it. And never did brother offer up for the

welfare of a beloved sister prayers more anxious and fond, than those

that poor Lumley Ferrers, breathes for Florence Lascelles.”

Florence was startled and melted--the whole tone and manner of Lumley

were so different from those he usually assumed. She warmly returned the

pressure of his hand, and thanked him briefly, but with emotion.

“No one is great and good enough for you, Florence,” continued

Ferrers--“no one. But I admire your disinterested and generous choice.

Maltravers and I have not been friends lately; but I respect him, as all

must. He has noble qualities, and he has great ambition. In addition to

the deep and ardent love that you cannot fail to inspire, he will owe

you eternal gratitude. In this aristocratic country, your hand secures

to him the most brilliant fortunes, the most proud career. His talents

will now be measured by a very different standard. His merits will not

pass through any subordinate grades, but leap at once into the highest

posts; and, as he is even more proud than ambitious, how he must bless

one who raises him, without effort, into positions of eminent command!”

“Oh, he does not think of such worldly advantages--he, the too pure,

the too refined!” said Florence, with trembling eagerness. “He has no

avarice, nothing mercenary in his nature!”

“No; there you indeed do him justice,--there is not a particle of

baseness in his mind--I did not say there was. The very greatness of

his aspirations, his indignant and scornful pride, lift him above the

thought of your wealth, your rank,--except as means to an end.”

“You mistake still,” said Florence, faintly smiling, but turning pale.

“No,” resumed Ferrers, not appearing to hear her, and as if pursuing

his own thoughts. “I always predicted that Maltravers would make a

distinguished connection in marriage. He would not permit himself to

love the lowborn or the poor. His affections are in his pride as much

as in his heart. He is a great creature--you have judged wisely--and may

Heaven bless you!”

With these words, Ferrers left her, and Florence, when she descended to

dinner, wore a moody and clouded brow. Ferrers stayed three days at

the house. He was peculiarly cordial to Maltravers, and spoke little to

Florence. But that little never failed to leave upon her mind a jealous

and anxious irritability, to which she yielded with morbid facility. In

order perfectly to understand Florence Lascelles, it must be remembered

that, with all her dazzling qualities, she was not what is called a

lovable person. A certain hardness in her disposition, even as a child,

had prevented her winding into the hearts of those around her. Deprived

of her mother’s care--having little or no intercourse with children of

her own age--brought up with a starched governess, or female relations,

poor and proud--she never had contracted the softness of manner which

the reciprocation of household affections usually produces. With a

haughty consciousness of her powers, her birth, her position, advantages

always dinned into her ear, she grew up solitary, unsocial, and

imperious. Her father was rather proud than fond of her--her servants

did not love her--she had too little consideration for others, too

little blandness and suavity to be loved by inferiors--she was too

learned and too stern to find pleasure in the conversation and society

of young ladies of her own age:--she had no friends. Now, having really

strong affection, she felt all this, but rather with resentment than

grief--she longed to be loved, but did not seek to be so--she felt as if

it was her fate not to be loved--she blamed Fate, not herself.

When, with all the proud, pure, and generous candour of her nature,

she avowed to Ernest her love for him, she naturally expected the most

ardent and passionate return; nothing less could content her. But the

habit and experience of all the past made her eternally suspicious

that she was not loved; it was wormwood and poison to her to fancy that

Maltravers had ever considered her advantages of fortune, except as a

bar to his pretensions and a check on his passion. It was the same thing

to her, whether it was the pettiest avarice or the loftiest aspirations

that actuated her lover, if he had been actuated in his heart by any

sentiment but love; and Ferrers, to whose eye her foibles were familiar,

knew well how to make his praises of Ernest arouse against Ernest all

her exacting jealousies and irritable doubts.

“It is strange,” said he, one evening, as he was conversing with

Florence, “how complete and triumphant a conquest you have effected over

Ernest! Will you believe it?--he conceived a prejudice against you when

he first saw you--he even said that you were made to be admired, not to

be loved.”

