CHAPTER 89

CHAPTER 1 “I remember him a little boy,” said the duchess, “a pretty

little boy, but very shy. His mother brought him to us one day. She was

a dear friend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids?”

“And you have never seen him since, mamma?” inquired a married daughter,

who looked like the younger sister of her mother.

“Never; he was an orphan shortly after; I have often reproached myself,

but it is so difficult to see boys. Then, he never went to school, but

was brought up in the Highlands with a rather savage uncle; and if he

and Bertram had not become friends at Christchurch, I do not well see

how we ever could have known him.”

These remarks were made in the morning-room of Brentham, where the

mistress of the mansion sat surrounded by her daughters, all occupied

with various works. One knitted a purse, another adorned a slipper a

third emblazoned a page. Beautiful forms in counsel leaned over frames

embroidery, while two fair sisters more remote occasionally burst into

melody as they tried the passages of a new air, which had been dedicated

to them in the manuscript of some devoted friend.

The duchess, one of the greatest heiresses of Britain, singularly

beautify and gifted with native grace, had married in her teens one of

the wealthiest and most powerful of our nobles, and scarcely order than

herself. Her husband was as distinguished for his appearance and his

manners as his bride, and those who speculate on race were interested

in watching the development of their progeny, who in form and color, and

voice, and manner, and mind, were a reproduction of their parents,

who seemed only the elder brother and sister of a gifted circle. The

daughters with one exception came first, and all met the same fate.

After seventeen years of a delicious home they were presented, and

immediately married; and all to personages of high consideration. After

the first conquest, this fate seemed as regular as the order of Nature.

Then came a son, who was now at Christchurch, and then several others,

some at school, and some scarcely out of the nursery. There was one

daughter unmarried, and she was to be presented next season. Though

the family likeness was still apparent in Lady Corisande, in general

expression she differed from her sisters. They were all alike with their

delicate aquiline noses, bright complexions, short upper lips, and eyes

of sunny light. The beauty of Lady Corisande was even more distinguished

and more regular, but whether it were the effect of her dark-brown hair

and darker eyes, her countenance had not the lustre of the rest, and its

expression was grave and perhaps pensive.

The duke, though still young, and naturally of a gay and joyous

temperament, had a high sense of duty, and strong domestic feelings. He

was never wanting in his public place, and he was fond of his wife and

his children; still more, proud of them. Every day when he looked into

the glass, and gave the last touch to his consummate toilet, he offered

his grateful thanks to Providence that his family was not unworthy of

him.

His grace was accustomed to say that he had only one misfortune, and

it was a great one; he had no home. His family had married so many

heiresses, and he, consequently, possessed so many halls and castles, at

all of which, periodically, he wished, from a right feeling, to reside,

that there was no sacred spot identified with his life in which his

heart, in the bustle and tumult of existence, could take refuge.

Brentham was the original seat of his family, and he was even

passionately fond of it; but it was remarkable how very short a period

of his yearly life was passed under its stately roof. So it was his

custom always to repair to Brentham the moment the season was over, and

he would exact from his children, that, however short might be the time,

they would be his companions under those circumstances. The daughters

loved Brentham, and they loved to please their father; but the

sons-in-law, though they were what is called devoted to their wives,

and, unusual as it may seem, scarcely less attached to their legal

parents, did not fall very easily into this arrangement. The country

in August without sport was unquestionably to them a severe trial:

nevertheless, they rarely omitted making their appearance, and, if they

did occasionally vanish, sometimes to Cowes, sometimes to Switzerland,

sometimes to Norway, they always wrote to their wives, and always

alluded to their immediate or approaching return; and their letters

gracefully contributed to the fund of domestic amusement.

And yet it would be difficult to find a fairer scene than Brentham

offered, especially in the lustrous effulgence of a glorious English

summer. It was an Italian palace of freestone; vast, ornate, and in

scrupulous condition; its spacious and graceful chambers filled with

treasures of art, and rising itself from statued and stately terraces.

At their foot spread a gardened domain of considerable extent, bright

with flowers, dim with coverts of rare shrubs, and musical with

fountains. Its limit reached a park, with timber such as the midland

counties only can produce. The fallow deer trooped among its ferny

solitudes and gigantic oaks; but, beyond the waters of the broad and

winding lake, the scene became more savage, and the eye caught the dark

forms of the red deer on some jutting mount, shrinking with scorn from

communion with his gentler brethren.

CHAPTER 2 Lothair was the little boy whom the duchess remembered. He was

a posthumous child, and soon lost a devoted mother. His only relation

was one of his two guardians, a Scotch noble—a Presbyterian and a Whig.

This uncle was a widower with some children, but they were girls, and,

though Lothair was attached to them, too young to be his companions.

Their father was a keen, hard man, honorable and just but with no

softness of heart or manner. He guarded with precise knowledge and with

unceasing vigilance over Lothair’s vast inheritance, which was in many

counties and in more than one kingdom; but he educated him in a Highland

home, and when he had reached boyhood thought fit to send him to the

High School of Edinburgh. Lothair passed a monotonous, if not a dull,

life; but he found occasional solace in the scenes of a wild and

beautiful nature, and delight in all the sports of the field and forest,

in which he was early initiated and completely indulged. Although an

Englishman, he was fifteen before he re-visited his country, and then

his glimpses of England were brief, and to him scarcely satisfactory. He

was hurried sometimes to vast domains, which he heard were his own; and

sometimes whisked to the huge metropolis, where he was shown St. Paul’s

and the British-Museum. These visits left a vague impression of bustle

without kindness and exhaustion without excitement; and he was glad to

get back to his glens, to the moor and the mountain-streams.

His father, in the selection of his guardians, had not contemplated

this system of education. While he secured by the appointment of his

brother-in-law, the most competent and trustworthy steward of his son’s

fortune, he had depended on another for that influence which should

mould the character, guide the opinions, and form the tastes of his

child. The other guardian was a clergyman, his father’s private tutor

and heart-friend; scarcely his parent’s senior, but exercising over

him irresistible influence, for he was a man of shining talents and

abounding knowledge, brilliant and profound. But unhappily, shortly

after Lothair became an orphan, this distinguished man seceded from the

Anglican communion, and entered the Church of Rome. From this moment

there was war between the guardians. The uncle endeavored to drive his

colleague from the trust: in this he failed, for the priest would not

renounce his office. The Scotch noble succeeded, however, in making it

a fruitless one: he thwarted every suggestion that emanated from the

obnoxious quarter; and, indeed, the secret reason of the almost constant

residence of Lothair in Scotland, and of his harsh education, was the

fear of his relative, that the moment he crossed the border he might, by

some mysterious process, fall under the influence that his guardian so

much dreaded and detested.

There was, however, a limit to these severe precautions, even before

Lothair should reach his majority. His father had expressed in his will

that his son should be educated at the University of Oxford, and at the

same college of which he had been a member. His uncle was of opinion he

complied with the spirit of this instruction by sending Lothair to the

University of Edinburgh, which would give the last tonic to his moral

system; and then commenced a celebrated chancery-suit, instituted by the

Roman Catholic guardian, in order to enforce a literal compliance

with the educational condition of the will. The uncle looked upon

this movement as a popish plot, and had recourse to every available

allegation and argument to baffle it: but ultimately in vain. With every

precaution to secure his Protestant principles, and to guard against the

influence, or even personal interference of his Roman Catholic guardian,

the lord-chancellor decided that Lothair should be sent to Christchurch.

Here Lothair, who had never been favored with a companion of his own

age and station, soon found a congenial one in the heir of Brentham.

Inseparable in pastime, not dissociated even in study, sympathizing

companionship soon ripened into fervent friendship. They lived so

much together that the idea of separation became not only painful but

impossible; and, when vacation arrived, and Brentham was to be visited

by its future lord, what more natural than that it should be arranged

that Lothair should be a visitor to his domain?

CHAPTER 3 Although Lothair was the possessor of as many palaces and

castles as the duke himself, it is curious that his first dinner at

Brentham was almost his introduction into refined society. He had been a

guest at the occasional banquets of his uncle; but these were festivals

of the Picts and Scots; rude plenty and coarse splendor, with noise

instead of conversation, and a tumult of obstructive defendants, who

impeded, by their want of skill, the very convenience which they were

purposed to facilitate. How different the surrounding scene! A table

covered with flowers, bright with fanciful crystal, and porcelain that

had belonged to sovereigns, who had given a name to its color or its

form. As for those present, all seemed grace and gentleness, from

the radiant daughters of the house to the noiseless attendants that

anticipated all his wants, and sometimes seemed to suggest his wishes.

