IN WHICH THE HERO SHOWS DECISION ON MORE POINTS THAN ONE.--MORE OF
ISORA'S CHARACTER IS DEVELOPED.
To use the fine image in the "Arcadia," it was "when the sun, like a
noble heart, began to show his greatest countenance in his lowest
estate," that I arrived at Isora's door. I had written to her once, to
announce my uncle's death and the day of my return: but I had not
mentioned in my letter my reverse of fortunes; I reserved that
communication till it could be softened by our meeting. I saw by the
countenance of the servant who admitted me that all was well: so I asked
no question; I flew up the stairs; I broke into Isora's chamber, and in
an instant she was in my arms. Ah, Love, Love! wherefore art thou so
transitory a pilgrim on the earth,--an evening cloud which hovers on our
horizon, drinking the hues of the sun, that grows ominously brighter as
it verges to the shadow and the night, and which, the moment that sun is
set, wanders on in darkness or descends in tears?
"And now, my bird of Paradise," said I, as we sat alone in the apartment
I had fitted up as the banqueting-room, and on which, though small in
its proportions, I had lavished all the love of luxury and of show which
made one of my most prevailing weaknesses, "and now how has time passed
with you since we parted?"
"Need you ask, Morton? Ah, have you ever noted a poor dog deserted by
its master, or rather not deserted, for that you know is not my case
yet," added Isora, playfully, "but left at home while the master went
abroad? have you noted how restless the poor animal is; how it refuses
all company and all comfort; how it goes a hundred times a day into the
room which its master is wont mostly to inhabit; how it creeps on the
sofa or the chair which the same absent idler was accustomed to press;
how it selects some article of his very clothing, and curls jealously
around it, and hides and watches over it as I have hid and watched over
this glove, Morton? Have you ever noted that humble creature whose
whole happiness is the smile of one being, when the smile was
away,--then, Morton, you can tell how my time has passed during your
absence."
I answered Isora by endearments and by compliments. She turned away
from the latter.
"Never call me those fine names, I implore you," she whispered; "call me
only by those pretty pet words by which I know you will never call any
one else. Bee and bird are my names, and mine only; but beauty and
angel are names you have given or may give to a hundred others! Promise
me, then, to address me only in your own language."
"I promise, and lo, the seal to the promise. But tell me, Isora, do you
not love these rare scents that make an Araby of this unmellowed clime?
Do you not love the profusion of light which reflects so dazzling a
lustre on that soft cheek; and those eyes which the ancient romancer*
must have dreamed of when he wrote so prettily of "eyes that seemed a
temple where love and beauty were married"? Does not yon fruit take a
more tempting hue, bedded as it is in those golden leaves? Does not
sleep seem to hover with a downier wing over those sofas on which the
limbs of a princess have been laid? In a word, is there not in luxury
and in pomp a spell which no gentler or wiser mind would disdain?"
* Sir Philip Sydney, who, if we may judge from the number of quotations
from his works scattered in this book, seems to have been an especial
favourite with Count Devereux.--ED.
"It may be so!" said Isora, sighing; "but the splendour which surrounds
us chills and almost terrifies me. I think that every proof of your
wealth and rank puts me further from you: then, too, I have some
remembrance of the green sod, and the silver rill, and the trees upon
which the young winds sing and play; and I own that it is with the
country, and not the town, that all my ideas of luxury are wed."
"But the numerous attendants, the long row of liveried hirelings,
through which you may pass, as through a lane, the caparisoned steeds,
the stately equipage, the jewelled tiara, the costly robe which matrons
imitate and envy, the music, which lulls you to sleep, the lighted show,
the gorgeous stage,--all these, the attributes or gifts of wealth, all
these that you have the right to hope you will one day or other command,
you will own are what you could very reluctantly forego."
"Do you think so, Morton? Ah, I wish you were of my humble temper: the
more we limit and concentre happiness, the more certain, I think, we are
of securing it; they who widen the circle encroach upon the boundaries
of danger; and they who freight their wealth upon a hundred vessels are
more liable, Morton, are they not? to the peril of the winds and the
waves than they who venture it only upon one."