“Ha!--did he so?--true, true--he has almost said the same thing to me.”

“But now how he must love you! Surely he has all the signs.”

“And what are the signs, most learned Lumley?” said Florence, forcing a

smile.

“Why, in the first place, you will doubtless observe that he never

takes his eyes from you--with whomsoever he converses, whatever his

occupation, those eyes, restless and pining, wander around for one

glance from you.”

Florence sighed, and looked up--at the other end of the room, her lover

was conversing with Cleveland, and his eyes never wandered in search of

her.

Ferrers did not seem to notice this practical contradiction of his

theory, but went on.

“Then surely his whole character is changed--that brow has lost its

calm majesty, that deep voice its assured and tranquil tone. Has he not

become humble, and embarrassed, and fretful, living only on your smile,

reproachful if you look upon another--sorrowful if your lip be less

smiling--a thing of doubt, and dread, and trembling agitation--slave to

a shadow--no longer lord of the creation? Such is love, such is the love

you should inspire, such is the love Maltravers is capable of--for I

have seen him testify it to another. But,” added Lumley, quickly, and as

if afraid he had said too much, “Lord Saxingham is looking out for me to

make up his whist-table. I go to-morrow--when shall you be in town?”

“In the course of the week,” said poor Florence mechanically; and Lumley

walked away.

In another moment, Maltravers, who had been more observant than he

seemed, joined her where she sat.

“Dear Florence,” said he, tenderly, “you look pale--I fear you are not

so well this evening.”

“No affectation of an interest you do not feel, pray,” said Florence,

with a scornful lip but swimming eyes.

“Do not feel, Florence!”

“It is the first time, at least, that you have observed whether I am

well or ill. But it is no matter.”

“My dear Florence,--why this tone?--how have I offended you? Has Lumley

said--”

“Nothing but in your praise. Oh, be not afraid, you are one of those of

whom all speak highly. But do not let me detain you here; let us join

our host--you have left him alone.”

Lady Florence waited for no reply, nor did Maltravers attempt to detain

her. He looked pained, and when she turned round to catch a glance,

that she hoped would be reproachful, he was gone. Lady Florence became

nervous and uneasy, talked she knew not what, and laughed hysterically.

She, however, deceived Cleveland into the notion that she was in the

best possible spirits. By and by she rose, and passed through the suite

of rooms: her heart was with Maltravers--still he was not visible. At

length she entered the conservatory, and there she observed him, through

the open casements, walking slowly, with folded arms, upon the moonlit

lawn. There was a short struggle in her breast between woman’s pride and

woman’s love; the last conquered, and she joined him.

“Forgive me, Ernest,” she said, extending her hand, “I was to blame.”

Ernest kissed the fair hand, and answered touchingly:

“Florence, you have the power to wound me, be forbearing in its

exercise. Heaven knows that I would not, from the vain desire of showing

command over you, inflict upon you a single pang. Ah! do not fancy that

in lovers’ quarrels there is any sweetness that compensates the sting.”

“I told you I was too exacting, Ernest. I told you you would not love me

so well when you knew me better.”

“And were a false prophetess. Florence, every day, every hour I love you

more--better than I once thought I could.”

“Then,” cried this wayward girl, anxious to pain herself, “then once you

did not love me?”

“Florence, I will be candid--I did not. You are now rapidly obtaining an

empire over me, greater than my reason should allow. But, beware: if my

love be really a possession you desire,--beware how you arm my reason

against you. Florence, I am a proud man. My very consciousness of the

more splendid alliances you could form renders me less humble a lover

than you might find in others. I were not worthy of you if I were not

tenacious of my self-respect.”

“Ah!” said Florence, to whose heart these words went home, “forgive me

but this once. I shall not forgive myself so soon.”

And Ernest drew her to his heart, and felt that, with all her faults, a

woman whom he feared he could not render as happy as her sacrifices to

him deserved was becoming very dear to him. In his heart he knew that

she was not formed to render him happy; but that was not his thought,

his fear. Her love had rooted out all thought of self from that generous

breast. His only anxiety was to requite her.