Lothair sat between two of the married daughters. They addressed him

with so much sympathy that he was quite enchanted. When they asked their

pretty questions and made their sparkling remarks, roses seemed to drop

from their lips, and sometimes diamonds. It was a rather large party,

for the Brentham family were so numerous that they themselves made

a festival. There were four married daughters, the duke and two

sons-in-law, a clergyman or two, and some ladies and gentlemen who were

seldom absent from this circle, and who, by their useful talents and

various accomplishments, alleviated the toil or cares of life from which

even princes are not exempt.

When the ladies had retired to the duchess’s drawing-room, all the

married daughters clustered round their mother.

“Do you know, mamma, we all think him very good-looking,” said the

youngest married daughter, the wife of the listless and handsome St.

Aldegonde.

“And not at all shy,” said Lady Montairy, “though reserved.”

“I admire deep-blue eyes with dark lashes,” said the duchess.

Notwithstanding the decision of Lady Montairy, Lothair was scarcely free

from embarrassment when he rejoined the ladies; and was so afraid of

standing alone, or talking only to men, that he was almost on the point

of finding refuge in his dinner-companions, had not he instinctively

felt that this would have been a social blunder. But the duchess

relieved him: her gracious glance caught his at the right moment, and

she rose and met him some way as he advanced. The friends had arrived

so late, that Lothair had had only time to make a reverence of ceremony

before dinner.

“It is not our first meeting,” said her grace; “but that you cannot

remember.”

“Indeed I do,” said Lothair, “and your grace gave me a golden heart.”

“How can you remember such things,” exclaimed the duchess, “which I had

myself forgotten!”

“I have rather a good memory,” replied Lothair; “and it is not wonderful

that I should remember this, for it is the only present that ever was

made me.”

The evenings at Brentham were short, but they were sweet. It was a

musical family, without being fanatical on the subject. There was always

music, but it was not permitted that the guests should be deprived of

other amusements. But music was the basis of the evening’s campaigns.

The duke himself sometimes took a second; the four married daughters

warbled sweetly; but the great performer was Lady Corisande. When her

impassioned tones sounded, there was a hushed silence in every chamber;

otherwise, many things were said and done amid accompanying melodies,

that animated without distracting even a whistplayer. The duke himself

rather preferred a game of piquet or cart with Captain Mildmay,

and sometimes retired with a troop to a distant, but still visible,

apartment, where they played with billiard-balls games which were not

billiards.

The ladies had retired, the duke had taken his glass of seltzer-water,

and had disappeared. The gentry lingered and looked at each other, as if

they were an assembly of poachers gathering for an expedition, and then

Lord St. Aldegonde, tall, fair, and languid, said to Lothair, “do you

smoke?”

“No!”

“I should have thought Bertram would have seduced you by this time. Then

let us try. Montairy will give you one of his cigarettes, so mild that

his wife never finds him out.”

CHAPTER 4 The breakfast-room at Brentham was very bright. It opened on

a garden of its own, which, at this season, was so glowing, and cultured

into patterns so fanciful and finished, that it had the resemblance of a

vast mosaic. The walls of the chamber were covered with bright

drawings and sketches of our modern masters, and frames of interesting

miniatures, and the meal was served on half a dozen or more round

tables, which vied with each other in grace and merriment; brilliant as

a cluster of Greek or Italian republics, instead of a great metropolitan

table, like a central government absorbing all the genius and resources

of the society.

Every scene In this life at Brentham charmed Lothair, who, though not

conscious of being of a particularly gloomy temper, often felt that

he had, somehow or other, hitherto passed through life rarely with

pleasure, and never with joy.

After breakfast the ladies retired to their morning-room, and the

gentlemen strolled to the stables, Lord St. Aldegonde lighting a Manilla

cheroot of enormous length. As Lothair was very fond of horses, this

delighted him. The stables at Brentham were rather too far from the

house, but they were magnificent, and the stud worthy of them. It was

numerous and choice, and, above all it was useful. It could supply a

readier number of capital riding-horses than any stable in England.

Brentham was a great riding family. In the summer season the duke

delighted to head a numerous troop, penetrate far into the country, and

scamper home to a nine-o’clock dinner. All the ladies of the house were

fond and fine horse-women. The mount of one of these riding-parties was

magical. The dames and damsels vaulted on their barbs, and genets,

and thorough-bred hacks, with such airy majesty; they were absolutely

overwhelming with their bewildering habits and their bewitching hats.

Every thing was so new in this life at Brentham to Lothair, as well

as so agreeable, that the first days passed by no means rapidly; for,

though it sounds strange, time moves with equal slowness whether we

experience many impressions or none. In a new circle every character is

a study, and every incident an adventure; and the multiplicity of the

images and emotions restrains the hours. But after a few days, though

Lothair was not less delighted, for he was more so, he was astonished

at the rapidity of time. The life was exactly the same, but equally

pleasant; the same charming companions, the same refined festivity, the

same fascinating amusements; but to his dismay Lothair recollected that

nearly a fortnight had elapsed since his arrival. Lord St. Aldegonde

also was on the wing; he was obliged to go to Cowes to see a sick

friend, though he considerately left Bertha behind him. The other

son-in-law remained, for he could not tear himself away from his wife.

He was so distractedly fond of Lady Montairy that he would only

smoke cigarettes. Lothair felt it was time to go, and he broke the

circumstance to his friend Bertram.

These two “old fellows,” as they mutually described each other, could

not at all agree as to the course to be pursued. Bertram looked upon

Lothair’s suggestion as an act of desertion from himself. At their time

of life, the claims of friendship are paramount. And where could Lothair

go to? And what was there to do? Nowhere, and nothing. Whereas, if he

would remain a little longer, as the duke expected and also the duchess,

Bertram would go with him anywhere he liked, and do any thing he chose.

So Lothair remained.

In the evening, seated by Lady Montairy, Lothair observed on her

sister’s singing, and said, “I never heard any of our great singers, but

I cannot believe there is a finer voice in existence.”

“Corisande’s is a fine voice,” said Lady Montairy, “but I admire her

expression more than her tone; for there are certainly many finer

voices, and some day you will hear them.”

“But I prefer expression,” said Lothair very decidedly.

“Ah, yes! doubtless,” said Lady Montairy, who was working a purse, “and

that’s what we all want, I believe; at least we married daughters,

they say. My brother, Granville St. Aldegonde, says we are all too much

alike, and that Bertha St. Aldegonde would be parallel if she had no

sisters.”

“I don’t at all agree with Lord St. Aldegonde,” said Lothair, with

energy. “I do not think it is possible to have too many relatives like

you and your sisters.”

Lady Montairy looked up with a smile, but she did not meet a smiling

countenance. He seemed, what is called an earnest young man, this friend

of her brother Bertram.

At this moment the duke sent swift messengers for all: to come, even

the duchess, to partake in a new game just arrived from Russia, some

miraculous combination of billiard-balls. Some rose directly, some

lingering a moment arranging their work, but all were in motion.

Corisande was at the piano, and disencumbering herself of some music.

Lothair went up to her rather abruptly:

“Your singing,” he said, “is the finest thing I ever heard. I am so

happy that I am not going to leave Brentham to-morrow. There is no place

in the world that I think equal to Brentham.”

“And I love it, too, and no other place,” she replied; “and I should be

quite happy if I never left it.”

CHAPTER 5 Lord Montairy was passionately devoted to croquet. He

flattered himself that he was the most accomplished male performer

existing. He would have thought absolutely the most accomplished, were

it not for the unrivalled feats of Lady Montairy. She was the queen of

croquet. Her sisters also used the mallet with admirable skill, but not

like Georgina. Lord Montairy always looked forward to his summer croquet

at Brentham. It was a great croquet family, the Brentham family; even

listless Lord St. Aldegonde would sometimes play, with a cigar never

out of his mouth. They did not object to his smoking in the air. On the

contrary, “they rather liked it.” Captain Mildmay, too, was a brilliant

hand, and had written a treatise on croquet—the best going.

There was a great croquet-party one morning at Brentham. Some neighbors

had been invited who loved the sport. Mr. Blenkinsop a grave young

gentleman, whose countenance never relaxed while he played, and who was

understood to give his mind entirely up to croquet. He was the owner

of the largest estate in the county, and it was thought would have very

much liked to have allied himself with one of the young ladies of the

house of Brentham; but these flowers were always plucked so quickly,

that his relations with the distinguished circle never grew more

intimate than croquet. He drove over with some fine horses, and several

cases and bags containing instruments and weapons for the fray. His

sister came with him, who had forty thousand pounds, but, they said, in

some mysterious manner dependent on his consent to her marriage; and

it was added that Mr. Blenkinsop would not allow his sister to marry

because he would miss her so much in his favorite pastime. There were

some other morning visitors, and one or two young curates in cassocks.

