“I can make a Peer,” said Mr Hatton, leaning back in his chair and

playing with his seals, “but I do not pretend to make Baronets. I can

place a coronet with four balls on a man’s brow; but a coronet with two

balls is an exercise of the prerogative with which I do not presume to

interfere.”

“I mention it in the utmost confidence,” said Sir Vavasour in a whisper;

“but Lady Firebrace has a sort of promise that in the event of a change

of government, we shall be in the first batch of peers.”

Mr Hatton shook his head with a slight smile of contemptuous

incredulity.

“Sir Robert,” he said, “will make no peers; take my word for that. The

whigs and I have so deluged the House of Lords, that you may rely upon

it as a secret of state, that if the tories come in, there will be no

peers made. I know the Queen is sensitively alive to the cheapening of

all honours of late years. If the whigs go out to-morrow, mark me, they

will disappoint all their friends. Their underlings have promised so

many, that treachery is inevitable, and if they deceive some they may

as well deceive all. Perhaps they may distribute a coronet or two among

themselves: and I shall this year make three: and those are the only

additions to the peerage which will occur for many years. You may rely

on that. For the tories will make none, and I have some thoughts of

retiring from business.”

It is difficult to express the astonishment, the perplexity, the

agitation, that pervaded the countenance of Sir Vavasour while his

companion thus coolly delivered himself. High hopes extinguished and

excited at the same moment; cherished promises vanishing, mysterious

expectations rising up; revelations of astounding state secrets; chief

ministers voluntarily renouncing their highest means of influence, and

an obscure private individual distributing those distinctions which

sovereigns were obliged to hoard, and to obtain which the first men in

the country were ready to injure their estates and to sacrifice their

honour! At length Sir Vavasour said, “You amaze me Mr Hatton. I could

mention to you twenty members of Boodle’s, at least, who believe they

will be made peers the moment the tories come in.”

“Not a man of them,” said Hatton peremptorily. “Tell me one of their

names, and I will tell you whether they will be made peers.”

“Well then there is Mr Tubbe Sweete, a county member, and his son in

parliament too--I know he has a promise.”

“I repeat to you, Sir Vavasour, the tories will not make a single peer;

the candidates must come to me; and I ask you what can I do for a Tubbe

Sweete, the son of a Jamaica cooper? Are there any old families among

your twenty members of Brookes’?”

“Why I can hardly say,” said Sir Vavasour; “there is Sir Charles

Featherly, an old baronet.”

“The founder a lord mayor in James the First’s reign. That is not the

sort of old family that I mean,” said Mr Hatton.

“Well there is Colonel Cockawhoop,” said Sir Vavasour. “The Cockawhoops

are a very good family I have always heard.”

“Contractors of Queen Anne: partners with Marlborough and Solomon

Medina; a very good family indeed: but I do not make peers out of good

families, Sir Vavasour; old families are the blocks out of which I cut

my Mercurys.”

“But what do you call an old family?” said Sir Vavasour.

“Yours,” said Mr Hatton, and he threw a full glance on the countenance

on which the light rested.

“We were in the first batch of baronets,” said Sir Vavasour.

“Forget the baronets for a while,” said Hatton. “Tell me, what was your

family before James the First?”

“They always lived on their lands,” said Sir Vavasour. “I have a room

full of papers that would perhaps tell us something about them. Would

you like to see them?”

“By all means: bring them all here. Not that I want them to inform me

of your rights: I am fully acquainted with them. You would like to be a

peer, sir. Well, you are really Lord Vavasour, but there is a difficulty

in establishing your undoubted right from the single writ of summons

difficulty. I will not trouble you with technicalities, Sir Vavasour:

sufficient that the difficulty is great though perhaps not unmanageable.

But we have no need of management. Your claim on the barony of Lovel

is very good: I could recommend your pursuing it, did not another

more inviting still present itself. In a word, if you wish to be Lord

Bardolf, I will undertake to make you so, before, in all probability,

Sir Robert Peel obtains office; and that I should think would gratify

Lady Firebrace.”

“Indeed it would,” said Sir Vavasour, “for if it had not been for this

sort of a promise of a peerage made--I speak in great confidence Mr

Hatton--made by Mr Taper, my tenants would have voted for the whigs the

other day at the ----shire election, and the conservative candidate would

have been beaten. Lord Masque had almost arranged it, but Lady Firebrace

would have a written promise from a high quarter, and so it fell to the

ground.”

“Well we are independent of all these petty arrangements now,” said Mr

Hatton.

“It is very wonderful,” said Sir Vavasour, rising from his chair and

speaking as it were to himself. “And what do you think our expenses will

be in this claim?” he inquired.

“Bagatelle!” said Mr Hatton. “Why a dozen years ago I have known men

lay out nearly half a million in land and not get two per cent for their

money, in order to obtain a borough influence which might ultimately

obtain them a spick and span coronet; and now you are going to put one

on your head, which will give you precedence over every peer on the

roll, except three (and I made those), and it will not cost you a paltry

twenty or thirty thousand pounds. Why I know men who would give that for

the precedence alone.--Here!” and he rose and took up some papers from

a table: “Here is a case; a man you know, I dare say; an earl, and of a

decent date as earls go: George the First. The first baron was a Dutch

valet of William the Third. Well I am to terminate an abeyance in his

favour through his mother, and give him one of the baronies of the

Herberts. He buys off the other claimant who is already ennobled with

a larger sum than you will expend on your ancient coronet. Nor is that

all. The other claimant is of French descent and name; came over at

the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Well, besides the hush money,

my client is to defray all the expense of attempting to transform

the descendant of the silkweaver of Lyons into the heir of a Norman

conqueror. So you see, Sir Vavasour, I am not unreasonable. Pah! I would

sooner gain five thousand pounds by restoring you to your rights, than

fifty thousand in establishing any of these pretenders in their base

assumptions. I must work in my craft, Sir Vavasour, but I love the old

English blood, and have it in my veins.”

“I am satisfied, Mr Hatton.” said Sir Vavasour: “let no time be lost.

All I regret is, that you did not mention all this to me before; and

then we might have saved a great deal of trouble and expense.”

“You never consulted me,” said Mr Hatton. “You gave me your

instructions, and I obeyed them. I was sorry to see you in that mind,

for to speak frankly, and I am sure now you will not be offended, my

lord, for such is your real dignity, there is no title in the world for

which I have such a contempt as that of a baronet.”

Sir Vavasour winced, but the future was full of glory and the present of

excitement; and he wished Mr Hatton good morning, with a promise that he

would himself bring the papers on the morrow.

Mr Hatton was buried for a few moments in a reverie, during which he

played with the tail of the Persian cat.

Book 4 Chapter 8

We left Sybil and Egremont just at the moment that Gerard arrived at the

very threshold which they had themselves reached.

“Ah! my father,” exclaimed Sybil, and then with a faint blush of which

she was perhaps unconscious, she added, as if apprehensive Gerard would

not recall his old companion, “you remember Mr Franklin?”

“This gentleman and myself had the pleasure of meeting yesterday,”

said Gerard embarrassed, while Egremont himself changed colour and was

infinitely confused. Sybil felt surprised that her father should

have met Mr Franklin and not have mentioned a circumstance naturally

interesting to her. Egremont was about to speak when the street-door was

opened. And were they to part again, and no explanation? And was Sybil

to be left with her father, who was evidently in no haste, perhaps

had no great tendency, to give that explanation? Every feeling of an

ingenuous spirit urged Egremont personally to terminate this prolonged

misconception.

“You will permit me, I hope,” he said, appealing as much to Gerard as to

his daughter, “to enter with you for a few moments.”

It was not possible to resist such a request, yet it was conceded on the

part of Gerard with no cordiality. So they entered the large gloomy

hall of the house, and towards the end of a long passage Gerard opened a

door, and they all went into a spacious melancholy room, situate at the

back of the house, and looking upon a small square plot of dank grass,

in the midst of which rose a very weather-stained Cupid, with one arm

broken, and the other raised in the air with a long shell to its mouth.

It seemed that in old days it might have been a fountain. At the end of

the plot the blind side of a house offered a high wall which had once

been painted in fresco. Though much of the coloured plaster had cracked

and peeled away, and all that remained was stained and faded, still some

traces of the original design might yet be detected: festive wreaths,

the colonnades and perspective of a palace.

The wails of the room itself were waincsotted in pannels of dark-stained

wood; the window-curtains were of coarse green worsted, and encrusted

with dust so ancient and irremovable, that it presented almost a

lava-like appearance; the carpet that had once been bright and showy,

was entirely threadbare, and had become grey with age. There were

several heavy mahogany arm-chairs in the room, a Pembroke table, and an

immense unwieldy sideboard, garnished with a few wine-glasses of a deep

blue colour. Over the lofty uncouth mantel was a portrait of the Marquis

of Granby, which might have been a sign, and opposite to him, over the

sideboard, was a large tawdry-coloured print, by Bunbury, of Ranelagh in

its most festive hour. The general appearance of the room however though

dingy, was not squalid: and what with its spaciousness, its extreme

repose, and the associations raised by such few images as it did

suggest, the impression on the mind of the spectator was far from

unpleasing, partaking indeed of that vague melancholy which springs

from the contemplation of the past, and which at all times softens the

spirit.