They walked along the sward, silent, thoughtful; and Florence

melancholy, yet blessed.

“That serene heaven, those lovely stars,” said Maltravers at last, “do

they not preach to us the Philosophy of Peace? Do they not tell us how

much of calm belongs to the dignity of man, and the sublime essence of

the soul. Petty distractions and self-wrought cares are not congenial to

our real nature; their very disturbance is a proof that they are at war

with our natures. Ah, sweet Florence, let us learn from yon skies, over

which, in the faith of the poets of old, brooded the wings of primaeval

and serenest Love, what earthly love should be,--a thing pure as light,

and peaceful as immortality, watching over the stormy world, that it

shall survive, and high above the clouds and vapours that roll below.

Let little minds introduce into the holiest of affections all the

bitterness and tumult of common life! Let us love as beings who will one

day be inhabitants of the stars!”

CHAPTER IV.

“A slippery and subtle knave; a finder out of occasions, that

has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages.”--_Othello_.

“Knavery’s plain face is never seen till used.”--_Ibid._

“You see, my dear Lumley,” said Lord Saxingham, as the next day the two

kinsmen were on their way to London in the earl’s chariot, “you see that

at the best this marriage of Flory’s is a cursed bore.”

“Why, indeed, it has its disadvantages. Maltravers is a gentleman and

a man of genius; but gentlemen are plentiful, and his genius only tells

against us, since he is not even of our politics.”

“Exactly--my own son-in-law voting against me!”

“A practicable, reasonable man would change; not so Maltravers--and all

the estates, and all the parliamentary influence, and all the wealth

that ought to go with the family and with the party, go out of the

family and against the party. You are quite right, my dear lord--it is a

cursed bore.”

“And she might have had the Duke of ------, a man with a rental

of L100,000 a year. It is too ridiculous. This Maltravers, d----d

disagreeable fellow, too, eh?”

“Stiff and stately--much changed for the worse of late years--grown

conceited and set up.”

“Do you know, Lumley, I would rather, of the two, have had you for my

son-in-law?”

Lumley half started. “Are you serious, my lord? I have not Ernest’s

fortune--I cannot make such settlements: my lineage, too, at least on my

mother’s side, is less ancient.”

“Oh, as to settlements, Flory’s fortune ought to be settled on

herself,--and as compared with that fortune, what could Mr. Maltravers

pretend to settle? Neither she nor any children she may have could want

his L4,000 a year, if he settled it all. As for family, connections tell

more nowadays than Norman descent,--and for the rest, you are likely to

be old Templeton’s heir, to have a peerage (a large sum of ready money

is always useful)--are rising in the House--one of our own set--will

soon be in office--and, flattery apart, a devilish good fellow into

the bargain. Oh, I would sooner a thousand times that Flory had taken a

fancy to you.”

Lumley Ferrers bowed his head but said nothing. He fell into a reverie,

and Lord Saxingham took up his official red box, became deep in its

contents, and forgot all about the marriage of his daughter.

Lumley pulled the check-string as the carriage entered Pall Mall, and

desired to be set down at “The Travellers.” While Lord Saxingham was

borne on to settle the affairs of the nation, not being able to settle

those of his own household, Ferrers was inquiring the address of

Castruccio Cesarini. The porter was unable to give it him. The Signor

generally called every day for his notes, but no one at the club

knew where he lodged. Ferrers wrote, and left with the porter a line

requesting Cesarini to call on him as soon as possible, and he bent

his way to his house in Great George Street. He went straight into his

library, unlocked his escritoire, and took out that letter which, the

reader will remember, Maltravers had written to Cesarini, and which

Lumley had secured; carefully did he twice read over this effusion, and

the second time his face brightened and his eyes sparkled. It is now

time to lay this letter before the reader: it ran thus:--

_“Private and confidential.”_

“MY DEAR CESARINI:

“The assurance of your friendly feelings is most welcome to me. In much

of what you say of marriage, I am inclined, though with reluctance, to

agree. As to Lady Florence herself, few persons are more calculated

to dazzle, perhaps to fascinate. But is she a person to make a home

happy--to sympathise where she has been accustomed to command--to

comprehend, and to yield to the waywardness and irritability common to

our fanciful and morbid race--to content herself with the homage of a

single heart? I do not know her enough to decide the question; but I

know her enough to feel deep solicitude and anxiety for your happiness,

if centred in a nature so imperious and so vain. But you will remind me

of her fortune, her station. You will say that such are the sources from

which, to an ambitious mind, happiness may well be drawn! Alas! I fear

that the man who marries Lady Florence must indeed confine his dreams

of felicity to those harsh and disappointing realities. But, Cesarini,

these are not words which, were we more intimate, I would address to

you. I doubt the reality of those affections which you ascribe to her

and suppose devoted to yourself. She is evidently fond of conquest. She

sports with the victims she makes. Her vanity dupes others, perhaps to

be duped itself at last. I will not say more to you.

“Yours,

E. MALTRAVERS.”

“Hurrah!” cried Ferrers, as he threw down the letter, and rubbed his

hands with delight. “I little thought, when I schemed for this letter,

that chance would make it so inestimably serviceable. There is less

to alter than I thought for--the clumsiest botcher in the world could

manage it. Let me look again. Hem, hem--the first phrase to alter is

this: ‘I know her enough to feel deep solicitude and anxiety for _your_

happiness if centred in a nature so imperious and vain’--scratch

out ‘your,’ and put ‘my.’ All the rest good, good--till we come

to ‘affections which you ascribe to her, and suppose devoted to

_yourself_’--for ‘_yourself_’ write ‘_myself_’--the rest will do. Now,

then, the date--we must change it to the present month, and the work is

done. I wish that Italian blockhead would come. If I can but once make

an irreparable breach between her and Maltravers, I think I cannot fail

of securing his place; her pique, her resentment, will hurry her into

taking the first who offers, by way of revenge. And by Jupiter, even if

I fail (which I am sure I shall not), it will be something to keep Flory

as lady paramount for a duke of our own party. I shall gain immensely

by such a connection; but I lose everything and gain nothing by her

marrying Maltravers--of opposite politics too--whom I begin to hate

like poison. But no duke shall have her--Florence Ferrers, the only

alliteration I ever liked--yet it would sound rough in poetry.”

Lumley then deliberately drew towards him his inkstand--“No

penknife!--Ah, true, I never mend pens--sad waste--must send out for

one.” He rang the bell, ordered a penknife to be purchased, and the

servant was still out when a knock at the door was heard, and in a

minute more Cesarini entered.

“Ah,” said Lumley, assuming a melancholy air, “I am glad that you are

arrived; you will excuse my having written to you so unceremoniously.

You received my note--sit down, pray--and how are you? you look

delicate--can I offer you anything?”

“Wine,” said Cesarini, laconically, “wine; your climate requires wine.”

Here the servant entered with the penknife, and was ordered to bring

wine and sandwiches. Lumley then conversed lightly on different matters

till the wine appeared; he was rather surprised to observe Cesarini

pour out and drink off glass upon glass, with an evident craving for the

excitement. When he had satisfied himself, he turned his dark eyes to

Ferrers, and said, “You have news to communicate--I see it in your brow.

I am now ready to hear all.”

“Well, then listen to me; you were right in your suspicions; jealousy

is ever a true diviner. I make no doubt Othello was quite right, and

Desdemona was no better than she should be. Maltravers has proposed to

my cousin; and been accepted.”

Cesarini’s complexion grew perfectly ghastly; his whole frame shook like

a leaf--for a moment he seemed paralysed.

“Curse him!” said he, at last, drawing a deep breath, and betwixt his

grinded teeth--“curse him, from the depths of the heart he has broken!”

“And after such a letter to you!--do you remember it?--here it is. He

warns you against Lady Florence, and then secures her to himself--is

this treachery?”