It seemed to Lothair a game of great deliberation and of more interest

than gayety, though sometimes a cordial cheer, and sometimes a ringing

laugh of amiable derision, notified a signal triumph or a disastrous

failure. But the scene was brilliant: a marvellous lawn, the duchess’s

Turkish tent with its rich hangings, and the players themselves, the

prettiest of all the spectacle, with their coquettish hats, and their

half-veiled and half-revealed under-raiment scarlet and silver, or blue

and gold, made up a sparkling and modish scene.

Lothair, who had left the players for a while, and was regaining the

lawn, met the duchess.

“Your grace is not going to leave us, I hope?” he said, rather

anxiously.

“For a moment. I have long promised to visit the new dairy; and I think

this a good opportunity.”

“I wish I might be your companion,” said Lothair; and, invited, he was

by her grace’s side.

They turned into a winding walk of thick and fragrant shrubs, and,

after a while, they approached a dell, surrounded with high trees

that environed it with perpetual shade; in the centre of the dell was

apparently a Gothic shrine, fair in design and finished in execution,

and this was the duchess’s new dairy. A pretty sight is a first-rate

dairy, with its flooring of fanciful tiles, and its cool and shrouded

chambers, its stained windows and its marble slabs, and porcelain pans

of cream, and plenteous platters of fantastically-formed butter.

“Mrs. Woods and her dairy-maids look like a Dutch picture,” said the

duchess. “Were you ever in Holland?”

“I have never been anywhere,” said Lothair.

“You should travel,” said the duchess.

“I have no wish,” said Lothair.

“The duke has given me some Coreean fowls,” said the duchess to Mrs.

Woods, when they had concluded their visit. “Do you think you could take

care of them for me?”

“Well, Grace, I am sure I will do my best; but then they are very

troublesome, and I was not fortunate with my Cochin. I had rather they

were sent to the aviary, Grace, if it were all the same.”

“I should so like to see the aviary,” said Lothair.

“Well, we will go.”

And this rather extended their walk, and withdrew them more from the

great amusement of the day.

“I wish your grace would do me a great favor,” said Lothair, abruptly

breaking a rather prolonged silence.

“And what is that?” said the duchess.

“It is a very great favor,” repeated Lothair.

“If it be in my power to grant it, its magnitude would only be an

additional recommendation.”

“Well,” said Lothair, blushing deeply, and speaking with much agitation,

“I would ask your grace’s permission to offer my hand to your daughter.”

The duchess I looked amazed. “Corisande!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, to Lady Corisande.”

“Corisande,” replied the duchess, after a pause, “has absolutely not yet

entered the world. Corisande is a child; and you—you, my dear friend—I

am sure you will pardon me If I say, so—you are not very much older than

Corisande.”

“I have no wish to enter the world,” said Lothair, with much decision.

“I am not an enemy to youthful marriages,” said the duchess. “I married

early myself, and my children married early; and I am very happy, and I

hope they are; but some experience of society before we settle is most

desirable, and is one of the conditions, I cannot but believe, of that

felicity which we all seek.”

“I hate society,” said Lothair. “I would never go out of my domestic

circle, if it were the circle I contemplate.”

“My dear young friend,” said the duchess, “you could hardly have seen

enough of society to speak with so much decision.”

“I have seen quite enough of it,” said Lothair. “I went to an evening

party last season—I came up from Christchurch on purpose for it—and

if ever they catch me at another, they shall inflict any penalty they

please.”

“I fear it was a stupid party,” said the duchess, smiling, and glad to

turn, if possible, the conversation into a lighter vein.

“No, it was a very grand party, I believe, and not exactly stupid—it was

not that; but I was disgusted with all I saw and all I heard. It seemed

to me a mass of affectation, falsehood, and malignity.”

“Oh! dear,” said the duchess, “how very dreadful! But I did not mean

merely going to parties for society; I meant knowledge of the world, and

that experience which enables us to form sound opinions on the affairs

of life.”

“Oh! as for that,” said Lothair, “my opinions are already formed on

every subject; that is to say, every subject of importance; and, what is

more, they will never change.”

“I could not say that of Corisande,” said the duchess.

“I think we agree on all the great things,” said Lothair, musingly. “Her

church views may be a little higher than mine, but I do not anticipate

any permanent difficulty on that head. Although my uncle made me go to

kirk, I always hated it and always considered myself a churchman. Then,

as to churches themselves, she is in favor of building churches, and so

am I; and schools—there is no quantity of schools I would not establish.

My opinion is, you cannot have too much education, provided it be

founded on a religious basis. I would sooner renounce the whole of my

inheritance than consent to secular education.”

“I should be sorry to see any education but a religious education,”

remarked the duchess.

“Well, then,” said Lothair, “that is our life, or a great part of it. To

complete it, here is that to which I really wish to devote my existence,

and in which I instinctively feel Lady Corisande would sympathize with

me—the extinction of pauperism.”

“That is a vast subject;” said the duchess.

“It is the terror of Europe and the disgrace of Britain,” said Lothair;

“and I am resolved to grapple with it. It seems to me that pauperism is

not an affair so much of wages as of dwellings. If the working-classes

were properly lodged, at their present rate of wages, they would be

richer. They would be healthier and happier at the same cost. I am

so convinced of this, that the moment I am master, I shall build two

thousand cottages on any estates. I have the designs already.”

“I am much in favor of improved dwellings for the poor,” said the

duchess; “but then you must take care that your dwellings are cottages,

and not villas like my cousin’s, the Duke of Luton.”

“I do not think I shall make that mistake,” replied Lothair. “It

constantly engages my thought. I am wearied of hearing of my wealth,

and I am conscious it has never brought me any happiness. I have lived a

great deal alone, dearest duchess, and thought much of these things, but

I feel now I should be hardly equal to the effort, unless I had a happy

home to fall back upon.”

“And you will have a happy home in due time,” said the duchess; “and

with such good and great thoughts you deserve one. But take the advice

of one who loved your mother, and who would extend to you the same

affection as to her own children; before you take a step which cannot be

recalled, see a little more of the world.”

Lothair shook his head. “No,” he said, after a pause. “My idea of

perfect society is being married as I propose, and paying visits to

Brentham; and when the visits to Brentham ceased, then I should like you

and the duke to pay visits to us.”

“But that would be a fairy-tale,” said the duchess.

So they walked on in silence.

Suddenly and abruptly Lothair turned to the duchess and said, “Does your

grace see objection to my speaking to your daughter?”

“Dear friend, indeed, yes. What you would say would only agitate and

disturb Corisande. Her character is not yet formed, and its future

is perplexing, at least to me,” murmured the mother. “She has not the

simple nature of her sisters. It is a deeper and more complicated mind,

and I watch its development with fond, but anxious interest.” Then, in

a lighter tone, she added, “You do not know very much of us. Try to know

more. Everybody under this roof views you with regard, and you are the

brother friend of our eldest son. Wherever we are, you will always find

a home; but do not touch again upon this subject, at least at present,

for it distresses me.” And then she took his arm, and pressed it, and by

this time they had gained the croquet-ground.

CHAPTER 6 One of the least known squares in London is Hexham Square,

though it is one of the oldest. Not that it is very remote from the

throng of existence, but it is isolated in a dingy district of silent

and decaying streets. Once it was a favored residence of opulence and

power, and its architecture still indicates its former and prouder

destiny. But its noble mansions are now divided and broken up into

separate dwellings, or have been converted into chambers and offices.

Lawyers, and architects, and agents, dwell in apartments where the

richly-sculptured chimney-pieces, the carved and gilded pediments over

the doors, and sometimes even the painted ceilings, tell a tale of

vanished stateliness and splendor.

A considerable portion of the north side of the square is occupied by

one house standing in a courtyard, with iron gates to the thoroughfare.

This is Hexham House, and where Lord Hexham lived in the days of the

first Georges. It is reduced in size since his time, two considerable

wings, having been pulled down about sixty years ago, and their

materials employed in building some residences of less pretension.

But the body of the dwelling-house remains, and the court-yard, though

reduced in size, has been retained.

Hexham House has an old oak entrance-hall panelled with delicacy, and

which has escaped the rifling of speculators in furniture; and out of

it rises a staircase of the same material, of a noble character,

adorned occasionally with figures; armorial animals holding shields, and

sometimes a grotesque form rising from fruits and flowers, all doubtless

the work of some famous carver. The staircase led to a corridor, on

which several doors open, and through one of these, at the moment of

our history, a man, dressed in a dark cassock, and holding a card in

his hand, was entering a spacious chamber, meagrely, but not shabbily,

furnished. There was a rich cabinet and a fine picture. In the next

room, not less spacious, but which had a more inhabited look, a cheerful

fire, tables covered with books and papers, and two individuals busily

at work with their pens; he gave the card to a gentleman who wore also

the cassock, and who stood before the fire with a book in his hand, and

apparently dictating to one of the writers.