"Admirably reasoned, my little sophist; but if the one ship sink?"
"Why, I would embark myself in it as well as my wealth, and should sink
with it."
"Well, well, Isora, your philosophy will, perhaps, soon be put to the
test. I will talk to you to-morrow of business."
"And why not to-night?"
"To-night, when I have just returned! No, to-night I will only talk to
you of love!"
As may be supposed, Isora was readily reconciled to my change of
circumstances; and indeed that sum which seemed poverty to me appeared
positive wealth to her. But perhaps few men are by nature and
inclination more luxurious and costly than myself; always accustomed to
a profuse expenditure at my uncle's, I fell insensibly and /con amore/,
on my /debut/ in London, into all the extravagances of the age. Sir
William, pleased rather than discontented with my habits, especially as
they were attended with some /eclat/, pressed upon me proofs of his
generosity which, since I knew his wealth and considered myself his
heir, I did not scruple to accept, and at the time of my return to
London after his death, I had not only spent to the full the princely
allowance I had received from him, but was above half my whole fortune
in debt. However, I had horses and equipages, jewels and plate, and I
did not long wrestle with my pride before I obtained the victory, and
sent all my valuables to the hammer. They sold pretty well, all things
considered, for I had a certain reputation in the world for taste and
munificence; and when I had received the product and paid my debts, I
found that the whole balance in my favour, including, of course, my
uncle's legacy, was fifteen thousand pounds.
It was no bad younger brother's portion, perhaps, but I was in no humour
to be made a younger brother without a struggle. So I went to the
lawyers; they looked at the will, considered the case, and took their
fees. Then the honestest of them, with the coolest air in the world,
told me to content myself with my legacy, for the cause was hopeless;
the will was sufficient to exclude a wilderness of elder sons. I need
not add that I left this lawyer with a very contemptible opinion of his
understanding. I went to another, he told me the same thing, only in a
different manner, and I thought him as great a fool as his fellow
practitioner. At last I chanced upon a little brisk gentleman, with a
quick eye and a sharp voice, who wore a wig that carried conviction in
every curl; had an independent, upright mien, and such a logical,
emphatic way of expressing himself, that I was quite charmed with him.
This gentleman scarce heard me out before he assured me that I had a
famous case of it, that he liked making quick work, and proceeding with
vigour, that he hated rogues, and delay, which was the sign of a rogue,
but not the necessary sign of law, that I was the most fortunate man
imaginable in coming to him, and, in short that I had nothing to do but
commence proceedings, and leave all the rest to him. I was very soon
talked into this proposal, and very soon embarked in the luxurious ocean
of litigation.
Having settled this business so satisfactorily, I went to receive the
condolence and sympathy of St. John. Notwithstanding the arduous
occupations both of pleasure and of power, in which he was constantly
engaged, he had found time to call upon me very often, and to express by
letter great disappointment that I had neither received nor returned his
visits. Touched by the phenomenon of so much kindness in a statesman, I
paid him in return the only compliment in my power; namely, I asked his
advice, with a view of taking it.
"Politics--politics, my dear Count," said he in answer to that request,
"nothing like it; I will get you a seat in the House by next week,--you
are just of age, I think,--Heavens! a man like you who has learning
enough for a German professor; assurance that would almost abash a
Milesian; a very pretty choice of words, and a pointed way of
consummating a jest,--why, with you by my side, my dear Count, I will
soon--"
"St. John," said I, interrupting him, "you forget I am a Catholic!"
"Ah, I did forget that," replied St. John, slowly. "Heaven help me,
Count, but I am sorry your ancestors were not converted; it was a pity
they should bequeath you their religion without the estate to support
it, for papacy has become a terrible tax to its followers."
"I wonder," said I, "whether the earth will ever be governed by
Christians, not cavillers; by followers of our Saviour, not by
co-operators of the devil; by men who obey the former, and 'love one
another,' not by men who walk about with the latter (that roaring lion),
'seeking whom they may devour.' Intolerance makes us acquainted with
strange nonsense, and folly is never so ludicrous as when associated
with something sacred; it is then like Punch and his wife in Powell's
puppet-show, /dancing in the Ark/. For example, to tell those who
differ from us that they are in a delusion, and yet to persecute them
for that delusion, is to equal the wisdom of our forefathers, who, we
are told, in the 'Daemonologie' of the Scottish Solomon, 'burned a whole
monasterie of nunnes for being misled, not by men, but /dreames/!'"