Gerard walked to the window and looked at the grass-plot; Sybil seating

herself, invited their guest to follow her example; Egremont, not

without agitation, seemed suddenly to make an effort to collect himself,

and then, in a voice not distinguished by its accustomed clearness,

he said, “I explained yesterday to one who I hope I may still call my

friend, why I assumed a name to which I have no right.”

Sybil started a little, slightly stared, but did not speak.

“I should be happy if you also would give me credit, in taking that

step, at least for motives of which I need not be ashamed; even,” he

added in a hesitating voice, “even if you deemed my conduct indiscreet.”

Their eyes met: astonishment was imprinted on the countenance of Sybil,

but she uttered not a word; and her father, whose back was turned to

them, did not move.

“I was told,” continued Egremont, “that an impassable gulf divided the

Rich from the Poor; I was told that the Privileged and the People

formed Two Nations, governed by different laws, influenced by different

manners, with no thoughts or sympathies in common; with an innate

inability of mutual comprehension. I believed that if this were indeed

the case, the ruin of our common country was at hand; I would have

endeavoured, feebly perchance, but not without zeal, to resist such a

catastrophe; I possessed a station which entailed on me some portion of

its responsibility: to obtain that knowledge which could alone qualify

me for beneficial action, I resolved to live without suspicion among my

fellow-subjects who were estranged from me; even void of all celebrity

as I am, I could not have done that without suspicion, had I been known;

they would have recoiled from my class and my name, as you yourself

recoiled, Sybil, when they were once accidentally mentioned before you.

These are the reasons, these the feelings, which impelled, I will not

say justified, me to pass your threshold under a feigned name. I entreat

you to judge kindly of my conduct; to pardon me: and not to make me feel

the bitterness that I have forfeited the good opinion of one for whom,

under all circumstances and in all situations, I must ever feel the

highest conceivable respect,--I would say a reverential regard.”

His tones of passionate emotion ceased. Sybil, with a countenance

beautiful and disturbed, gazed at him for an instant, and seemed about

to speak, but her trembling lips refused the office; then with an

effort, turning to Gerard, she said, “My father, I am amazed; tell me,

then, who is this gentleman who addresses me?”

“The brother of Lord Marney, Sybil,” said Gerard, turning to her.

“The brother of Lord Marney!” repeated Sybil, with an air almost of

stupor.

“Yes,” said Egremont: “a member of that family of sacrilege, of those

oppressors of the people, whom you have denounced to me with such

withering scorn.”

The elbow of Sybil rested on the arm of her chair, and her cheek upon

her hand; as Egremont said these words she shaded her face, which was

thus entirely unseen: for some moments there was silence. Then looking

up with an expression grave but serene, and as if she had just emerged

from some deep thinking, Sybil said, “I am sorry for my words; sorry for

the pain I unconsciously gave you; sorry indeed for all that has past:

and that my father has lost a pleasant friend.”

“And why should he be lost?” said Egremont mournfully, and yet with

tenderness. “Why should we not still be friends?”

“Oh, sir!” said Sybil, haughtily; “I am one of those who believe the

gulf is impassable. Yes,” she added, slightly but with singular

grace waving her hands, and somewhat turning away her head, “utterly

impassable.”

There are tumults of the mind when like the great convulsions of nature

all seems anarchy and returning chaos, yet often in those moments of

vast disturbance, as in the material strife itself, some new principle

of order, or some new impulse of conduct, develops itself, and controls

and regulates and brings to an harmonious consequence, passions and

elements which seemed only to threaten despair and subversion. So it was

with Egremont. He looked for a moment in despair upon this maiden walled

out from sympathy by prejudices and convictions more impassable than all

the mere consequences of class. He looked for a moment, but only for

a moment, in despair. He found in his tortured spirit energies

that responded to the exigency of the occasion. Even the otherwise

embarrassing presence of Gerard would not have prevented--but just at

this moment the door opened, and Morley and another person entered the

room.

Book 4 Chapter 9

Morley paused as he recognised Egremont; then advancing to Gerard,

followed by his companion, he said, “This is Mr Hatton of whom we were

speaking last night, and who claims to be an ancient acquaintance of

yours.”

“Perhaps I should rather say of your poor dear father,” said Hatton,

scanning Gerard with his clear blue eye, and then he added, “He was

of great service to me in my youth, and one is not apt to forget such

things.”

“One ought not,” said Gerard: “but it is a sort of memory, as I have

understood, that is rather rare. For my part I remember you very

well, Baptist Hatton,” said Gerard, examining his guest with almost as

complete a scrutiny as he had himself experienced. “This world has gone

well with you, I am glad to hear and see.”

“Qui laborat, orat,” said Hatton in a silvery voice, “is the gracious

maxim of our Holy Church; and I venture to believe my prayers and vigils

have been accepted, for I have laboured in my time,” and as he was

speaking these words, he turned and addressed them to Sybil.

She beheld him with no little interest; this mysterious name that had

sounded so often in her young ears, and was associated with so many

strange and high hopes, and some dark blending of doubt and apprehension

and discordant thoughts. Hatton in his appearance realised little of the

fancies in which Sybil had sometime indulged with regard to him. That

appearance was prepossessing: a frank and even benevolent expression

played upon his intelligent and handsome countenance: his once rich

brown hair, still long though very thin, was so arranged as naturally

to conceal his baldness; he was dressed with great simplicity, but with

remarkable taste and care: nor did the repose and suavity of his manner

and the hushed tone of his voice detract from the favourable effect that

he always at once produced.

“Qui laborat, orat,” said Sybil with a smile, “is the privilege of the

people.”

“Of whom I am one,” said Hatton bowing, well recollecting that he was

addressing the daughter of a chartist delegate.

“But is your labour, their labour,” said Sybil. “Is yours that life of

uncomplaining toil wherein there is so much of beauty and of goodness,

that by the fine maxim of our Church, it is held to include the force

and efficacy of prayer?”

“I am sure that I should complain of no toil that would benefit you,”

said Hatton; and then addressing himself again to Gerard, he led him

to a distant part of the room where they were soon engaged in earnest

converse. Morley at the same moment approached Sybil, and spoke to her

in a subdued tone. Egremont feeling embarrassed advanced, and bade her

farewell. She rose and returned his salute with some ceremony; then

hesitating while a soft expression came over her countenance, she held

forth her hand, which he retained for a moment, and withdrew.

“I was with him more than an hour,” continued Morley. “At first he

recollected nothing: even the name of Gerard, though he received it as

familiar to him, seemed to produce little impression; he recollected

nothing of any papers; was clear that they must have been quite

insignificant; whatever they were, he doubtless had them now, as he

never destroyed papers: would order a search to be made for them, and

so on. I was about to withdraw, when he asked me carelessly a question

about your father; what he was doing, and whether he were married and

had children. This led to a very long conversation in which he suddenly

seemed to take great interest. At first he talked of writing to see your

father, and I offered that Gerard should call upon him. He took down

your direction in order that he might write to your father and give him

an appointment; when observing that it was Westminster, he said that

his carriage was ordered to go to the House of Lords in a quarter of an

hour, and that if not inconvenient to me, he would propose that I should

at once accompany him. I thought, whatever might be the result, it

must be a satisfaction to Gerard at last to see this man of whom he has

talked and thought so much--and so we are here.”

“You did well, good Stephen, as you always do,” said Sybil with a musing

and abstracted air; “no one has so much forethought and so much energy

as you.”

He threw a glance at her: and immediately withdrew it. Their eyes had

met: hers were kind and calm.

“And this Egremont,” said Morley rather hurriedly and abruptly, and

looking on the ground, “how came he here? When we discovered him

yesterday your father and myself agreed that we should not mention to

you the--the mystification of which we had been dupes.”

“And you did wrong,” said Sybil. “There is no wisdom like frankness. Had

you told me, he would not have been here today. He met and addressed me,

and I only recognised an acquaintance who had once contributed so much

to the pleasantness of our life. Had he not accompanied me to this door

and met my father, which precipitated an explanation on his part which

he found had not been given by others, I might have remained in an

ignorance which hereafter might have produced inconvenience.”

“You are right,” said Morley, looking at her rather keenly. “We have all

of us opened ourselves too unreservedly before this aristocrat.”

“I should hope that none of us have said to him a word that we wish to

be forgotten,” said Sybil. “He chose to wear a disguise, and can hardly

quarrel with the frankness with which we spoke of his order or his

family. And for the rest, he has not been injured from learning

something of the feelings of the people by living among them.”

“And yet if anything were to happen to-morrow,” said Morley, “rest

assured this man has his eye on us. He can walk into the government

offices like themselves and tell his tale, for though one of the

pseudo-opposition, the moment the people move, the factions become

united.”

Sybil turned and looked at him, and then said, “And what could happen

to-morrow, that we should care for the government being acquainted with

it or us? Do not they know everything? Do not you meet in their very

sight? You pursue an avowed and legal aim by legal means--do you not?