“Treachery black as hell! I am an Italian,” cried Cesarini, springing to

his feet, and with all the passions of his climate in his face, “and

I will be avenged! Bankrupt in fortune, ruined in hopes, blasted in

heart--I have still the godlike consolation of the desperate--I have

revenge.”

“Will you call him out?” asked Lumley, musingly and calmly. “Are you

a dead shot? If so, it is worth thinking about; if not, it is a

mockery--your shot misses, his goes in the air, seconds interpose, and

you both walk away devilish glad to get off so well. Duels are humbug.”

“Mr. Ferrers,” said Cesarini, fiercely, “this is not a matter of jest.”

“I do not make it a jest; and what is more, Cesarini,” said Ferrers,

with a concentrated energy far more commanding than the Italian’s

fury, “what is more, I so detest Maltravers, I am so stung by his cold

superiority, so wroth with his success, so loathe the thought of his

alliance, that I would cut off this hand to frustrate that marriage! I

do not jest, man; but I have method and sense in my hatred--it is our

English way.”

Cesarini stared at the speaker gloomily, clenched his hand, and strode

rapidly to and fro the room.

“You would be avenged, so would I. Now what shall be the means?” said

Ferrers.

“I will stab him to the heart--I will--”

“Cease these tragic flights. Nay, frown and stamp not; but sit down, and

be reasonable, or leave me and act for yourself.”

“Sir,” said Cesarini, with an eye that might have alarmed a man less

resolute than Ferrers, “have a care how you presume on my distress.”

“You are in distress, and you refuse relief; you are bankrupt in

fortune, and you rave like a poet, when you should be devising and

plotting for the attainment of boundless wealth. Revenge and ambition

may both be yours; but they are prizes never won but by a cautious foot

as well as a bold hand.”

“What would you have me do? and what but his life would content me?”

“Take his life if you can--I have no objection--go and take it; only

just observe this, that if you miss your aim, or he, being the stronger

man, strike you down, you will be locked up in a madhouse for the next

year or two at least; and that is not the place in which I should like

to pass the winter--but as you will.”

“You!--you!--But what are you to me? I will go. Good day, sir.”

“Stay a moment,” said Ferrers, when he saw Cesarini about to leave the

room; “stay, take this chair, and listen to me--you had better--”

Cesarini hesitated, and then, as it were, mechanically obeyed.

“Read that letter which Maltravers wrote to you. You have

finished--well--now observe--if Florence sees that letter she will not

and cannot marry the man who wrote it--you must show it to her.”

“Ah, my guardian angel, I see it all! Yes, there are words in this

letter no woman so proud could ever pardon. Give me it again, I will go

at once.”

“Pshaw! You are too quick; you have not remarked that this letter was

written five months ago, before Maltravers knew much of Lady Florence.

He himself has confessed to her that he did not then love her--so much

the more would she value the conquest she has now achieved. Florence

would smile at this letter, and say, ‘Ah, he judges me differently

now.’”

“Are you seeking to madden me? What do you mean? Did you not just now

say that, did she see that letter, she would never marry the writer?”

“Yes, yes, but the letter must be altered. We must erase the date;--we

must date it from to-day;--to-day--Maltravers returns to-day. We must

suppose it written, not in answer to a letter from you, demanding his

advice and opinion as to your marriage with Lady Florence, but in answer

to a letter of yours in which you congratulate him on his approaching

marriage to her. By the substitution of one pronoun for another, in two

places, the letter will read as well one way as another. Read it again,

and see; or stop, I will be the lecturer.”

Here Ferrers read over the letter, which, by the trifling substitutions

he proposed, might indeed bear the character he wished to give it.

“Does the light break in upon you now?” said Ferrers. “Are you prepared

to go through a part that requires subtlety, delicacy, address, and,

above all, self-control?--qualities that are the common attributes of

your countrymen.”

“I will do all, fear me not. It may be villainous, it may be base; but I

care not, Maltravers shall not rival, master, eclipse me in all things.”