And being somewhat moved, I ran on for a long time in a very eloquent
strain, upon the disadvantages of intolerance; which, I would have it,
was a policy as familiar to Protestantism now as it had been to Popery
in the dark ages; quite forgetting that it is not the vice of a peculiar
sect, but of a ruling party.
St. John, who thought or affected to think very differently from me on
these subjects, shook his head gently, but, with his usual good
breeding, deemed it rather too sore a subject for discussion.
"I will tell you a discovery I have made," said I.
"And what is it?"
"Listen: that man is wisest who is happiest,--granted. What does
happiness consist in? Power, wealth, popularity, and, above all,
content! Well, then, no man ever obtains so much power, so much money,
so much popularity, and, above all, such thorough self-content as a
fool; a fool, therefore (this is no paradox), is the wisest of men.
Fools govern the world in purple: the wise laugh at them; but they laugh
in rags. Fools thrive at court; fools thrive in state chambers; fools
thrive in boudoirs; fools thrive in rich men's legacies. Who is so
beloved as a fool? Every man seeks him, laughs at him, and hugs him.
Who is so secure in his own opinion, so high in complacency, as a fool?
/sua virtute involvit/. Hark ye, St. John, let us turn fools: they are
the only potentates, the only philosophers of earth. Oh, motley,
'motley's your only wear!'"
"Ha! ha!" laughed St. John; and, rising, he insisted upon carrying me
with him to the rehearsal of a new play, in order, as he said, to dispel
my spleen, and prepare me for ripe decision upon the plans to be adopted
for bettering my fortune.
But, in good truth, nothing calculated to advance so comfortable and
praiseworthy an end seemed to present itself. My religion was an
effectual bar to any hope of rising in the state. Europe now began to
wear an aspect that promised universal peace, and the sword which I had
so poetically apostrophized was not likely to be drawn upon any more
glorious engagement than a brawl with the Mohawks, any incautious noses
appertaining to which fraternity I was fully resolved to slit whenever
they came conveniently in my way. To add to the unpromising state of my
worldly circumstances, my uncle's death had removed the only legitimate
barrier to the acknowledgment of my marriage with Isora, and it became
due to her to proclaim and publish that event. Now, if there be any
time in the world when a man's friends look upon him most coldly; when
they speak of his capacities of rising the most despondingly; when they
are most inclined, in short, to set him down as a silly sort of fellow,
whom it is no use inconveniencing one's self to assist,--it is at that
moment when he has made what the said friends are pleased to term an
imprudent marriage! It was, therefore, no remarkable instance of good
luck that the express time for announcing that I had contracted that
species of marriage was the express time for my wanting the assistance
of those kind-hearted friends. Then, too, by the pleasing sympathies in
worldly opinion, the neglect of one's friends is always so damnably
neighboured by the exultation of one's foes! Never was there a man who,
without being very handsome, very rude, or very much in public life, had
made unto himself more enemies than it had been my lot to make. How the
rascals would all sneer and coin dull jests when they saw me so down in
the world! The very old maids, who, so long as they thought me single,
would have declared that the will was a fraud, would, directly they
heard I was married, ask if Gerald was handsome, and assert, with a wise
look, that my uncle knew well what he was about. Then the joy of the
Lady Hasselton, and the curled lip of the haughty Tarleton! It is a
very odd circumstance, but it is very true, that the people we most
despise have the most influence over our actions; a man never ruins
himself by giving dinners to his father, or turning his house into a
palace in order to feast his bosom friend: on the contrary, 'tis the
poor devil of a friend who fares the worst, and starves on the family
joint, while mine host beggars himself to banquet "that disagreeable Mr.
A., who is such an insufferable ass," and mine hostess sends her husband
to the Fleet by vying with "that odious Mrs. B., who was always her
aversion!"