What then is there to fear? And why should anything happen that should

make us apprehensive?”

“All is very well at this moment,” said Morley, “and all may continue

well; but popular assemblies breed turbulent spirits, Sybil. Your father

takes a leading part; he is a great orator, and is in his element in

this clamorous and fiery life. It does not much suit me; I am a man

of the closet. This Convention, as you well know, was never much to

my taste. Their Charter is a coarse specific for our social evils. The

spirit that would cure our ills must be of a deeper and finer mood.”

“Then why are you here?” said Sybil.

Morley shrugged his shoulders, and then said “An easy question.

Questions are always easy. The fact is, in active life one cannot afford

to refine. I could have wished the movement to have taken a different

shape and to have worked for a different end; but it has not done this.

But it is still a movement and a great one, and I must work it for my

end and try to shape it to my form. If I had refused to be a leader, I

should not have prevented the movement; I should only have secured my

own insignificance.”

“But my father has not these fears; he is full of hope and exultation,”

said Sybil. “And surely it is a great thing that the people should have

their Parliament lawfully meeting in open day, and their delegates from

the whole realm declaring their grievances in language which would not

disgrace the conquering race which has in vain endeavoured to degrade

them. When I heard my father speak the other night, my heart glowed

with emotion; my eyes were suffused with tears; I was proud to be his

daughter; and I gloried in a race of forefathers who belonged to the

oppressed and not to the oppressors.”

Morley watched the deep splendour of her eye and the mantling of her

radiant cheek, as she spoke these latter words with not merely animation

but fervour. Her bright hair, that hung on either side her face in long

tresses of luxuriant richness, was drawn off a forehead that was the

very throne of thought and majesty, while her rich lip still quivered

with the sensibility which expressed its impassioned truth.

“But your father, Sybil, stands alone,” at length Morley replied;

“surrounded by votaries who have nothing but enthusiasm to recommend

them; and by emulous and intriguing rivals, who watch every word and

action, in order that they may discredit his conduct, and ultimately

secure his downfall.”

“My father’s downfall!” said Sybil. “Is he not one of themselves! And is

it possible, that among the delegates of the People there can be other

than one and the same object?”

“A thousand,” said Morley; “we have already as many parties as in St

Stephen’s itself.”

“You terrify me,” said Sybil. “I knew we had fearful odds to combat

against. My visit to this city alone has taught me how strong are our

enemies. But I believed that we had on our side God and Truth.”

“They know neither of them in the National Convention,” said Morley.

“Our career will be a vulgar caricature of the bad passions and the low

intrigues, the factions and the failures, of our oppressors.”

At this moment Gerard and Hatton who were sitting in the remote part

of the room rose together and advanced forward; and this movement

interrupted the conversation of Sybil and Morley. Before however her

father and his new friend could reach them, Hatton as if some point

on which he had not been sufficiently explicit, had occurred to him,

stopped and placing his hand on Gerard’s arm, withdrew him again,

saying in a voice which could only be heard by the individual whom he

addressed. “You understand--I have not the slightest doubt myself of

your moral right: I believe on every principle of justice, that Mowbray

Castle is as much yours as the house that is built by the tenant on the

lord’s land: but can we prove it? We never had the legal evidence.

You are in error in supposing that these papers were of any vital

consequence; mere memoranda; very useful no doubt: I hope I shall find

them; but of no validity. If money were the only difficulty, trust me,

it should not be wanting; I owe much to the memory of your father, my

good Gerard; I would fain serve you--and your daughter. I’ll not tell

you what I would do for you, my good Gerard. You would think me foolish;

but I am alone in the world, and seeing you again, and talking of old

times--I really am scarcely fit for business. Go, however, I must; I

have an appointment at the House of Lords. Good bye. I must say farewell

to the Lady Sybil.”

Book 4 Chapter 10

“You can’t have that table, sir, it is engaged,” said a waiter at the

Athenaeum to a member of the club who seemed unmindful of the type of

appropriation which in the shape of an inverted plate, ought to have

warned him off the coveted premises.

“It is always engaged,” grumbled the member. “Who has taken it?”

“Mr Hatton, sir.”

And indeed at this very moment, it being about eight o’clock of the same

day on which the meeting detailed in the last chapter had occurred,

a very handsome dark brougham with a beautiful horse was stopping in

Waterloo Place before the portico of the Athenaeum Club-house, from

which equipage immediately emerged the prosperous person of Baptist

Hatton.

This club was Hatton’s only relaxation. He had never entered society;

and now his habits were so formed, the effort would have been a painful

one; though with a first-rate reputation in his calling and supposed to

be rich, the openings were numerous to a familiar intercourse with those

middle-aged nameless gentlemen of easy circumstances who haunt clubs,

and dine a great deal at each others’ houses and chambers; men who

travel regularly a little, and gossip regularly a great deal; who lead

a sort of facile, slipshod existence, doing nothing, yet mightily

interested in what others do; great critics of little things; profuse

in minor luxuries and inclined to the respectable practice of a decorous

profligacy; peering through the window of a clubhouse as if they were

discovering a planet; and usually much excited about things with which

they have no concern, and personages who never heard of them.

All this was not in Hatton’s way, who was free from all pretension,

and who had acquired, from his severe habits of historical research,

a respect only for what was authentic. These nonentities flitted about

him, and he shrunk from an existence that seemed to him at once dull and

trifling. He had a few literary acquaintances that he had made at

the Antiquarian Society, of which he was a distinguished member; a

vice-president of that body had introduced him to the Athenaeum. It

was the first and only club that Hatton had ever belonged to, and he

delighted in it. He liked splendour and the light and bustle of a great

establishment. They saved him from that melancholy which after a day

of action is the doom of energetic celibacy. A luxurious dinner without

trouble, suited him after his exhaustion; sipping his claret, he

revolved his plans. Above all, he revelled in the magnificent library,

and perhaps was never happier, than when after a stimulating repast he

adjourned up stairs, and buried himself in an easy chair with Dugdale or

Selden, or an erudite treatise on forfeiture or abeyance.

To-day however Hatton was not in this mood. He came in exhausted

and excited; eat rapidly and rather ravenously; despatched a pint of

champagne; and then called for a bottle of Lafitte. His table cleared; a

devilled biscuit placed before him, a cool bottle and a fresh glass,

he indulged in that reverie, which the tumult of his feelings and the

physical requirements of existence had hitherto combined to prevent.

“A strange day,” he thought, as with an abstracted air he filled his

glass, and sipping the wine, leant back in his chair. “The son of Walter

Gerard! A chartist delegate! The best blood in England! What would I not

be, were it mine.

“Those infernal papers! They made my fortune--and yet, I know not how it

is, the deed has cost me many a pang. Yet it seemed innoxious! the old

man dead--insolvent; myself starving; his son ignorant of all, to whom

too they could be of no use, for it required thousands to work them, and

even with thousands they could only be worked by myself. Had I not done

it, I should ere this probably have been swept from the surface of

the earth, worn out with penury, disease, and heart-ache. And now I am

Baptist Hatton with a fortune almost large enough to buy Mowbray itself,

and with knowledge that can make the proudest tremble.

“And for what object all this wealth and power? What memory shall I

leave? What family shall I found? Not a relative in the world, except

a solitary barbarian, from whom when, years ago I visited him as a

stranger I recoiled with unutterable loathing.

“Ah! had I a child--a child like the beautiful daughter of Gerard!”

And here mechanically Hatton filled his glass, and quaffed at once a

bumper.

“And I have deprived her of a principality! That seraphic being whose

lustre even now haunts my vision; the ring of whose silver tone even now

lingers in my ear. He must be a fiend who could injure her. I am that

fiend. Let me see--let me see!”

And now he seemed wrapt in the very paradise of some creative vision;

still he filled the glass, but this time he only sipped it, as if he

were afraid to disturb the clustering images around him.

“Let me see--let me see. I could make her a baroness. Gerard is as much

Baron Valence as Shrewsbury is a Talbot. Her name is Sybil. Curious how,

even when peasants, the good blood keeps the good old family names! The

Valences were ever Sybils.

“I could make her a baroness. Yes! and I could give her wherewith to

endow her state. I could compensate for the broad lands which should be

hers, and which perhaps through me she has forfeited.

“Could I do more? Could I restore her to the rank she would honour,

assuage these sharp pangs of conscience, and achieve the secret ambition

of my life? What if my son were to be Lord Valence?

“Is it too bold? A chartist delegate--a peasant’s daughter. With all

that shining beauty that I witnessed, with all the marvellous gifts that

their friend Morley so descanted on,--would she shrink from me? I’m not

a crook-backed Richard.

“I could proffer much: I feel I could urge it plausibly. She must be

very wretched. With such a form, such high imaginings, such thoughts of

power and pomp as I could breathe in her,--I think she’d melt. And to

one of her own faith, too! To build up a great Catholic house again; of

the old blood, and the old names, and the old faith,--by holy Mary it is

a glorious vision!”