“Impossible!” said the gentleman shaking his head; “I could not even go

in, as Monsignore Berwick is with his eminence.”

“But what shall I do?” said the attendant; “his eminence said that when

Mr. Giles called he never was to be denied.”

“The monsignore has been here a long time; you must beg Mr. Giles to

wait. Make him comfortable; give him a newspaper; not the Tablet, the

Times; men like Mr. Giles love reading the advertisements. Or stop, give

him this, his eminence’s lecture on geology; it will show him the Church

has no fear of science. Ah! there’s my bell; Mr. Giles will not have

to wait long.” So saying, the gentleman put down his volume and

disappeared, through an antechamber, into a farther apartment.

It was a library, of moderate dimensions, and yet its well-filled

shelves contained all the weapons of learning and controversy which the

deepest and the most active of ecclesiastical champions could require.

It was unlike modern libraries, for it was one in which folios greatly

predominated; and they stood in solemn and sometimes magnificent array,

for they bore, many of them, on their ancient though costly bindings,

the proofs that they had belonged to many a prince and even sovereign of

the Church. Over the mantel-piece hung a portrait of his holiness

Pius IX., and on the table, in the midst of many papers, was an ivory

crucifix.

The master of the library had risen from his seat when the chief

secretary entered, and was receiving an obeisance. Above the middle

height, his stature seemed magnified by the attenuation of his form. It

seemed that the soul never had so frail and fragile a tenement. He was

dressed in a dark cassock with a red border, and wore scarlet stockings;

and over his cassock a purple tippet, and on his breast a small golden

cross. His countenance was naturally of an extreme pallor, though at

this moment slightly flushed with the animation of a deeply-interesting

conference. His cheeks were hollow, and his gray eyes seemed sunk

into his clear and noble brow, but they flashed with irresistible

penetration. Such was Cardinal Grandison.

“All that I can do is,” said his eminence, when his visitor was ushered

out, and slightly shrugging his shoulders, “is to get it postponed until

I go to Rome, and even then I must not delay my visit. This crossing the

Alps in winter is a trial—but we must never repine; and there is nothing

which we must not encounter to prevent incalculable mischief. The

publication of the Scotch hierarchy at this moment will destroy the

labors of years. And yet they will not see it! I cannot conceive who is

urging them, for I am sure they must have some authority from home.—You

have something for me, Chidioch,” he added inquiringly, for his keen eye

caught the card.

“I regret to trouble your eminence when you need repose, but the bearer

of this card seems to have been importunate, and to have appealed to,

your name and personal orders;” and he gave the cardinal the card.

“Yes,” said the cardinal, looking at the card with much interest; “this

is a person I must always see.”

And so, in due course, they ushered into the library a gentleman with

a crimson and well-stuffed bag, of a composed yet cheerful aspect, who

addressed the cardinal with respect but without embarrassment,

saying, “I am ashamed to trouble your eminence with only matters

of form—absolutely mere matters of form; but I obey, Sir, your own

instructions.”

“It is not for me to depreciate form,” replied the cardinal; “and in

business there are no mere matters of form.”

“Merely the wood accounts,” continued the visitor; “they must be

approved by both the guardians or the money cannot be received by

the bankers. Your eminence, you see, has sanctioned the felling, and

authorized the sales, and these are the final accounts, which must be

signed before we pay in.”

“Give them to me,” said the cardinal, stretching out both his hands as

he received a mass of paper folios. His eminence resumed his chair,

and hastily examined the sheets. “Ah!” he said, “no ordinary felling—it

reaches over seven counties. By-the-by, Bracewood Forest—what about

the enclosure? I have heard no more of it.” Then, murmuring to

himself—“Grentham Wood—how well I remember Grentham Wood, with his dear

father!”

“If we could sign today,” said the visitor in a tone of professional

cajolery; “time is important.”

“And it shall not be wasted,” replied the cardinal. “But I must look

over the accounts. I doubt not all is quite regular, but I wish to make

myself a little familiar with the scene of action; perhaps to recall the

past,” he added. “You shall have them to-morrow, Mr. Giles.”

“Your eminence will have very different accounts to settle in a short

time,” said Mr. Giles, smiling. “We are hard at work; it takes three of

our clerks constantly occupied.”

“But you have yet got time.”

“I don’t know that,” said Mr. Giles. “The affairs are very large. And

the mines—they give us the greatest trouble. Our Mr. James Roundell was

two months in Wales last year about them. It took up the whole of his

vacation. And your eminence must remember that time flies. In less than

eight months he will be of age.”

“Very true,” said the cardinal; “time indeed flies, and so much to

be done! By-the-by, Mr. Giles, have you by any chance heard any thing

lately of my child?”

“I have heard of him a good deal of late, for a client of ours, Lord

Montairy, met him at Brentham this summer, and was a long time there

with him. After that, I hear, he went deer-stalking with some of his

young friends; but he is not very fond of Scotland; had rather too much

of it, I suspect; but the truth is, sir, I saw him this very day.”

“Indeed!”

“Some affairs have brought him up to town, and I rather doubt whether he

will return to Oxford—at least, so he talks.”

“Ah! I have never seen him since he was an infant, I might say,” said

the cardinal. “I suppose I shall see him again, if only when I resign my

trust; but I know not. And yet few things would be more interesting to

me than to meet him!”

Mr. Giles seemed moved, for him almost a little embarrassed; he seemed

to blush, and then he cleared his throat. “It would be too great a

liberty,” said Mr. Giles, “I feel that very much—and yet, if your

eminence would condescend, though I hardly suppose it possible, his

lordship is really going to do us the honor of dining with us to-day;

only a few friends, and if your eminence could make the sacrifice, and

it were not an act of too great presumption, to ask your eminence to

join our party.”

“I never eat and I never drink,” said the cardinal. “I am sorry to say I

cannot. I like dinner society very much. You see the world, and you hear

things which you do not hear otherwise. For a time I presumed to accept

invitations, though I sat with an empty plate, but, though the world

was indulgent to me, I felt that my habits were an embarrassment to the

happier feasters: it was not fair, and so I gave it up. But I tell you

what, Mr. Giles: I shall be in your quarter this evening: perhaps you

would permit me to drop in and pay my respects to Mrs. Giles—I have

wished to do so before.”

CHAPTER 7 Mr. Giles was a leading partner in the firm of Roundells,

Giles, and Roundell, among the most eminent solicitors of Lincoln’s Inn.

He, in those days of prolonged maturity, might be described as still a

young man. He had inherited from his father not only a large share in a

first-rate business, but no inconsiderable fortune; and though he had,

in her circles, a celebrated wife, he had no children. He was opulent

and prosperous, with no cares and anxieties of his own, and loved

his profession, for which he was peculiarly qualified, being a man

of uncommon sagacity, very difficult to deceive, and yet one who

sympathized with his clients, who were all personally attached to him,

and many of whom were among the distinguished personages of the realm.

During an important professional visit to Ireland, Mr. Giles had made

the acquaintance of Miss Apollonia Smylie, the niece of an Irish peer;

and, though the lady was much admired and courted, had succeeded, after

a time, in inducing her to become the partner of his life.

Mrs. Giles, or, as she described herself, Mrs. Putney Giles, taking

advantage of a second and territorial Christian name of her husband,

was a showy woman; decidedly handsome, unquestionably accomplished, and

gifted with energy and enthusiasm which far exceeded even her physical

advantages. Her principal mission was to destroy the papacy and to

secure Italian unity. Her lesser impulses were to become acquainted with

the aristocracy, and to be herself surrounded by celebrities. Having a

fine house in Tyburnia, almost as showy as herself, and a husband who

was never so happy as when gratifying her wishes, she did not find it

difficult in a considerable degree to pursue and even accomplish her

objects. The Putney Giles gave a great many dinners, and Mrs. Putney

received her world frequently, if not periodically. As they entertained

with profusion, her well-lighted saloons were considerably attended.

These assemblies were never dull; the materials not being ordinary,

often startling, sometimes even brilliant, occasionally rather

heterogeneous. For, though being a violent Protestant, and of extreme

conservative opinions, her antipapal antipathies and her Italian

predilections frequently involved her with acquaintances not so

distinguished as she deemed herself for devotion to the cause of order

and orthodoxy. It was rumored that the brooding brow of Mazzini had been

observed in her rooms, and there was no sort of question that she had

thrown herself in ecstatic idolatry at the feet of the hero of Caprera.