Just in the same manner, no thought disturbed me, in the step I was
about to take, half so sorely as the recollection of Lady Hasselton the
coquette and Mr. Tarleton the gambler. However, I have said somewhere
or other that nothing selfish on a small scale polluted my love for
Isora,--nor did there. I had resolved to render her speedy and full
justice; and if I sometimes recurred to the disadvantages to myself, I
always had pleasure in thinking that they were /sacrifices/ to her. But
to my great surprise, when I first announced to Isora my intention of
revealing our marriage, I perceived in her countenance, always such a
traitor to her emotions, a very different expression from that which I
had anticipated. A deadly paleness spread over her whole face, and a
shudder seemed to creep through her frame. She attempted, however, to
smile away the alarm she had created in me; nor was I able to penetrate
the cause of an emotion so unlooked for. But I continued to speak of
the public announcement of our union as of a thing decided; and at
length she listened to me while I arranged the method of making it, and
sympathized in the future projects I chalked out for us to adopt.
Still, however, when I proposed a definite time for the re-celebration
of our nuptials, she ever drew back and hinted the wish for a longer
delay.
"Not so soon, dear Morton," she would say tearfully, "not so soon; we
are happy now, and perhaps when you are with me always you will not love
me so well!"
I reasoned against this notion, and this reluctance, but in vain; and
day passed on day, and even week on week, and our marriage was still
undeclared. I now lived, however, almost wholly with Isora, for busy
tongues could no longer carry my secret to my uncle; and, indeed, since
I had lost the fortune which I was expected to inherit, it is
astonishing how little people troubled their heads about my movements or
myself. I lived then almost wholly with Isora; and did familiarity
abate my love? Strange to say, it did not abate even the romance of it.
The reader may possibly remember a conversation with St. John recorded
in the Second Book of this history. "The deadliest foe to love," said
he (he who had known all love,--that of the senses and that also of the
soul!), "is not change, nor misfortune, nor jealousy, not wrath, nor
anything that flows from passion or emanates from fortune. The
deadliest foe to love is CUSTOM!"
Was St. John right? I believe that in most instances he was; and
perhaps the custom was not continued in my case long enough for me to
refute the maxim. But as yet, the very gloss upon the god's wings was
fresh as on the first day when I had acknowledged his power. Still was
Isora to me the light and the music of existence! still did my heart
thrill and leap within me when her silver and fond voice made the air a
blessing! Still would I hang over her, when her beautiful features lay
hushed in sleep, and watch the varying hues of her cheek; and fancy,
while she slept, that in each low, sweet breath that my lips drew from
hers, was a whisper of tenderness and endearment! Still when I was
absent from her, my soul seemed to mourn a separation from its better
and dearer part, and the joyous senses of existence saddened and shrank
into a single want! Still was her presence to my heart as a breathing
atmosphere of poesy which circled and tinted all human things; still was
my being filled with that delicious and vague melancholy which the very
excess of rapture alone produces,--the knowledge we dare not breathe to
ourselves that the treasure in which our heart is stored is not above
the casualties of fate. The sigh that mingles with the kiss; the tear
that glistens in the impassioned and yearning gaze; the deep tide in our
spirit, over which the moon and the stars have power; the chain of
harmony within the thought which has a mysterious link with all that is
fair and pure and bright in Nature, knitting as it were loveliness with
love!--all this, all that I cannot express; all that to the young for
whom the real world has had few spells, and the world of visions has
been a home, who love at last and for the first time,--all that to them
are known were still mine.
In truth, Isora was one well calculated to sustain and to rivet romance.
The cast of her beauty was so dreamlike, and yet so varying: her temper
was so little mingled with the common characteristics of woman; it had
so little of caprice, so little of vanity, so utter an absence of all
jealous and all angry feeling; it was so made up of tenderness and
devotion, and yet so imaginative and fairy-like in its fondness,--that
it was difficult to bear only the sentiments of earth for one who had so
little of earth's clay. She was more like the women whom one imagines
are the creations of poetry, and yet of whom no poetry, save that of
Shakspeare, reminds us; and to this day, when I go into the world, I
never see aught of our own kind which recalls her, or even one of her
features, to my memory. But when I am alone with Nature, methinks a
sweet sound or a new-born flower has something of familiar power over
those stored and deep impressions which do make her image, and it brings
her more vividly before my eyes than any shape or face of her own sex,
however beautiful it may be.