Book 4 Chapter 11

On the evening of the day that Egremont had met Sybil in the Abbey of

Westminster, and subsequently parted from her under circumstances so

distressing, the Countess of Marney held a great assembly at the family

mansion in St James Square, which Lord Marney had intended to have let

to a new club, and himself and his family to have taken refuge for a

short season at an hotel, but he drove so hard a bargain that before the

lease was signed, the new club, which mainly consisted of an ingenious

individual who had created himself secretary, had vanished. Then it was

agreed that the family mansion should be inhabited for the season by

the family; and to-night Arabella was receiving all that great world of

which she herself was a distinguished ornament.

“We come to you as early as possible my dear Arabella,” said Lady

Deloraine to her daughter-in-law.

“You are always so good! Have you seen Charles? I was in hopes he would

have come,” Lady Marney added in a somewhat mournful tone.

“He is at the House: otherwise I am sure he would have been here,” said

Lady Deloraine, glad that she had so good a reason for an absence, which

under any circumstances she well knew would have occurred.

“I fear you will be sadly in want of beaus this evening, my love. We

dined at the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine’s, and all our cavaliers vanished.

They talk of an early division.”

“I really wish all these divisions were over,” said Lady Marney. “They

are very anti-social. Ah! here is Lady de Mowbray.”

Alfred Mountchesney hovered round Lady Joan Fitz-Warene, who was

gratified by the devotion of the Cupid of May Fair. He uttered

inconceivable nothings, and she replied to him in incomprehensible

somethings. Her learned profundity and his vapid lightness effectively

contrasted. Occasionally he caught her eye and conveyed to her the

anguish of his soul in a glance of self-complacent softness.

Lady St Julians leaning on the arm of the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine stopped

to speak to Lady Joan. Lady St Julians was determined that the heiress

of Mowbray should marry one of her sons. She watched therefore with

a restless eye all those who attempted to monopolize Lady Joan’s

attention, and contrived perpetually to interfere with their manoeuvres.

In the midst of a delightful conversation that seemed to approach a

crisis, Lady St Julians was sure to advance, and interfere with some

affectionate appeal to Lady Joan, whom she called her “dear child” and

“sweetest love,” while she did not deign even to notice the unhappy

cavalier whom she had thus as it were unhorsed.

“My sweet child!” said Lady St Julians to Lady Joan, “you have no idea

how unhappy Frederick is this evening, but he cannot leave the House,

and I fear it will be a late affair.”

Lady Joan looked as if the absence or presence of Frederick was to her

a matter of great indifference, and then she added, “I do not think the

division so important as is generally imagined. A defeat upon a question

of colonial government does not appear to me of sufficient weight to

dissolve a cabinet.”

“Any defeat will do that now,” said Lady St Julians, “but to tell you

the truth I am not very sanguine. Lady Deloraine says they will be beat:

she says the radicals will desert them; but I am not so sure. Why should

the radicals desert them? And what have we done for the radicals? Had we

indeed foreseen this Jamaica business, and asked some of them to dinner,

or given a ball or two to their wives and daughters! I am sure if I had

had the least idea that we had so good a chance of coming in, I should

not have cared myself to have done something; even to have invited their

women.”

“But you are such a capital partisan, Lady St Julians,” said the Duke of

Fitz-Aquitaine, who with the viceroyalty of Ireland dexterously

dangled before his eyes for the last two years, had become a thorough

conservative and had almost as much confidence in Sir Robert as in Lord

Stanley.

“I have made great sacrifices,” said Lady St Julians. “I went once and

stayed a week at Lady Jenny Spinner’s to gain her looby of a son and his

eighty thousand a-year, and Lord St Julians proposed him at White’s; and

then after all the whigs made him a peer! They certainly make more of

their social influences than we do. That affair of that Mr Trenchard was

a blow. Losing a vote at such a critical time, when if I had had only

a remote idea of what was passing through his mind, I would have even

asked him to Barrowley for a couple of days.”

A foreign diplomatist of distinction had pinned Lord Marney, and was

dexterously pumping him as to the probable future.

“But is the pear ripe?” said the diplomatist.

“The pear is ripe if we have courage to pluck it,” said Lord Marney;

“but our fellows have no pluck.”

“But do you think that the Duke of Wellington--” and here the

diplomatist stopped and looked up in Lord Marney’s face, as if he would

convey something that he would not venture to express.

“Here he is,” said Lord Marney, “he will answer the question himself.”

Lord Deloraine and Mr Ormsby passed by; the diplomatist addressed them:

“You have not been to the Chamber?”

“No,” said Lord Deloraine; “but I hear there is hot work. It will be

late.”

“Do you think--,” said the diplomatist, and he looked up in the face of

Lord Deloraine.

“I think that in the long run everything will have an end,” said Lord

Deloraine.

“Ah!” said the diplomatist.

“Bah!” said Lord Deloraine as he walked away with Mr Ormsby. “I remember

that fellow--a sort of equivocal attache at Paris, when we were there

with Monmouth at the peace: and now he is a quasi ambassador, and

ribboned and starred to the chin.”

“The only stars I have got,” said Mr Ormsby demurely, “are four stars in

India stock.”

Lady Firebrace and Lady Maud Fitz-Warene were announced: they had just

come from the Commons; a dame and damsel full of political enthusiasm.

Lady Firebrace gave critical reports and disseminated many contradictory

estimates of the result; Lady Maud talked only of a speech made by Lord

Milford, which from the elaborate noise she made about it, you would

have supposed to have been the oration of the evening; on the contrary,

it had lasted only a few minutes and in a thin house had been nearly

inaudible; but then, as Lady Maud added, “it was in such good taste!”

Alfred Mountchesney and Lady Joan Fitz-Warene passed Lady Marney who was

speaking to Lord Deloraine. “Do you think,” said Lady Marney, “that Mr

Mountchesney will bear away the prize?”

Lord Deloraine shook his head. “These great heiresses can never make up

their minds. The bitter drop rises in all their reveries.”

“And yet,” said Lady Marney, “I would just as soon be married for my

money as my face.”

Soon after this there was a stir in the saloons; a murmur, the ingress

of many gentlemen: among others Lord Valentine, Lord Milford, Mr

Egerton, Mr Berners, Lord Fitz-Heron, Mr Jermyn. The House was up; the

great Jamaica division was announced; the radicals had thrown over the

government, who left in a majority of only five, had already intimated

their sense of the unequivocal feeling of the House with respect to

them. It was known that on the morrow the government would resign.

Lady Deloraine, prepared for the great result, was calm: Lady St

Julians, who had not anticipated it, was in a wild flutter of distracted

triumph. A vague yet dreadful sensation came over her in the midst of

her joy that Lady Deloraine had been beforehand with her; had made her

combinations with the new Minister; perhaps even sounded the Court. At

the same time that in this agitating vision the great offices of the

palace which she had apportioned to herself and her husband seemed

to elude her grasp; the claims and hopes and interests of her various

children haunted her perplexed consciousness. What if Charles Egremont

were to get the place which she had projected for Frederick or Augustus?

What if Lord Marney became master of the horse? Or Lord Deloraine went

again to Ireland? In her nervous excitement she credited all these

catastrophes; seized upon “the Duke” in order that Lady Deloraine might

not gain his ear, and resolved to get home as soon as possible, in order

that she might write without a moment’s loss of time to Sir Robert.

“They will hardly go out without making some peers,” said Sir Vavasour

Firebrace to Mr Jermyn.

“Why they have made enough.”

“Hem! I know Tubbe Swete has a promise, and so has Cockawhoop. I don’t

think Cockawhoop could show again at Boodle’s without a coronet.”

“I don’t see why these fellows should go out,” said Mr Ormsby. “What

does it signify whether ministers have a majority of five, or ten or

twenty? In my time, a proper majority was a third of the House. That was

Lord Liverpool’s majority. Lord Monmouth used to say that there were

ten families in this country who, if they could only agree, could always

share the government. Ah! those were the good old times! We never had

adjourned debates then; but sate it out like gentlemen who had been

used all their lives to be up all night, and then supped at Watier’s

afterwards.”

“Ah! my dear Ormsby,” said Mr Berners, “do not mention Watier’s; you

make my mouth water.”

“Shall you stand for Birmingham, Ormsby, if there be a dissolution?”

said Lord Fitz-Heron.

“I have been asked,” said Mr Ormsby; “but the House of Commons is not

the House of Commons of my time, and I have no wish to re-enter it. If I

had a taste for business, I might be a member of the Marylebone vestry.”

“All I repeat,” said Lord Marney to his mother, as he rose from the sofa

where he had been some time in conversation with her, “that if there be

any idea that I wish Lady Marney should be a lady in waiting, it is an

error, Lady Deloraine. I wish that to be understood. I am a domestic

man, and I wish Lady Marney to be always with me; and what I want I want

for myself. I hope in arranging the household the domestic character of

every member of it will be considered. After all that has occurred the

country expects that.”

“But my dear George, I think it is really premature--”

“I dare say it is; but I recommend you, my dear mother, to be alive.

I heard Lady St Julians just now in the supper room asking the Duke to

promise her that her Augustus should be a Lord of the Admiralty. She

said the Treasury would not do, as there was no house, and that with

such a fortune as his wife brought him he could not hire a house under a

thousand a-year.”