On the morning of the day on which he intended to visit Cardinal

Grandison, Mr. Giles, in his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn, was suddenly

apprised, by a clerk, that an interview with him was sought by a client

no less distinguished than Lothair.

Although Mr. Giles sat opposite two rows of tin boxes, each of which was

numbered, and duly inscribed with the name of Lothair and that of the

particular estate to which it referred, Mr. Giles, though he had had

occasional communications with his client, was personally unacquainted

with him. He viewed, therefore, with no ordinary curiosity the young man

who was ushered into his room; a shapely youth slightly above the middle

height; of simple, but distinguished mien, with a countenance naturally

pale, though somewhat bronzed by a life of air and exercise, and a

profusion of dark-auburn hair.

And for what could Lothair be calling on Mr. Giles?

It seems that one of Lothair’s intimate companions had got into a

scrape, and under these circumstances had what is styled “made a friend”

of Lothair; that is to say, confided to him his trouble, and asked his

advice, with a view, when given, of its being followed by an offer of

assistance.

Lothair, though inexperienced, and very ingenuous, was not devoid of

a certain instinctive perception of men and things, which rendered it

difficult for him to be an easy prey. His natural disposition, and his

comparatively solitary education, had made him a keen observer, and

he was one who meditated over his observations. But he was

naturally generous and sensible of kindness; and this was a favorite

companion—next to Bertram, his most intimate.

Lothair was quite happy in the opportunity of soothing a perturbed

spirit whose society had been to him a source of so much gratification.

It was not until Lothair had promised to extricate his friend from his

whelming difficulties, that, upon examination, he found the act on

his part was not so simple and so easy as he had assumed it to be. His

guardians had apportioned to him an allowance in every sense adequate to

his position; and there was no doubt, had he wished to exceed it for

any legitimate purpose, not the slightest difficulty on their part would

have been experienced.

Such a conjuncture had never occurred. Lothair was profuse, but he was

not prodigal. He gratified all his fancies, but they were not ignoble

ones; and he was not only sentimentally, but systematically, charitable.

He had a great number of fine horses, and he had just paid for an

expensive yacht. In a word, he spent a great deal of money, and until he

called at his bankers to learn what sums were at his disposition he was

not aware that he had overdrawn his account.

This was rather awkward. Lothair wanted a considerable sum, and he

wanted it at once. Irrespective of the consequent delay, he shrunk from

any communication with his guardians. From his uncle he had become,

almost insensibly, estranged, and with his other guardian he had never

had the slightest communication. Under these circumstances he recalled

the name of the solicitor of the trustees, between whom and himself

there had been occasional correspondence; and, being of a somewhat

impetuous disposition, he rode off at once from his hotel to Lincoln’s

Inn.

Mr. Giles listened to the narrative with unbroken interest and

unswerving patience, with his eyes fixed on his client, and occasionally

giving a sympathetic nod.

“And so,” concluded Lothair, “I thought I would come to you.”

“We are honored,” said Mr. Giles. “And, certainly, it is quite absurd

that your lordship should want money, and for a worthy purpose, and

not be able to command it. Why! the balance in the name of the trustees

never was so great as at this moment; and this very day, or to-morrow

at farthest, I shall pay no less than eight-and-thirty thousand pounds

timber-money to the account.”

“Well, I don’t want a fifth of that,” said Lothair.

“Your lordship has an objection to apply to the trustees?” inquired Mr.

Giles.

“That is the point of the whole of my statement,” said Lothair somewhat

impatiently.

“And yet it is the right and regular thing,” said Mr. Giles.

“It may be right and it may be regular, but it is out of the question.”

“Then we will say no more about it. What I want to prevent,” said Mr.

Giles, musingly, “is any thing absurd happening. There is no doubt if

your lordship went into the street and said you wanted ten thousand

pounds, or a hundred thousand, fifty people would supply you

immediately—but you would have to pay for it. Some enormous usury! That

would be bad; but the absurdity of the thing would be greater than the

mischief. Roundells, Giles, and Roundell could not help you in that

manner. That is not our business. We are glad to find money for

our clients at a legal rate of interest, and the most moderate rate

feasible. But then there must be security, and the best security. But

here we must not conceal it from ourselves, my lord, we have no

security whatever. At this moment your lordship has no property. An

insurance-office might do it with a policy. They might consider that

they had a moral security; but still it would be absurd. There is

something absurd in your lordship having to raise money. Don’t you think

I could see these people,” said Mr. Giles, “and talk to them, and gain a

little time? We only want a little time.”

“No,” said Lothair, in a peremptory tone. “I said I would do it, and it

must be done, and at once. Sooner than there should be delay, I would

rather go into the street, as you suggest, and ask the first man I met

to lend me the money. My word has been given, and I do not care what I

pay to fulfil my word.”

“We must not think of such things,” said Mr. Giles, shaking his head.

“All I want your lordship to understand is the exact position. In this

case we have no security. Roundells, Giles, and Roundell cannot move

without security. It would be against our articles of partnership. But

Mr. Giles, as a private individual, may do what he likes. I will let

your lordship have the money, and I will take no security whatever—not

even a note of hand. All that I ask for is that your lordship should

write me a letter, saying you have urgent need for a sum of money

(mentioning amount) for an honorable purpose, in which your feelings

are deeply interested—and that will do. If any thing happens to your

lordship before this time next year, why, I think the trustees could

hardly refuse repaying the money; and if they did, why then,” added Mr.

Giles, “I suppose it will be all the same a hundred years hence.”

“You have conferred on me the greatest obligation,” said Lothair, with

much earnestness. “Language cannot express what I feel. I am not too

much used to kindness, and I only hope that I may live to show my sense

of yours.”

“It is really no great affair, my lord,” said Mr. Giles. “I did not

wish to make difficulties, but it was my duty to put the matter clearly

before you. What I propose I could to do is really nothing. I could do

no less; I should have felt quite absurd if your lordship had gone into

the money-market.”

“I only hope,” repeated Lothair, rising and offering Mr. Giles his hand,

“that life may give me some occasion to prove my gratitude.”

“Well, my lord,” replied Mr. Giles, “if your lordship wish to repay me

for any little interest I have shown in your affairs, you can do that,

over and over again, and at once.”

“How so?”

“By a very great favor, by which Mrs. Giles and myself would be deeply

gratified. We have a few friends who honor us by dining with us to-day

in Hyde Park Gardens. If your lordship would add the great distinction

your presence—”

“I should only be too much honored,” exclaimed Lothair: “I suppose about

eight,” and he left the room; and Mr. Giles telegraphed instantly the

impending event to Apollonia.

CHAPTER 8 It was a great day for Apollonia; not only to have Lothair at

her right hand at dinner, but the prospect of receiving a cardinal in

the evening. But she was equal to it; though so engrossed, indeed, in

the immediate gratification of her hopes and wishes, that she could

scarcely dwell sufficiently on the coming scene of triumph and social

excitement.

The repast was sumptuous; Lothair thought the dinner would never end,

there were so many dishes, and apparently all of the highest pretension.

But if his simple tastes had permitted him to take an interest in these

details, which, they did not, he would have been assisted by a gorgeous

menu of gold and white typography, that was by the side of each guest.

The table seemed literally to groan under vases and gigantic flagons,

and, in its midst, rose a mountain of silver, on which apparently

all the cardinal virtues, several of the pagan deities, and Britannia

herself, illustrated with many lights a glowing inscription, which

described the fervent feelings of a grateful client.

There were many guests—the Dowager of Farringford, a lady of quality,

Apollonia’s great lady, who exercised under this roof much social

tyranny; in short, was rather fine; but who, on this occasion, was

somewhat cowed by the undreamt-of presence of Lothair. She had not yet

met him, and probably never would have met him, had she not had the good

fortune of dining at his lawyer’s. However, Lady Farringford was placed

a long way from Lothair, having been taken down to dinner by Mr. Giles;

and so, by the end of the first course, Lady Farringford had nearly

resumed her customary despotic vein, and was beginning to indulge in

several kind observations, cheapening to her host and hostess, and

indirectly exalting herself; upon which Mr. Giles took an early easy

opportunity of apprising Lady Farringford, that she had nearly met

Cardinal Grandison at dinner, and that his eminence would certainly pay

his respects to Mrs. Putney Giles in the evening. As Lady Farringford

was at present a high ritualist and had even been talked of as “going

to Rome,” this intelligence was stunning, and it was observed that her

ladyship was unusually subdued during the whole of the second course.