“Where are you lodging?”

“Where?--out of town a little way.”

“Take up your home with me for a few days. I cannot trust you out of my

sight. Send for your luggage; I have a room at your service.”

Cesarini at first refused; but a man who resolves on a crime feels the

awe of solitude, and the necessity of a companion. He went himself to

bring his effects, and promised to return to dinner.

“I must own,” said Lumley, resettling himself at his desk, “this is the

dirtiest trick that ever I played; but the glorious end sanctifies

the paltry means. After all, it is the mere prejudice of gentlemanlike

education.”

A very few seconds, and with the aid of the knife to erase, and the

pen to re-write, Ferrers completed his task, with the exception of the

change of date, which, on second thoughts, he reserved as a matter to be

regulated by circumstances.

“I think I have hit off his _m_’s and _y_’s tolerably,” said he,

“considering I was not brought up to this sort of thing. But the

alteration would be visible on close inspection. Cesarini must read

the letter to her, then if she glances over it herself it will be with

bewildered eyes and a dizzy brain. Above all, he must not leave it with

her, and must bind her to the closest secresy. She is honourable and

will keep her word; and so now that matter is settled. I have just time

before dinner to canter down to my uncle’s and wish the old fellow joy.”

CHAPTER V.

“And then my lord has much that he would state

All good to you.”--CRABBE: _Tales of the Heart_.

LORD VARGRAVE was sitting alone in his library, with his account-books

before him. Carefully did he cast up the various sums which, invested

in various speculations, swelled his income. The result seemed

satisfactory--and the rich man threw down his pen with an air of

triumph.

“I will invest L120,000 in land--only L120,000. I will not be tempted to

sink more. I will have a fine house--a house fitting for a nobleman--a

fine old Elizabethan house--a house of historical interest. I must have

woods and lakes--and a deer-park, above all. Deer are very gentlemanlike

things, very. De Clifford’s place is to be sold, I know; they ask too

much for it, but ready money is tempting. I can bargain--bargain, I am

a good hand at a bargain. Should I be now Lord Baron Vargrave, if I had

always given people what they asked? I will double my subscriptions

to the Bible Society and the Philanthropic, and the building of new

churches. The world shall not say Richard Templeton does not deserve his

greatness. I will--Come in. Who’s there?--come in.”

The door gently opened--the meek face of the new peeress appeared. “I

disturb you--I beg your pardon--I--”

“Come in, my dear, come in--I want to talk to you--I want to talk to

your ladyship--sit down, pray.”

Lady Vargrave obeyed.

“You see,” said the peer, crossing his legs, and caressing his left foot

with both hands, while he see-sawed his stately person to and fro in

his chair--“you see that the honour conferred upon me will make a great

change in our mode of life, Mrs. Temple--I mean Lady Vargrave. This

villa is all very well--my country house is not amiss for a country

gentleman--but now we must support our rank. The landed estate I already

possess will go with the title--go to Lumley--I shall buy another at

my own disposal, one that I can feel _thoroughly mine_--it shall be a

splendid place, Lady Vargrave.”

“This place is splendid to me,” said Lady Vargrave, timidly.

“This place--nonsense--you must learn loftier ideas, Lady Vargrave; you

are young, you can easily contract new habits, more, easily, perhaps,

than myself. You are naturally ladylike, though I say it--you have good

taste, you don’t talk much, you don’t show your ignorance--quite right.

You must be presented at court, Lady Vargrave--we must give great

dinners, Lady Vargrave. Balls are sinful, so is the opera, at least I

fear so--yet an opera-box would be a proper appendage to your rank, Lady

Vargrave.”

“My dear Mr. Templeton--”

“Lord Vargrave, if your ladyship pleases.”