“He will not have the Admiralty,” said Lady Deloraine.

“She looks herself to the Robes.”

“Poor woman!” said Lady Deloraine.

“Is it quite true?” said a great whig dame to Mr Egerton, one of her own

party.

“Quite,” he said.

“I can endure anything except Lady St Julian’s glance of triumph,” said

the whig dame. “I really think if it were only to ease her Majesty from

such an infliction, they ought to have held on.”

“And must the household be changed?” said Mr Egerton. “Do not look

so serious,” said the whig dame smiling with fascination; “we are

surrounded by the enemy.”

“Will you be at home to-morrow early?” said Mr Egerton.

“As early as you please.”

“Very well, we will talk then. Lady Charlotte has heard something; nous

verrons.”

“Courage; we have the Court with us, and the Country cares for nothing.”

Book 4 Chapter 12

“It is all right,” said Mr Tadpole. “They are out. Lord Melbourne has

been with the Queen and recommended her Majesty to send for the Duke,

and the Duke has recommended her Majesty to send for Sir Robert.”

“Are you sure?” said Mr Taper.

“I tell you Sir Robert is on his road to the palace at this moment; I

saw him pass, full-dressed.”

“It is too much,” said Mr Taper.

“Now what are we to do?” said Mr Tadpole.

“We must not dissolve,” said Mr Taper. “We have no cry.”

“As much cry as the other fellows,” said Mr Tadpole; “but no one of

course would think of dissolution before the next registration. No, no;

this is a very manageable Parliament, depend upon it. The malcontent

radicals who have turned them out are not going to bring them in. That

makes us equal. Then we have an important section to work upon--the

Sneaks, the men who are afraid of a dissolution. I will be bound we

make a good working conservative majority of five-and-twenty out of the

sneaks.”

“With the Treasury patronage,” said Mr Taper; “fear and favour combined.

An impending dissolution, and all the places we refuse our own men, we

may count on the Sneaks.”

“Then there are several religious men who have wanted an excuse for a

long time to rat,” said Mr Tadpole. “We must get Sir Robert to make some

kind of a religious move, and that will secure Sir Litany Lax and young

Mr Salem.”

“It will never do to throw over the Church Commission,” said Mr Taper.

“Commissions and committees ought always to be supported.”

“Besides it will frighten the saints,” said Mr Tadpole. “If we could get

him to speak at Exeter Hall--were it only a slavery meeting--that would

do.”

“It is difficult,” said Taper; “he must be pledged to nothing--not even

to the right of search. Yet if we could get up something with a good

deal of sentiment and no principle involved; referring only to the past,

but with his practised powers touching the present. What do you think of

a monument to Wilberforce or a commemoration of Clarkson?”

“There is a good deal in that,” said Mr Tadpole. “At present go about

and keep our fellows in good humour. Whisper nothings that sound like

something. But be discreet; do not let there be more than half a hundred

fellows who believe they are going to be Under Secretaries of State. And

be cautious about titles. If they push you, give a wink and press

your finger to your lip. I must call here,” continued Mr Tadpole as he

stopped before the house of the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine. “This gentleman

is my particular charge. I have been cooking him these three years. I

had two notes from him yesterday, and can delay a visit no longer.

The worst of it is, he expects that I shall bear him the non-official

announcement of his being sent to Ireland, of which he has about as

much chance as I have of being Governor-General of India. It must be

confessed ours is critical work sometimes, friend Taper; but never

mind--what we have to do to individuals Peel has to with a nation, and

therefore we ought not to complain.”

The Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine wanted Ireland and Lord de Mowbray wanted

the Garter. Lord Marney, who wanted the Buckhounds, was convinced that

neither of his friends had the slightest chance of obtaining their

respective objects, but believed that he had a very good one of securing

his own if he used them for his purpose, and persuaded them to combine

together for the common good. So at his suggestion they had all met

together at the duke’s, and were in full conference on the present state

of affairs, while Tadpole and Taper were engaged in that interesting and

instructive conversation of which we have snatched a passage.

“You may depend upon it,” said Lord Marney, “that nothing is to be done

by delicacy. It is not delicacy that rules the House of Lords. What

has kept us silent for years? Threats; and threats used in the most

downright manner. We were told that if we did not conform absolutely

and without appeal to the will and pleasure of one individual, the cards

would be thrown up. We gave in; the game has been played, and won. I am

not at all clear that it has been won by those tactics--but gained it

is; and now what shall we do? In my opinion it is high time to get rid

of the dictatorship. The new ruse now for the palace is to persuade her

Majesty that Peel is the only man who can manage the House of Lords.

Well, then it is exactly the time to make certain persons understand

that the House of Lords are not going to be tools any longer merely for

other people. Rely upon it a bold united front at this moment would be

a spoke in the wheel. We three form the nucleus; there are plenty to

gather round. I have written to Marisforde; he is quite ripe. Lord

Hounslow will be here to-morrow. The thing is to be done; and if we are

not firm the grand conservative triumph will only end in securing the

best posts both at home and abroad for one too powerful family.”

“Who had never been heard of in the time of my father,” said the duke.

“Nor in the time of mine,” said Lord de Mowbray.

“Royal and Norman blood like ours,” said Lord Marney, “is not to be

thrown over in that way.”

It was just at this moment that a servant entered with a card, which the

duke looking at said “It is Tadpole; shall we have him in? I dare say he

will tell us something.” And notwithstanding the important character of

their conference, political curiosity and perhaps some private feeling

which not one of them cared to acknowledge, made them unanimously agree

that Mr Tadpole should be admitted.

“Lord Marney and Lord de Mowbray with the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine,”

thought Mr Tadpole, as he was ushered into the library and his eye,

practised in machinations and prophetic in manoeuvres surveyed the three

nobles. “This looks like business and perhaps means mischief. Very lucky

I called!” With an honest smile he saluted them all.

“What news from the palace, Tadpole?” inquired the duke.

“Sir Robert is there,” replied Tadpole.

“That’s good news,” exclaimed his grace, echoed by Lord de Mowbray, and

backed up with a faint bravo from Lord Marney.

Then arose a conversation in which all affected much interest respecting

the Jamaica debate; whether the whigs had originally intended to resign;

whether it were Lord Melbourne or Lord John who had insisted on the

step; whether if postponed they could have tided over the session; and

so on. Tadpole, who was somewhat earnest in his talk, seemed to have

pinned the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine; Lord Marney who wanted to say a word

alone to Lord de Mowbray had dexterously drawn that personage aside on

the pretence of looking at a picture. Tadpole, who had a most frank and

unsophisticated mien had an eye for every corner of a room, seized the

opportunity for which he had been long cruising. “I don’t pretend to be

behind the scenes, duke; but it was said to me to-day, ‘Tadpole, if you

do chance to see the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine you may say that positively

Lord Killcroppy will not go to Ireland.’”

A smile of satisfaction played over the handsome face of the

duke--instantly suppressed lest it might excite suspicion; and then with

a friendly and very significant nod that intimated to Tadpole not to

dwell on the subject at the present moment, the duke with a rather

uninterested air recurred to the Jamaica debate, and soon after appealed

on some domestic point to his son-in-law. This broke up the conversation

between Lord de Mowbray and Lord Marney. Lord de Mowbray advancing was

met accidentally on purpose by Mr Tadpole, who seemed anxious to push

forward to Lord Marney.

“You have heard of Lord Ribbonville?” said Tadpole in a suppressed tone.

“No; what?”

“Can’t live the day out. How fortunate Sir Robert is! Two garters to

begin with!”

Tadpole had now succeeded in tackling Lord Marney alone; the other peers

were far out of ear-shot. “I don’t pretend to be behind the scenes, my

Lord,” said the honest gentleman in a peculiarly confidential tone, and

with a glance that spoke volumes of state secrecy; “but it was said to

me to-day, ‘Tadpole, if you do chance to meet Lord Marney, you may say

that positively Lord Rambrooke will not have the Buck-hounds.’”

“All I want,” said Lord Marney, “is to see men of character about her

Majesty. This is a domestic country, and the country expects that no

nobleman should take household office whose private character is not

inexpugnable. Now that fellow Rambrooke keeps a French woman. It is not

much known, but it is a fact.”

“Dreadful!” exclaimed Mr Tadpole. “I have no doubt of it. But he has no

chance of the Buck-hounds, you may rely on that. Private character is

to be the basis of the new government. Since the Reform Act that is

a qualification much more esteemed by the constituency than public

services. We must go with the times, my Lord. A virtuous middle class

shrink with horror from French actresses; and the Wesleyans--the

Wesleyans must be considered, Lord Marney.”

“I always subscribe to them,” said his Lordship.

“Ah!” said Mr Tadpole mysteriously, “I am glad to hear that. Nothing I

have heard to-day has given me so much pleasure as those few words. One

may hardly jest on such a subject,” he added with a sanctimonious air;

“but I think I may say”--and here he broke into a horse smile--“I think

I may say that those subscriptions will not be without their fruit.” And

with a bow honest Tadpole disappeared, saying to himself as he left the

house, “If you were ready to be conspirators when I entered the room, my

Lords, you were at least prepared to be traitors when I quitted it.”