There was also another trait in her character which, though arising in
her weakness, not her virtues, yet perpetuated the more dreamlike and
imaginary qualities of our passion: this was a melancholy superstition,
developing itself in forebodings and omens which interested, because
they were steeped at once in the poetry and in the deep sincerity of her
nature. She was impressed with a strong and uncontrollable feeling that
her fate was predestined to a dark course and an early end; and she drew
from all things around her something to feed the pensive character of
her thoughts. The stillness of noon; the holy and eloquent repose of
twilight, its rosy sky and its soft air, its shadows and its dews,--had
equally for her heart a whisper and a spell. The wan stars, where, from
the eldest time, man has shaped out a chart of the undiscoverable
future; the mysterious moon, to which the great ocean ministers from its
untrodden shrines; the winds, which traverse the vast air, pilgrims from
an eternal home to an unpenetrated bourne; the illimitable heavens, on
which none ever gazed without a vague craving for something that the
earth cannot give, and a vague sense of a former existence in which that
something was enjoyed; the holy night; that solemn and circling sleep,
which seems, in its repose, to image our death, and in its living worlds
to shadow forth the immortal realms which only through that death we can
survey,--all had, for the deep heart of Isora, a language of omen and of
doom. Often would we wander alone, and for hours together, by the quiet
and wild woods and streams that surrounded her retreat, and which we
both loved so well; and often, when the night closed over us, with my
arm around her, and our lips so near that our atmosphere was our mutual
breath, would she utter, in that voice which "made the soul plant itself
in the ears," the predictions which had nursed themselves at her heart.
I remember one evening, in especial. The rich twilight had gathered
over us, and we sat by a slender and soft rivulet, overshadowed by some
stunted yet aged trees. We had both, before she spoke, been silent for
several minutes; and only when, at rare intervals, the birds sent from
the copse that backed us a solitary and vesper note of music, was the
stillness around us broken. Before us, on the opposite bank of the
stream, lay a valley, in which shadow and wood concealed all trace of
man's dwellings, save at one far spot, where, from a single hut, rose a
curling and thin vapour, like a spirit released from earth, and losing
gradually its earthier particles, as it blends itself with the loftier
atmosphere of heaven.
It was then that Isora, clinging closer to me, whispered her forebodings
of death. "You will remember," said she, smiling faintly, "you will
remember me, in the lofty and bright career which yet awaits you; and I
scarcely know whether I would not sooner have that memory--free as it
will be from all recollection of my failings and faults, and all that I
have cost you, than incur the chance of your future coldness or decrease
of love."
And when Isora turned, and saw that the tears stood in my eyes, she
kissed them away, and said, after a pause,--
"It matters not, my own guardian angel, what becomes of me: and now that
I am near you, it is wicked to let my folly cost you a single pang. But
why should you grieve at my forebodings? there is nothing painful or
harsh in them to me, and I interpret them thus: 'If my life passes away
before the common date, perhaps it will be a sacrifice to yours.' And
it will, Morton--it will. The love I bear to you I can but feebly
express now; all of us wish to prove our feelings, and I would give one
proof of mine for you. It seems to me that I was made only for one
purpose--to love you; and I would fain hope that my death may be some
sort of sacrifice to you--some token of the ruling passion and the whole
object of my life."
As Isora said this, the light of the moon, which had just risen, shone
full upon her cheek, flushed as it was with a deeper tint than it
usually wore; and in her eye--her features--her forehead--the lofty
nature of her love seemed to have stamped the divine expression of
itself.
Have I lingered too long on these passages of life? They draw near to a
close, and a more adventurous and stirring period of manhood will
succeed. Ah, little could they, who in after years beheld in me but the
careless yet stern soldier--the wily and callous diplomatist--the
companion alternately so light and so moodily reserved--little could
they tell how soft, and weak, and doting my heart was once!