“I beg pardon. May you live long to enjoy your honours; but I, my dear

lord--I am not fit to share them: it is only in our quiet life that

I can forget what--what I was. You terrify me when you talk of

court--of--”

“Stuff, Lady Vargrave! stuff; we accustom ourselves to these things. Do

I look like a man who has stood behind a counter? rank is a glove that

stretches to the hand that wears it. And the child, dear child,--dear

Evelyn, she shall be the admiration of London, the beauty, the heiress,

the--oh, she will do me honour!”

“She will, she will!” said Lady Vargrave, and the tears gushed from her

eyes.

Lord Vargrave was softened.

“No mother ever deserved more from a child than you from Evelyn.”

“I would hope I have done my duty,” said Lady Vargrave, drying her

tears.

“Papa, papa!” cried an impatient voice, tapping at the window, “come and

play, papa--come and play at ball, papa!”

And there, by the window, stood that beautiful child, glowing with

health and mirth--her light hair tossed from her forehead, her sweet

mouth dimpled with smiles.

“My darling, go on the lawn,--don’t over-exert yourself--you have not

quite recovered that horrid sprain--I will join you immediately--bless

you!”

“Don’t be long, papa--nobody plays so nicely as you do;” and, nodding

and laughing from very glee, away scampered the young fairy. Lord

Vargrave turned to his wife.

“What think you of my nephew--of Lumley?” said he, abruptly.

“He seems all that is amiable, frank, and kind.”

Lord Vargrave’s brow became thoughtful. “I think so too,” he said, after

a short pause; “and I hope you will approve of what I mean to do. You

see Lumley was brought up to regard himself as my heir--I owe something

to him, beyond the poor estate which goes with, but never can adequately

support, _my_ title. Family honours, hereditary rank, must be properly

regarded. But that dear girl--I shall leave her the bulk of my fortune.

Could we not unite the fortune and the title? It would secure the rank

to her, it would incorporate all my desires--all my duties.”

“But,” said Lady Vargrave, with evident surprise, “if I understand you

rightly, the disparity of years--”

“And what then, what then, Lady Vargrave? Is there no disparity of years

between _us_?--a greater disparity than between Lumley and that tall

girl. Lumley is a mere youth, a youth still, five-and-thirty; he will

be little more than forty when they marry; I was between fifty and sixty

when I married you, Lady Vargrave. I don’t like boy and girl marriages:

a man should be older than his wife. But you are so romantic, Lady

Vargrave. Besides, Lumley is so gay and good-looking, and wears so well.

He has been very nearly forming another attachment; but that, I trust,

is out of his head now. They must like each other. You will not gainsay

me, Lady Vargrave, and if anything happens to me--life is uncertain--”

“Oh, do not speak so--my friend, my benefactor!”

“Why, indeed,” resumed his lordship, mildly, “thank Heaven, I am very

well--feel younger than ever I did--but still life is uncertain; and

if you survive me, you will not throw obstacles in the way of my grand

scheme?”

“I--no,--no--of course you have the right in all things over her

destiny; but so young--so soft-hearted, if she should love one of her

own years--”

“Love!--pooh! love does not come into girls’ heads unless it is put

there. We will bring her up to love Lumley. I have another reason--a

cogent one--our secret!--to him it can be confided--it should not go out

of our family. Even in my grave I could not rest if a slur were cast on

my respectability--my name.”

Lord Vargrave spoke solemnly and warmly; then muttering to himself,

“Yes, it is for the best,” he took up his hat and quitted the room. He

joined his stepchild on the lawn. He romped with her--he played with

her--that stiff, stately man!--he laughed louder than she did, and ran

almost as fast. And when she was fatigued and breathless, he made her

sit down beside him, in a little summer-house, and, fondly stroking down

her disordered tresses, said, “You tire me out, child; I am growing too

old to play with you. Lumley must supply my place. You love Lumley?”

“Oh, dearly, he is so good-humoured, so kind: he has given me such a

beautiful doll, with such eyes!”

“You shall be his little wife--you would like to be his little wife?”

“Wife! why, poor mamma is a wife, and she is not so happy as I am.”