In the meantime Lord Marney in the best possible humour said to Lord de

Mowbray, “You are going to White’s are you? If so take me.”

“I am sorry, my dear Lord, but I have an appointment in the city. I have

got to go to the Temple, and I am already behind my time.”

Book 4 Chapter 13

And why was Lord de Mowbray going to the Temple? He had received the day

before when he came home to dress a very disagreeable letter from some

lawyers, apprising him that they were instructed by their client Mr

Walter Gerard to commence proceedings against his lordship on a writ of

right with respect to his manors of Mowbray, Valence, Mowedale, Mowbray

Valence, and several others carefully enumerated in their precise

epistle, and the catalogue of which read like an extract from Domesday

Book.

More than twenty years had elapsed since the question had been mooted;

and though the discussion had left upon Lord de Mowbray an impression

from which at times he had never entirely recovered, still circumstances

had occurred since the last proceedings which gave him a moral if not a

legal conviction that he should be disturbed no more. And these were the

circumstances: Lord de Mowbray after the death of the father of Walter

Gerard had found himself in communication with the agent who had

developed and pursued the claim for the yeoman, and had purchased for

a good round sum the documents on which that claim was founded, and by

which apparently that claim could only be sustained.

The vendor of these muniments was Baptist Hatton, and the sum which he

obtained for them, by allowing him to settle in the metropolis, pursue

his studies, purchase his library and collections, and otherwise give

himself that fair field which brains without capital can seldom command,

was in fact the foundation of his fortune. Many years afterwards Lord de

Mowbray had recognised Hatton in the prosperous parliamentary agent who

often appeared at the bar of the House of Lords and before committees

of privileges, and who gradually obtained an unrivalled reputation and

employment in peerage cases. Lord de Mowbray renewed his acquaintance

with a man who was successful; bowed to Hatton whenever they met; and

finally consulted him respecting the barony of Valence which had been in

the old Fitz-Warene and Mowbray families and to which it was thought the

present earl might prefer some hocus-pocus claim through his deceased

mother; so that however recent was his date as an English earl, he

might figure on the roll as a Plantagenet baron, which in the course of

another century would complete the grand mystification of high nobility.

The death of his son dexterously christened Valence had a little damped

his ardour in this respect; but still there was a sufficiently intimate

connection kept up between him and Hatton; so that before he placed

the letter he had received in the hands of his lawyers he thought it

desirable to consult his ancient ally.

This was the reason that Lord de Mowbray was at the present moment

seated in the same chair in the same library as was a few days back that

worthy baronet, Sir Vavasour Firebrace. Mr Hatton was at the same table

similarly employed; his Persian cat on his right hand, and his choice

spaniels reposing on their cushions at his feet.

Mr Hatton held forward his hand to receive the letter of which Lord

de Mowbray had been speaking to him, and which he read with great

attention, weighing as it were each word. Singular! as the letter

had been written by himself, and the firm who signed it were only his

instruments, obeying the spring of the master hand.

“Very remarkable!” said Mr Hatton.

“Is it not!” said Lord de Mowbray.

“And your Lordship received this yesterday?”

“Yesterday. I lost no time in communicating with you.”

“Jubb and Jinks,” continued Mr Hatton, musingly, surveying the signature

of the letter. “A very respectable firm.”

“That makes it more strange,” said his Lordship.

“It does,” said Mr Hatton.

“A respectable firm would hardly embark in such a proceeding without

some show of pretext,” said Lord de Mowbray.

“Hardly,” said Mr Hatton.

“But what can they have?” urged his Lordship.

“What indeed!” said Mr Hatton. “Mr Walter Gerard without his pedigree

is a mere flash in the pan; and I defy him to prove anything without the

deed of ‘77.”

“Well, he has not got that,” said Lord de Mowbray.

“Safe, of course?” said Mr Hatton.

“Certain. I almost wish I had burnt it as well as the whole box-full.”

“Destroy that deed and the other muniments, and the Earl de Mowbray will

never be Baron Valence,” said Mr Hatton.

“But what use are these deeds now?” said his lordship. “If we produce

them, we may give a colour to this fellow’s claim.”

“Time will settle his claim,” said Mr Hatton; “it will mature yours. You

can wait.”

“Alas! since the death of my poor boy--”

“It has become doubly important. Substantiate the barony, it will

descend to your eldest daughter, who, even if married, will retain

your name. Your family will live, and ennobled. The Fitz-Warenes Lords

Valence will yield to none in antiquity; and as to rank, as long as

Mowbray Castle belongs to them, the revival of the earldom is safe at

the first coronation, or the first ministry that exists with a balanced

state of parties.”

“That is the right view of the case,” said Lord de Mowbray; “and what do

you advise?”

“Be calm, and you have nothing to fear. This is the mere revival of

an old claim, too vast to be allowed to lapse from desuetude. Your

documents you say are all secure?”

“Be sure of that. They are at this moment in the muniment room of the

great tower of Mowbray Castle; in the same iron box and in the same

cabinet they were deposited--”

“When, by placing them in your hands,” said Mr Hatton finishing a

sentence which might have been awkward, “I had the extreme satisfaction

of confirming the rights and calming the anxieties of one of our ancient

houses. I would recommend your lordship to instruct your lawyers to

appear to this writ as a matter of course. But enter into no details,

no unnecessary confidence with them. They are needless. Treat the matter

lightly, especially to them. You will hear no more of it.”

“You feel confidence?”

“Perfect. Walter Gerard has no documents of any kind. Whatever his claim

might be, good or bad, the only evidence that can prove his pedigree is

in your possession and the only use to which it ever will be put, will

be in due time to seat your grandson in the House of Lords.”

“I am glad I called upon you,” said Lord Mowbray.

“To be sure. Your lordship can speak to me without reserve, and I am

used to these start-ups. It is part of the trade; but an old soldier is

not to be deceived by such feints.”

“Clearly a feint, you think?”

“A feint! a feint.”

“Good morning. I am glad I have called. How goes on my friend Sir

Vavasour?”

“Oh! I shall land him at last.”

“Well, he is an excellent, neighbourly, man. I have a great respect for

Sir Vavasour. Would you dine with me, Mr Hatton, on Thursday? It would

give me and Lady de Mowbray great pleasure.”

“Your lordship is extremely kind,” said Mr Hatton bowing with a slight

sarcastic smile, “but I am an hermit.”

“But your friends should see you sometimes,” said Lord de Mowbray.

“Your lordship is too good, but I am a mere man of business and know my

position. I feel I am not at home in ladies’ society.”

“Well then come to-morrow: I am alone, and I will ask some persons to

meet you whom you know and like,--Sir Vavasour and Lord Shaftesbury and

a most learned Frenchman who is over here--a Vicomte de Narbonne, who is

very anxious to make your acquaintance. Your name is current I can tell

you at Paris.”

“Your lordship is too good; another day: I have a great pressure of

affairs at present.”

“Well, well; so be it. Good morning, Mr Hatton.”

Hatton bowed lowly. The moment the door was shut, rubbing his hands, he

said, “In the same box and in the same cabinet: the muniment room in the

great tower of Mowbray Castle! They exist and I know their whereabouts.

I’ll have ‘em.”

Book 4 Chapter 14.

Two and even three days had rolled over since Mr Tadpole had reported

Sir Robert on his way to the palace, and marvellously little had

transpired. It was of course known that a cabinet was in formation, and

the daily papers reported to the public the diurnal visits of certain

noble lords and right honourable gentlemen to the new first minister.

But the world of high politics had suddenly become so cautious that

nothing leaked out. Even gossip was at fault. Lord Marney had not

received the Buckhounds, though he never quitted his house for ride or

lounge without leaving precise instructions with Captain Grouse as to

the identical time he should return home, so that his acceptance

should not be delayed. Ireland was not yet governed by the Duke of

Fitz-Aquitaine, and the Earl de Mowbray was still ungartered. These

three distinguished noblemen were all of them anxious--a little

fidgetty; but at the same time it was not even whispered that Lord

Rambrooke or any other lord had received the post which Lord Marney

had appropriated to himself; nor had Lord Killcroppy had a suspicious

interview with the prime minister, which kept the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine

quiet though not easy; while not a shadow of coming events had glanced

over the vacant stall of Lord Ribbonville in St George’s Chapel, and

this made Lord de Mowbray tranquil, though scarcely content. In the

meantime, daily and hourly they all pumped Mr Tadpole, who did not

find it difficult to keep up his reputation for discretion; for knowing

nothing, and beginning himself to be perplexed at the protracted

silence, he took refuge in oracular mystery, and delivered himself of

certain Delphic sentences which adroitly satisfied those who consulted

him while they never committed himself.

At length one morning there was an odd whisper in the circle of first

initiation. The blood mantled on the cheek of Lady St Julians; Lady

Deloraine turned pale. Lady Firebrace wrote confidential notes with the

same pen to Mr Tadpole and Lord Masque. Lord Marney called early in the

morning on the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine, and already found Lord de Mowbray

there. The clubs were crowded even at noon. Everywhere a mysterious

bustle and an awful stir.