On the right of Lothair sat the wife of a vice-chancellor, a quiet

and pleasing lady, to whom Lothair, with natural good breeding, paid

snatches of happy attention, when he could for a moment with propriety

withdraw himself from the blaze of Apollonia’s coruscating conversation.

Then there was a rather fierce-looking Red Ribbon, medalled, as well

as be-starred, and the Red Ribbon’s wife, with a blushing daughter, in

spite of her parentage not yet accustomed to stand fire. A partner and

his unusually numerous family had the pleasure also of seeing Lothair

for the first time, and there were no less than four M.P.s, one of whom

was even in office.

Apollonia was stating to Lothair, with perspicuity, the reasons which

quite induced her to believe that the Gulf-Stream had changed its

course, and the political and social consequences that might accrue.

“The religious sentiment of the Southern races must be wonderfully

affected by a more rigorous climate,” said Apollonia. “I cannot doubt,”

she continued, “that a series of severe winters at Rome might put an end

to Romanism.”

“But is there any fear that a reciprocal influence might be exercised

on the Northern nations?” inquired Lothair. “Would there be any

apprehension of our Protestantism becoming proportionately relaxed?”

“Of course not,” said Apollonia. “Truth cannot be affected by climate.

Truth is truth, alike in Palestine and Scandinavia.”

“I wonder what the cardinal would think of this,” said Lothair, “who,

you tell me, is coming to you this evening?”

“Yes, I am most interested to see him, though he is the most puissant of

our foes. Of course he would take refuge in sophistry; and science, you

know, they deny.”

“Cardinal Grandison is giving some lectures on science,” said the

vice-chancellor’s lady, quietly.

“It is remorse,” said Apollonia. “Their clever men can never forget that

unfortunate affair of Galileo, and think they can divert the indignation

of the ninteenth century by mock zeal about red sandstone or the origin

of species.”

“And are you afraid of the Gulf-Stream?” inquired Lothair of his calmer

neighbor.

“I think we want more evidence of a change. The vice-chancellor and

myself went down to a place we have near town, on Saturday, where there

is a very nice piece of water; indeed, some people call it a lake; but

it was quite frozen, and my boys wanted to skate, but that I would not

permit.”

“You believe in the Gulf-Stream to that extent,” said Lothair—“no

skating.”

The cardinal came, early; the ladies had not long left the dining-room.

They were agitated when his name was announced; even Apollonia’s

heart beat; but then that might be accounted for by the inopportune

recollection of an occasional correspondence with Caprera.

Nothing could exceed the simple suavity with which the cardinal

appeared, approached, and greeted them. He thanked Apollonia for her

permission to pay his respects to her, which he had long wished to do;

and then they were all presented, and he said exactly the right thing

to every one. He must have heard of them all before, or read their

characters in their countenances. In a few minutes they were all

listening to his eminence with enchanted ease, as, sitting on the

sofa by his hostess, he described to them the ambassadors who had

just arrived from Japan, and with whom he had relations of interesting

affairs. The Japanese government had exhibited enlightened kindness to

some of his poor people who had barely escaped martyrdom. Much might be

expected from the Mikado, evidently a man of singular penetration and

elevated views; and his eminence looked as if the mission of Yokohama

would speedily end in an episcopal see; but he knew where he was and

studiously avoided all controversial matter.

After all, the Mikado himself was not more remarkable than this prince

of the Church in a Tyburnian drawing-room habited in his pink cassock

and cape, and waving, as he spoke, with careless grace, his pink

barrette.

The ladies thought the gentlemen rejoined them too soon, but Mr. Giles,

when he was apprised of the arrival of the cardinal, thought it right

to precipitate the symposium. With great tact, when the cardinal rose to

greet him, Mr. Giles withdrew his eminence from those surrounding,

and, after a brief interchange of whispered words, quitted him and then

brought forward and presented Lothair to the cardinal, and left them.

“This is not the first time that we should have met,” said the cardinal,

“but my happiness is so great at this moment that, though I deplore, I

will not dwell on, the past.”

“I am, nevertheless, grateful to you, sir, for many services, and have

more than once contemplated taking the liberty of personally assuring

your eminence of my gratitude.”

“I think we might sit down,” said the cardinal, looking around; and then

he led Lothair into an open but interior saloon, where none were yet

present, and where they seated themselves on a sofa and were soon

engaged in apparently interesting converse.

In the mean time the world gradually filled the principal saloon of

Apollonia, and, when it approached overflowing, occasionally some

persons passed the line, and entered the room in which the cardinal and

his ward were seated, and then, as if conscious of violating some sacred

place, drew back. Others, on the contrary, with coarser curiosity, were

induced to invade the chamber from the mere fact that the cardinal was

to be seen there.

“My geographical instinct,” said the cardinal to Lothair, “assures me

that I can regain the staircase through these rooms, without rejoining

the busy world; so I shall bid you good-night and even presume to give

you my blessing;” and his eminence glided away.

When Lothair returned to the saloon it was so crowded that he was not

observed; exactly what he liked; and he stood against the wall watching

all that passed, not without amusement. A lively, social parasite, who

had dined there, and had thanked his stars at dinner that Fortune had

decreed he should meet Lothair, had been cruising for his prize all the

time that Lothair had been conversing with the cardinal and was soon at

his side.

“A strange scene this!” said the parasite.

“Is it unusual?” inquired Lothair.

“Such a medley! How can they can be got together, I marvel—priests and

philosophers, legitimists, and carbonari! Wonderful woman, Mrs. Putney

Giles!”

“She is very entertaining,” said Lothair, “and seems to me clever.”

“Remarkably so,” said the parasite, who had been on the point of

satirizing his hostess, but, observing the quarter of the wind, with

rapidity went in for praise. “An extraordinary woman. Your lordship had

a long talk with the cardinal.”

“I had the honor of some conversation with Cardinal Grandison,” said

Lothair, drawing up.

“I wonder what the cardinal would have said if he had met Mazzini here?”

“Mazzini! Is he here?”

“Not now; but I have seen him here,” said the parasite, “and our host

such a Tory! That makes the thing so amusing;” and then the parasite

went on making small personal observations on the surrounding scene, and

every now and then telling little tales of great people with whom, it

appeared, he was intimate—all concerted fire to gain the very great

social fortress he was now besieging. The parasite was so full of

himself, and so anxious to display himself to advantage, that with all

his practice it was some time before he perceived he did not make all

the way he could wish with Lothair; who was courteous, but somewhat

monosyllabic and absent.

“Your lordship is struck by that face?” said the parasite.

Was Lothair struck by that face? And what was it?

He had exchanged glances with that face during the last ten minutes, and

the mutual expression was not one of sympathy but curiosity blended, on

the part of the face, with an expression, if not of disdain, of extreme

reserve.

It was the face of a matron, apparently of not many summers, for her

shapely figure was still slender, though her mien was stately. But it

was the countenance that had commanded the attention of Lothair: pale,

but perfectly Attic in outline, with the short upper lip and the round

chin, and a profusion of dark-chestnut hair bound by a Grecian fillet,

and on her brow a star.

“Yes I am struck by that face. Who is it?”

“If your lordship could only get a five-franc piece of the last French

Republic, 1850, you would know. I dare say the money-changers could

get you one. All the artists of Paris, painters, and sculptors, and

medallists, were competing to produce a face worthy of representing ‘La

R publique fran aise;’ nobody was satisfied, when Oudine caught a girl

of not seventeen, and, with a literal reproduction of Nature, gained the

prize with unanimity.”

“Ah!”

“And, though years have passed, the countenance has not changed; perhaps

improved.”

“It is a countenance that will bear, perhaps even would require,

maturity,” said Lothair; “but she is no longer ‘La République franç

aise;’ what is she now?”

“She is called Theodora, though married, I believe, to an Englishman,

a friend of Garibaldi. Her birth unknown; some say an Italian, some

a Pole; all sorts of stories. But she speaks every language, is

ultra-cosmopolitan, and has invented a new religion.”

“A new religion!”

“Would your lordship care to be introduced to her? I know her enough for

that. Shall we go up to her?”

“I have made so many now acquaintances to-day,” said, Lothair, as it

were starting from a reverie, “and indeed heard so many new things, that

I think I had better say good-night;” and he graciously retired.

CHAPTER 9 About the same time that Lothair had repaired to the residence

of Mr. Giles, Monsignore Berwick, whose audience of the cardinal in the

morning had preceded that of the legal adviser of the trustees, made

his way toward one of the noblest mansions in St. James’s Square, where

resided Lord St. Jerome.