“Your mamma has bad health, my dear,” said Lord Vargrave, a little

discomposed. “But it is a fine thing to be a wife and have a carriage of

your own, and a fine house, and jewels, and plenty of money, and be your

own mistress; and Lumley will love you dearly.”

“Oh, yes, I should like all that.”

“And you will have a protector, child, when I am no more.”

The tone, rather than the words, of her stepfather struck a damp into

that childish heart. Evelyn lifted her eyes, gazed at him earnestly, and

then, throwing her arms round him, burst into tears.

Lord Vargrave wiped his own eyes, and covered her with kisses.

“Yes, you shall be Lumley’s wife, his honoured wife, heiress to my rank

as to my fortunes.”

“I will do all that papa wishes.”

“You will be Lady Vargrave, then, and Lumley will be your husband,” said

the stepfather, impressively. “Think over what I have said. Now let us

join mamma. But, as I live, here is Lumley himself. However, it is not

yet the time to sound him:--I hope that he has no chance with that Lady

Florence.”

CHAPTER VI.

“Fair encounter

Of two most rare affections.”--_Tempest_.

MEANWHILE the betrothed were on their road to London. The balmy and

serene beauty of the day had induced them to perform the short journey

on horseback. It is somewhere said, that lovers are never so handsome as

in each other’s company, and neither Florence nor Ernest ever looked so

well as on horseback. There was something in the stateliness and grace

of both, something even in the aquiline outline of their features and

the haughty bend of the neck, that made a sort of likeness between these

young persons, although there was no comparison as to their relative

degrees of personal advantage: the beauty of Florence defied all

comparison. And as they rode from Cleveland’s porch, where the other

guests yet lingering were assembled to give the farewell greeting, there

was a general conviction of the happiness destined to the affianced

ones,--a general impression that both in mind and person they were

eminently suited to each other. Their position was that which is ever

interesting, even in more ordinary people, and at that moment they were

absolutely popular with all who gazed on them; and when the good old

Cleveland turned away with tears in his eyes and murmured “Bless them!”

there was not one of the party who would have hesitated to join the

prayer.

Florence felt a nameless dejection as she quitted a spot so consecrated

by grateful recollections.

“When shall we be again so happy?” said she, softly, as she turned back

to gaze upon the landscape, which, gay with flowers and shrubs, and the

bright English verdure, smiled behind them like a garden.

“We will try and make my old hall, and its gloomy shades, remind us of

these fairer scenes, my Florence.”

“Ah! describe to me the character of your place. We shall live there

principally, shall we not? I am sure I shall like it much better than

Marsden Court, which is the name of that huge pile of arches and columns

in Vanbrugh’s heaviest taste, which will soon be yours.”

“I fear we shall never dispose of all your mighty retinue, grooms of the

chamber, and Patagonian footmen, and Heaven knows who besides, in the

holes and corners of Burleigh,” said Ernest smiling. And then he went

on to describe the old place with something of a well-born country

gentleman’s not displeasing pride; and Florence listened, and they

planned, and altered, and added, and improved, and laid out a map for

the future. From that topic they turned to another, equally interesting

to Florence. The work in which Maltravers had been engaged was

completed, was in the hands of the printer, and Florence amused herself

with conjectures as to the criticisms it would provoke. She was certain

that all that had most pleased her would be _caviare_ to the multitude.

She never would believe that any one could understand Maltravers but

herself. Thus time flew on till they passed that part of the road in

which had occurred Ernest’s adventure with Mrs. Templeton’s daughter.

Maltravers paused abruptly in the midst of his glowing periods, as

the spot awakened its associations and reminiscences, and looked

round anxiously and inquiringly. But the fair apparition was not again

visible; and whatever impression the place produced, it gradually died

away as they entered the suburbs of the great metropolis. Two other

gentlemen and a young lady of thirty-three (I had almost forgotten

them) were of the party, but they had the tact to linger a little behind

during the greater part of the road, and the young lady, who was a wit

and a flirt, found gossip and sentiment for both the cavaliers.

“Will you come to us this evening?” asked Florence, timidly.