What could be the matter? What has happened?

“It is true,” said Mr Egerton to Mr Berners at Brookes’.

“Is it true?” asked Mr Jermyn of Lord Valentine at the Canton.

“I heard it last night at Crockford’s,” said Mr Ormsby; “one always

hears things there four-and-twenty hours before other places.”

The world was employed the whole of the morning in asking and answering

this important question “Is it true?” Towards dinner time, it was

settled universally in the affirmative, and then the world went out to

dine and to ascertain why it was true and how it was true.

And now what really had happened? What had happened was what is commonly

called a “hitch.” There was undoubtedly a hitch somewhere and somehow; a

hitch in the construction of the new cabinet. Who could have thought it?

The whig ministers it seems had resigned, but somehow or other had not

entirely and completely gone out. What a constitutional dilemma?

The Houses must evidently meet, address the throne, and impeach its

obstinate counsellors. Clearly the right course, and party feeling ran

so high, that it was not impossible that something might be done. At any

rate, it was a capital opportunity for the House of Lords to pluck up

a little courage and take what is called, in high political jargon, the

initiative. Lord Marney at the suggestion of Mr Tadpole was quite ready

to do this; and so was the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine, and almost the Earl

de Mowbray.

But then when all seemed ripe and ready, and there appeared a

probability of the “Independence of the House of Lords” being again the

favourite toast of conservative dinners, the oddest rumour in the world

got about, which threw such a ridicule on these great constitutional

movements in petto, that even with the Buckhounds in the distance and

Tadpole at his elbow, Lord Marney hesitated. It seemed, though of course

no one could for a moment credit it, that these wrong-headed, rebellious

ministers who would not go out, wore--petticoats!

And the great Jamaica debate that had been cooked so long, and

the anxiously expected, yet almost despaired of, defection of the

independent radical section, and the full-dressed visit to the palace

that had gladdened the heart of Tadpole--were they all to end in this?

Was Conservatism, that mighty mystery of the nineteenth century--was it

after all to be brained by a fan!

Since the farce of the “Invincibles” nothing had ever been so

ludicrously successful.

Lady Deloraine consoled herself for the “Bedchamber Plot” by declaring

that Lady St Julians was indirectly the cause of it, and that had it

not been for the anticipation of her official entrance into the royal

apartments the conspiracy would not have been more real than the

Meal-tub plot or any other of the many imaginary machinations that still

haunt the page of history, and occasionally flit about the prejudiced

memory of nations. Lady St Julians on the contrary wrung her hands over

the unhappy fate of her enthralled sovereign, deprived of her faithful

presence and obliged to put up with the society of personages of whom

she knew nothing and who called themselves the friends of her youth.

The ministers who had missed, especially those who had received their

appointments, looked as all men do when they are jilted--embarrassed

and affecting an awkward ease; as if they knew something which, if they

told, would free them from the supreme ridicule of their situation, but

which, as men of delicacy and honour, they refrained from revealing.

All those who had been in fluttering hopes, however faint, of receiving

preferment, took courage now that the occasion had passed, and loudly

complained of their cruel and undeniable deprivation. The constitution

was wounded in their persons. Some fifty gentlemen who had not been

appointed under secretaries of state, moaned over the martyrdom of young

ambition.

“Peel ought to have taken office,” said Lord Marney. “What are the women

to us?”

“Peel ought to have taken office,” said the Duke of Fitz-Aquitaine. “He

should have remembered how much he owed to Ireland.”

“Peel ought to have taken office,” said Lord de Mowbray. “The garter

will become now a mere party badge.”

Perhaps it may be allowed to the impartial pen that traces these

memoirs of our times to agree, though for a different reason, with these

distinguished followers of Sir Robert Peel. One may be permitted to

think that, under all circumstances, he should have taken office in

1839. His withdrawal seems to have been a mistake. In the great heat

of parliamentary faction which had prevailed since 1831, the royal

prerogative, which, unfortunately for the rights and liberties

and social welfare of the people, had since 1688 been more or less

oppressed, had waned fainter and fainter. A youthful princess on the

throne, whose appearance touched the imagination, and to whom her

people were generally inclined to ascribe something of that decision

of character which becomes those born to command, offered a favourable

opportunity to restore the exercise of that regal authority, the

usurpation of whose functions has entailed on the people of England so

much suffering and so much degradation. It was unfortunate that one

who, if any, should have occupied the proud and national position of the

leader of the tory party, the chief of the people and the champion of

the throne, should have commenced his career as minister under Victoria

by an unseemly contrariety to the personal wishes of the Queen. The

reaction of public opinion, disgusted with years of parliamentary tumult

and the incoherence of party legislation, the balanced state in the

kingdom of political parties themselves, the personal character of the

sovereign--these were all causes which intimated that a movement in

favour of prerogative was at hand. The leader of the tory party should

have vindicated his natural position, and availed himself of the

gracious occasion: he missed it; and as the occasion was inevitable, the

whigs enjoyed its occurrence. And thus England witnessed for the first

time the portentous anomaly of the oligarchical or Venetian party, which

had in the old days destroyed the free monarchy of England, retaining

power merely by the favour of the Court.

But we forget, Sir Robert Peel is not the leader of the Tory party: the

party that resisted the ruinous mystification that metamorphosed direct

taxation by the Crown into indirect taxation by the Commons; that

denounced the system that mortgaged industry to protect property; the

party that ruled Ireland by a scheme which reconciled both churches, and

by a series of parliaments which counted among them lords and commons

of both religions; that has maintained at all times the territorial

constitution of England as the only basis and security for local

government, and which nevertheless once laid on the table of the House

of Commons a commercial tariff negociated at Utrecht, which is the most

rational that was ever devised by statesmen; a party that has prevented

the Church from being the salaried agent of the state, and has supported

through many struggles the parochial polity of the country which secures

to every labourer a home.

In a parliamentary sense, that great party has ceased to exist; but I

will believe it still lives in the thought and sentiment and consecrated

memory of the English nation. It has its origin in great principles and

in noble instincts; it sympathises with the lowly, it looks up to the

Most High; it can count its heroes and its martyrs; they have met in its

behalf plunder, proscription, and death. Nor when it finally yielded

to the iron progress of oligarchical supremacy, was its catastrophe

inglorious. Its genius was vindicated in golden sentences and with

fervent arguments of impassioned logic by St John; and breathed in the

intrepid eloquence and patriot soul of William Wyndham. Even now it

is not dead, but sleepeth; and in an age of political materialism,

of confused purposes and perplexed intelligence, that aspires only to

wealth because it has faith in no other accomplishment, as men rifle

cargoes on the verge of shipwreck, Toryism will yet rise from the tomb

over which Bolingbroke shed his last tear, to bring back strength to the

Crown, liberty to the Subject, and to announce that power has only one

duty--to secure the social welfare of the PEOPLE.

Book 4 Chapter 15

During the week of political agitation which terminated with the

inglorious catastrophe of the Bedchamber plot, Sybil remained tranquil,

and would have been scarcely conscious of what was disturbing so many

right honourable hearts, had it not been for the incidental notice

of their transactions by her father and his friends. To the chartists

indeed the factious embroilment at first was of no great moment,

except as the breaking up and formation of cabinets might delay

the presentation of the National Petition. They had long ceased to

distinguish between the two parties who then and now contend for power.

And they were tight. Between the noble lord who goes out and the right

honourable gentleman who comes in, where is the distinctive principle?

A shadowy difference may be simulated in opposition, to serve a cry and

stimulate the hustings: but the mask is not even worn in Downing Street:

and the conscientious conservative seeks in the pigeon-holes of a

whig bureau for the measures against which for ten years he has been

sanctioning by the speaking silence of an approving nod, a general wail

of frenzied alarm.

Once it was otherwise; once the people recognised a party in the state

whose principles identified them with the rights and privileges of the

multitude: but when they found the parochial constitution of the country

sacrificed without a struggle, and a rude assault made on all local

influences in order to establish a severely organised centralisation, a

blow was given to the influence of the priest and of the gentleman, the

ancient champions of the people against arbitrary courts and rapacious

parliaments, from which they will find that it requires no ordinary

courage and wisdom to recover.

The unexpected termination of the events of May, 1839, in the

re-establishment in power of a party confessedly too weak to carry on

the parliamentary government of the country, was viewed however by

the chartists in a very different spirit to that with which they had

witnessed the outbreak of these transactions. It had unquestionably a

tendency to animate their efforts, and imparted a bolder tone to their

future plans and movements. They were encouraged to try a fall with

a feeble administration. Gerard from this moment became engrossed

in affairs; his correspondence greatly increased; and he was so much

occupied that Sybil saw daily less and less of her father.