It was a mild winter evening; a little fog still hanging about, but

vanquished by the cheerful lamps, and the voice of the muffin-bell was

just heard at intervals; a genial sound that calls up visions of trim

and happy hearths. If we could only so contrive our lives as to go into

the country for the first note of the nightingale, and return to town

for the first note of the muffin-bell, existence, it is humbly presumed,

might be more enjoyable.

Monsignore Berwick was a young man, but looking younger from a

countenance almost of childhood; fair, with light-blue eyes, and flaxen

hair and delicate features. He was the last person you would have fixed

upon as a born Roman; but Nature, in one of the freaks of race, had

resolved that his old Scottish blood should be reasserted, though his:

ancestors had sedulously blended it, for, many generations, with that of

the princely houses of the eternal city. The monsignore was the greatest

statesman of Rome, formed and favored by Antonelli and probably his

successor.

The mansion of Lord St. Jerome was a real family mansion, built by his

ancestors a century and a half ago, when they believed that, from its

central position, its happy contiguity to the court, the senate, and the

seats of government, they at last, in St. James’s Square, had discovered

a site which could defy the vicissitudes of fashion, and not share

the fate of the river palaces, which they had been obliged in turn

to relinquish. And in a considerable degree they were right in their

anticipation; for, although they have somewhat unwisely, permitted the

clubs to invade too successfully their territory, St. James’s Square

may be looked upon as our Faubourg St. Germain, and a great patrician

residing there dwells in the heart of that free and noble life of which

he ought to be a part.

A marble hall and a marble staircase, lofty chambers with silk or

tapestried hangings, gilded cornices, and painted ceilings, gave a

glimpse of almost Venetian splendor, and rare in our metropolitan houses

of this age; but the first dwellers in St. James’s Square had tender

and inspiring recollections of the Adrian bride, had frolicked in St.

Mark’s, and glided in adventurous gondolas. The monsignore was ushered

into a chamber bright with lights and a blazing fire, and welcomed with

extreme cordiality by his hostess, who was then alone. Lady St. Jerome

was still the young wife of a nobleman not old. She was the daughter of

a Protestant house, but, during a residence at Rome after her marriage,

she had reverted to the ancient faith, which she professed with the

enthusiastic convictions of a convert. Her whole life was dedicated to

the triumph of the Catholic cause; and, being a woman of considerable

intelligence and of an ardent mind, she had become a recognized power in

the great confederacy which has so much influenced the human race,

and which has yet to play perhaps a mighty part in the fortunes of the

world.

“I was in great hopes that the cardinal would have met you at dinner,”

said Lady St. Jerome, “but he wrote only this afternoon to say

unexpected business would prevent him, but he would be here in the

evening, though late.”

“It must be something sudden, for I was with his eminence this morning,

and he then contemplated our meeting here.”

“Nothing from abroad?”

“I should think not, or it would be known to me. There is nothing new

from abroad this afternoon: my time has been spent in writing, not

receiving, dispatches.”

“And all well, I hope?”

“This Scotch business plagues us. So far as Scotland is concerned, it is

quite ripe; but the cardinal counsels delay on account of this country,

and he has such a consummate knowledge of England, that—”

At this moment Lord St Jerome entered the room—a grave but gracious

personage, polished but looking silent, though he immediately turned

the conversation to the weather. The monsignore began denouncing English

fogs; but Lord St. Jerome maintained that, on the whole, there were not

more fogs in England than in any other country; “and as for the French,”

he added, “I like their audacity, for, when they revolutionized the

calendar, they called one of their months Brumaire.”

Then came in one of his lordships chaplains, who saluted the monsignore

with reverence, and immediately afterward a beautiful young lady, his

niece, Clare Arundel.

The family were living in a convenient suite of small rooms on the

ground-floor, called the winter-rooms so dinner was announced by the

doors of an adjoining chamber being thrown open, and there they saw, in

the midst of a chamber hung with green silk and adorned with some fine

cabinet-pictures, a small round table, bright and glowing.

It was a lively dinner. Lord St. Jerome loved conversation, though he

never conversed. “There must be an audience,” he would say, “and I am

the audience.” The partner of his life, whom he never ceased admiring,

had originally fascinated him by her conversational talents; and, even

if Nature had not impelled her, Lady St. Jerome was too wise a woman

to relinquish the spell. The monsignore could always, when necessary,

sparkle with anecdote or blaze with repartee; and all the chaplains, who

abounded in this house, were men of bright abilities, not merely men of

reading, but of the world, learned in the world’s ways, and trained to

govern mankind by versatility of their sympathies. It was a dinner where

there could not be two conversations going on, and where even the silent

take their share in the talk by their sympathy.

And among the silent, as silent even as Lord St. Jerome, was Miss

Arundel; and yet her large violet eyes, darker even than her dark-brown

hair, and gleaming with intelligence, and her rich face mantling with

emotion, proved she was not insensible to the witty passages and the

bright and interesting narratives that were sparkling and flowing about

her.

The gentlemen left the dining-room with the ladies, in the Continental

manner. Lady St. Jerome, who was leaning on the arm of the monsignore,

guided him into a saloon farther than the one they had reentered, and

then seating herself said, “You were telling me about Scotland, that you

yourself thought it ripe.”

“Unquestionably. The original plan was to have established our hierarchy

when the Kirk split up; but that would have been a mistake, it was not

then ripe. There would have been a fanatical reaction. There is always

a tendency that way in Scotland: as it is, at this moment, the

Establishment and the Free Kirk are mutually sighing for some compromise

which may bring them together and, if the proprietors would give up

their petty patronage, some flatter themselves it might be arranged. But

we are thoroughly well informed, and have provided for all this. We sent

two of our best men into Scotland some time ago, and they have invented

a new church, called the United Presbyterians. John Knox himself was

never more violent, or more mischievous. The United Presbyterians will

do the business: they will render Scotland simply impossible to live

in; and then, when the crisis arrives, the distracted and despairing

millions will find refuge in the bosom of their only mother. That is

why, at home, we wanted no delay in the publication of the bull and the

establishment of the hierarchy.”

“But the cardinal says no?”

“And must be followed. For these islands he has no equal. He wishes

great reserve at present. Affairs here are progressing, gradually but

surely. But it is Ireland where matters are critical, or will be soon.”

“Ireland! I thought there was a sort of understanding there—at least for

the present.”

The monsignore shook his head. “What do you think of an American

invasion of Ireland?”

“An American invasion!”

“Even so; nothing more probable, and nothing more to be deprecated by

us. Now that the civil war in America is over, the Irish soldiery are

resolved to employ their experience and their weapons in their own

land; but they have no thought for the interest of the Holy See, or the

welfare of our holy religion. Their secret organization is tampering

with the people and tampering with the priests. The difficulty of

Ireland is that the priests and the people will consider every thing

in a purely Irish point of view. To gain some local object, they will

encourage the principles of the most lawless liberalism, which naturally

land them in Fenianism and atheism. And the danger is not foreseen,

because the Irish political object of the moment is alone looked to.”

“But surely they can be guided?”

“We want a statesman in Ireland. We have never been able to find one; we

want a man like the cardinal. But the Irish will have a native for their

chief. We caught Churchill young, and educated him in the Propaganda;

but he has disappointed us. At first all seemed well; he was reserved

and austere; and we heard with satisfaction that he was unpopular. But,

now that critical times are arriving, his peasant-blood cannot resist

the contagion. He proclaims the absolute equality of all religions, and

of the power of the state to confiscate ecclesiastical property, and not

restore it to us, but alienate it forever. For the chance of subverting

the Anglican Establishment, he is favoring a policy which will subvert

religion itself. In his eagerness he cannot see that the Anglicans have

only a lease of our property, a lease which is rapidly expiring.”

“This is sad.”

“It is perilous, and difficult to deal with. But it must be dealt

with. The problem is to suppress Fenianism, and not to strengthen the

Protestant confederacy.”

“And you left Rome for this? We understood you were coming for something

else,” said Lady St. Jerome, in a significant tone.

“Yes, yes, I have been there, and I have seen him.”

“And have you succeeded?”

“No; and no one will—at least at present.”

“Is all lost, then? Is the Malta scheme again on the carpet?”

“Our Holy Church in built upon a rock,” said the monsignore, “but not

upon the rock of Malta. Nothing is lost; Antonelli is calm and sanguine,

though, rest assured, there is no doubt about what I tell you. France

has washed her hands of us.”

“Where, then, are we to look for aid?” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome,

“against the assassins and atheists? Austria, the alternative ally,

is no longer near you; and if she were—that I should ever live to say

it—even Austria is our foe.”

“Poor Austria!” said the monsignore with an unctuous sneer. “Two things

made her a nation; she was German and she was Catholic, and now she is

neither.”