It was on the morning after the day that Hatton had made his first and

unlooked-for visit in Smith’s Square, some of the delegates who had

caught the rumour of the resignation of the whigs had called early on

Gerard, and he had soon after left the house in their company; and Sybil

was alone. The strange incidents of the preceding day were revolving

in her mind, as her eye wandered vaguely over her book. The presence of

that Hatton who had so often and in such different scenes occupied

their conversation; the re-appearance of that stranger, whose unexpected

entrance into their little world had eighteen months ago so often lent

interest and pleasure to their life--these were materials for pensive

sentiment. Mr Franklin had left some gracious memories with Sybil; the

natural legacy of one so refined, intelligent, and gentle, whose temper

seemed never ruffled, and who evidently so sincerely relished their

society. Mowedale rose before her in all the golden beauty of its

autumnal hour; their wild rambles and hearty greetings and earnest

converse, when her father returned from his daily duties and his eye

kindled with pleasure as the accustomed knock announced the arrival of

his almost daily companion. In spite of the excitement of the passing

moment, its high hopes and glorious aspirations, and visions perchance

of greatness and of power, the eye of Sybil was dimmed with emotion as

she recalled that innocent and tranquil dream.

Her father had heard from Franklin after his departure more than once;

but his letters, though abounding in frank expressions of deep

interest in the welfare of Gerard and his daughter, were in some degree

constrained: a kind of reserve seemed to envelope him; they never

learnt anything of his life and duties: he seemed sometimes as it were

meditating a departure from his country. There was undoubtedly about him

something mysterious and unsatisfactory. Morley was of opinion that he

was a spy; Gerard, less suspicious, ultimately concluded that he was

harassed by his creditors, and when at Mowedale was probably hiding from

them.

And now the mystery was at length dissolved. And what an explanation!

A Norman, a noble, an oppressor of the people, a plunderer of the

church--all the characters and capacities that Sybil had been bred up to

look upon with fear and aversion, and to recognise as the authors of the

degradation of her race.

Sybil sighed: the door opened and Egremont stood before her. The

blood rose to her cheek, her heart trembled; for the first time in his

presence she felt embarrassed and constrained. His countenance on the

contrary was collected; serious and pale.

“I am an intruder,” he said advancing, “but I wish much to speak to

you,” and he seated himself near her. There was a momentary pause. “You

seemed to treat with scorn yesterday,” resumed Egremont in accents

less sustained, “the belief that sympathy was independent of the

mere accidents of position. Pardon me, Sybil, but even you may be

prejudiced.” He paused.

“I should be sorry to treat anything you said with scorn,” replied Sybil

in a subdued tone. “Many things happened yesterday,” she added, “which

might be offered as some excuse for an unguarded word.”

“Would that it had been unguarded!” said Egremont in a voice of

melancholy. “I could have endured it with less repining. No, Sybil, I

have known you, I have had the happiness and the sorrow of knowing you

too well to doubt the convictions of your mind, or to believe that they

can be lightly removed, and yet I would strive to remove them. You

look upon me as an enemy, as a natural foe, because I am born among the

privileged. I am a man, Sybil, as well as a noble.” Again he paused; she

looked down, but did not speak.

“And can I not feel for men, my fellows, whatever be their lot? I know

you will deny it; but you are in error, Sybil; you have formed your

opinions upon tradition, not upon experience. The world that exists is

not the world of which you have read; the class that calls itself your

superior is not the same class as ruled in the time of your fathers.

There is a change in them as in all other things, and I participate that

change. I shared it before I knew you, Sybil; and if it touched me then,

at least believe it does not influence me less now.”

“If there be a change,” said Sybil, “it is because in some degree the

People have learnt their strength.”

“Ah! dismiss from your mind those fallacious fancies,” said Egremont.

“The People are not strong; the People never can be strong. Their

attempts at self-vindication will end only in their suffering and

confusion. It is civilisation that has effected, that is effecting this

change. It is that increased knowledge of themselves that teaches the

educated their social duties. There is a dayspring in the history of

this nation which those who are on the mountain tops can as yet perhaps

only recognize. You deem you are in darkness, and I see a dawn. The

new generation of the aristocracy of England are not tyrants, not

oppressors, Sybil, as you persist in believing. Their intelligence,

better than that, their hearts are open to the responsibility of their

position. But the work that is before them is no holiday-work. It is not

the fever of superficial impulse that can remove the deep-fixed barriers

of centuries of ignorance and crime. Enough that their sympathies are

awakened; time and thought will bring the rest. They are the natural

leaders of the People, Sybil; believe me they are the only ones.”

“The leaders of the People are those whom the People trust,” said Sybil

rather haughtily.

“And who may betray them,” said Egremont.

“Betray them!” exclaimed Sybil. “And can you believe that my father--”

“No, no; you can feel, Sybil, though I cannot express, how much I honour

your father. But he stands alone in the singleness and purity of his

heart. Who surround him?”

“Those whom the People have also chosen; and from a like confidence in

their virtues and abilities. They are a senate supported by the sympathy

of millions, with only one object in view--the emancipation of their

race. It is a sublime spectacle, these delegates of labour advocating

the sacred cause in a manner which might shame your haughty factions.

What can resist a demonstration so truly national! What can withstand

the supremacy of its moral power!”

Her eye met the glance of Egremont. That brow full of thought and

majesty was fixed on his. He encountered that face radiant as a

seraph’s; those dark eyes flashing with the inspiration of the martyr.

Egremont rose, moved slowly to the window, gazed in abstraction for a

few moments on the little garden with its dank turf that no foot ever

trod, its mutilated statue and its mouldering frescoes. What a silence;

how profound! What a prospect: how drear! Suddenly he turned, and

advancing with a more rapid pace: he approached Sybil. Her head was

averted, and leaning on her left arm she seemed lost in reverie.

Egremont fell upon his knee and gently taking her hand he pressed it

to his lips. She started, she looked round, agitated, alarmed, while

he breathed forth in tremulous accents, “Let me express to you my

adoration!

“Ah! not now for the first time, but for ever; from the moment I first

beheld you in the starlit arch of Marney has your spirit ruled my being

and softened every spring of my affections. I followed you to your home,

and lived for a time content in the silent worship of your nature. When

I came the last morning to the cottage, it was to tell, and to ask,

all. Since then for a moment your image has never been absent from my

consciousness; your picture consecrates my hearth and your approval has

been the spur of my career. Do not reject my love; it is deep as

your nature, and fervent as my own. Banish those prejudices that have

embittered your existence, and if persisted in may wither mine. Deign

to retain this hand! If I be a noble I have none of the accidents of

nobility: I cannot offer you wealth, splendour, or power; but I can

offer you the devotion of an entranced being--aspirations that you shall

guide--an ambition that you shall govern!”

“These words are mystical and wild,” said Sybil with an amazed air;

“they come upon me with convulsive suddenness.” And she paused for an

instant, collecting as it were her mind with an expression almost of

pain upon her countenance. “These changes of life are so strange

and rapid that it seems to me I can scarcely meet them. You are Lord

Marney’s brother; it was but yesterday--only but yesterday--I learnt it.

I thought then I had lost your friendship, and now you speak of--love!

“Love of me! Retain your hand and share your life and fortunes! You

forget what I am. But though I learnt only yesterday what you are, I

will not be so remiss. Once you wrote upon a page you were my faithful

friend: and I have pondered over that line with kindness often. I will

be your faithful friend; I will recall you to yourself. I will at least

not bring you shame and degradation.”

“O! Sybil, beloved, beautiful Sybil--not such bitter words; no, no!”

“No bitterness to you! that would indeed be harsh,” and she covered with

her hand her streaming eyes.

“Why what is this?” after a pause and with an effort she exclaimed.

“An union between the child and brother of nobles and a daughter of

the people! Estrangement from your family, and with cause, their hopes

destroyed, their pride outraged; alienation from your order, and justly,

all their prejudices insulted. You will forfeit every source of worldly

content and cast off every spring of social success. Society for you

will become a great confederation to deprive you of self-complacency.

And rightly. Will you not be a traitor to the cause? No, no, kind

friend, for such I’ll call you. Your opinion of me, too good and great

as I feel it, touches me deeply. I am not used to such passages in life;

I have read of such. Pardon me, feel for me, if I receive them with some

disorder. They sound to me for the first time--and for the last. Perhaps

they ought never to have reached my ear. No matter now--I have a life of

penitence before me, and I trust I shall be pardoned.” And she wept.

“You have indeed punished me for the fatal accident of birth, if it

deprives me of you.”

“Not so,” she added weeping; “I shall never be the bride of earth; and

but for one whose claims though earthly are to me irresistible, I should

have ere this forgotten my hereditary sorrows in the cloister.”

All this time Egremont had retained her hand, which she had not

attempted to withdraw. He had bent his head over it as she spoke--it was

touched with his tears. For some moments there was silence; then looking

up and in a smothered voice Egremont made one more effort to induce

Sybil to consider his suit. He combated her views as to the importance

to him of the sympathies of his family and of society; he detailed

to her his hopes and plans for their future welfare; he dwelt with

passionate eloquence on his abounding love. But with a solemn sweetness,

and as it were a tender inflexibility, the tears trickling down her

beautiful cheek, and pressing his hand in both of hers, she subdued and

put aside all his efforts.

“Believe me,” she said, “the gulf is impassable.”

END OF THE FOURTH BOOK