“But you alarm me, my dear lord, with your terrible news. We once

thought that Spain would be our protector, but we hear bad news from

Spain.”

“Yes,” said the monsignore, “I think it highly probable that, before a

few years have elapsed, every government in Europe will be atheistical

except France. Vanity will always keep France the eldest son of the

Church, even if she wear a bonnet rouge. But, if the Holy Father keep

Rome, these strange changes will only make the occupier of the chair of

St. Peter more powerful. His subjects will be in every clime and every

country, and then they will be only his subjects. We shall get rid of

the difficulty of the divided allegiance, Lady St. Jerome, which plagued

our poor forefathers so much.”

“If we keep Rome,” said Lady St. Jerome.

“And we shall. Let Christendom give us her prayers for the next few

years, and Pio Nono will become the most powerful monarch In Europe, and

perhaps the only one.”

“I hear a sound,” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome. “Yes! the cardinal has

come. Let us greet him.”

But as they were approaching the saloon the cardinal met them, and waved

them back. “We will return,” he said, “to our friends immediately, but I

want to say one word to you both.”

He made them sit down. “I am a little restless,” he said, and stood

before the fire. “Something interesting has happened; nothing to do with

public affairs. Do not pitch your expectations too high—but still of

importance, and certainly of great interest—at least to me. I have seen

my child—my ward.”

“Indeed an event!” said Lady St. Jerome, evidently much interested.

“And what is he like?” inquired the monsignore.

“All that one could wish. Extremely good-looking, highly bred, and most

ingenuous; a considerable intelligence, and not untrained; but the most

absolutely unaffected person I ever encountered.”

“Ah! if he had been trained by your eminence,” sighed Lady St. Jerome.

“Is it too late?”

“‘Tis an immense position,” murmured Berwick.

“What good might he not do?” said Lady St. Jerome; “and if he be so

ingenuous, it seems impossible that he can resist the truth.”

“Your ladyship is a sort of cousin of his,” said the cardinal, musingly.

“Yes; but very remote. I dare say he would not acknowledge the tie. But

we are kin; we have the same blood in our veins.”

“You should make his acquaintance,” said the cardinal.

“I more than desire it. I hear he has been terribly neglected, brought

up among the most dreadful people, entirely infidels and fanatics.”

“He has been nearly two years at Oxford,” said the cardinal. “That may

have mitigated the evil.”

“Ah! but you, my lord cardinal, you must interfere. Now that you at last

know him, you must undertake the great task; you must save him.”

“We must all pray, as I pray every morn and every night,” said the

cardinal, “for the conversion of England.”

“Or the conquest,” murmured Berwick.

CHAPTER 10 As the cardinal was regaining his carriage on leaving Mrs.

Giles’s party, there was, about the entrance of the house, the usual

gathering under such circumstances; some zealous linkboys marvellously

familiar with London life, and some midnight loungers, who thus take

their humble share of the social excitement, and their happy chance of

becoming acquainted with some of the notables of the wondrous world of

which they form the base. This little gathering, ranged at the instant

into stricter order by the police to facilitate the passage of his

eminence, prevented the progress of a passenger, who exclaimed in an

audible, but not noisy voice, as if, he were ejaculating to himself, “A

bas les pretres!”

This exclamation, unintelligible to the populace, was noticed only

by the only person who understood it. The cardinal, astonished at the

unusual sound—for, hitherto, he had always found the outer world of

London civil; or at least indifferent—threw his penetrating glance at

the passenger, and caught clearly the visage on which the lamplight

fully shone. It was a square, sinewy face, closely shaven, with the

exception of a small but thick mustache, brown as the well-cropped hair,

and blending with the hazel eye; a calm, but determined countenance;

clearly not that of an Englishman, for he wore ear-rings.

The carriage drove off, and the passenger, somewhat forcing his way

through the clustering group, continued his course until he reached the

cab-stand near the Marble Arch, when he engaged a vehicle and ordered

to be driven to Leicester Square. That quarter of the town exhibits

an animated scene toward the witching hour; many lights and much

population, illuminated coffee-houses, the stir of a large theatre,

bands of music in the open air, and other sounds, most of them gay, and

some festive. The stranger, whose compact figure was shrouded by a long

fur cape, had not the appearance of being influenced by the temptation

of amusement. As he stopped in the square and looked around him, the

expression of his countenance was moody, perhaps even anxious. He seemed

to be making observations on the locality, and, after a few minutes,

crossed the open space and turned up into a small street which opened

into the square. In this street was a coffee-house of some pretension,

connected indeed with an hotel, which had been formed out of two houses,

and therefore possessed no inconsiderable accommodation.

The coffee-room was capacious, and adorned in a manner which intimated

it was not kept by an Englishman, or much used by Englishmen. The walls

were painted in frescoed arabesques. There were many guests, principally

seated at small tables of marble, and on benches and chairs covered with

a coarse crimson velvet. Some were sipping coffee, some were drinking

wine, others were smoking or playing dominoes, or doing both; while many

were engaged in reading the foreign journals which abounded.

An ever-vigilant waiter was at the side of the stranger the instant he

entered, and wished to know his pleasure. The stranger was examining

with his keen eye every individual in the room while this question was

asked and repeated.

“What would I wish?” said the stranger, having concluded his inspection,

and as it were summoning back his recollection. “I would wish to see,

and at once, one Mr. Perroni, who, I believe, lives here.”

“Why, ‘tis the master!” exclaimed the waiter.

“Well, then, go and tell the master that I want him.”

“But the master is much engaged,” said the waiter, “—particularly.”

“I dare say; but you will go and tell him that I particularly want to

see him.”

The waiter, though prepared to be impertinent to any one else, felt that

one was speaking to him who must be obeyed, and, with a subdued, but

hesitating manner, said, “There is a meeting to-night up-stairs, where

the master is secretary, and it is difficult to see him; but, if I could

see him, what name am I to give?”

“You will go to him instantly,” said the stranger, “and you will tell

him that he is wanted by Captain Bruges.”

The waiter was not long absent, and returning with an obsequious bow, he

invited the stranger to follow him to a private room, where he was

alone only for a few seconds, for the door opened and he was joined by

Perroni.

“Ah! my general,” exclaimed the master of the coffee-house, and he

kissed the stranger’s hand. “You received my telegram?”

“I am here. Now what is your business?”

“There is business, and great business, if you will do it; business for

you.”

“Well, I am a soldier, and soldiering is my trade, and I do not much

care what I do in that way, provided it is not against the good cause.

But I must tell you at once, friend Perroni, I am not a man who will

take a leap in the dark. I must form my own staff, and I must have my

commissariat secure.”

“My general, you will be master of your own terms. The Standing

Committee of the Holy Alliance of Peoples are sitting upstairs at this

moment. They were unanimous in sending for you. See them; judge for

yourself; and, rest assured, you will be satisfied.”

“I do not much like having to do with committees,” said the general.

“However, let it be as you like—I will see them.”

“I had better just announce your arrival,” said Perroni. “And will you

not take something, my general after your travel you must be wearied.”

“A glass of sugar-and-water. You know, I am not easily tired. And, I

agree with you, it is better to come to business at once: so prepare

them.”

CHAPTER 11 The Standing Committee of the Holy Alliance of Peoples all

rose, although they were extreme republicans, when the general entered.

Such is the magical influence of a man of action over men of the pen

and the tongue. Had it been, instead of a successful military leader, an

orator that had inspired Europe, or a journalist who had rights of the

human race, the Standing Committee would have only seen men of their

own kidney, who, having been favored with happier opportunities than

themselves, had reaped a harvest which, equally favored, they might here

have garnered.

“General,” said Felix Drolin, the president, who was looked upon by the

brotherhood as a statesman, for he had been in his time, a member of a

provisional government, “this seat is for you,” and he pointed to one

on his right hand. “You are ever welcome; and I hope you bring good

tidings, and good fortune.”

“I am glad to be among my friends, and I may say,” looking around, “my

comrades. I hope I may bring you better fortune than my tidings.”

“But now they have left Rome,” said the president, “every day we expect

good news.”

“Ay, ay! he has left Rome, but he has not left Rome with the door open.

I hope it is not on such gossip you have sent for me. You have something

on hand. What is it?”

“You shall hear it from the fountain-head,” said the president, “fresh

from New York,” and he pointed to an individual seated in the centre of

the table.

“Ah! Colonel Finucane,” said the general, “I have not forgotten James

River. You did that well. What is the trick now?”

Whereupon a tall, lean man, with a decided brogue, but speaking through

his nose, rose from his seat and informed the general that the Irish

people were organized and ready to rise; that they had sent their

deputies to New York; all they wanted were arms and officers; that the

American brethren had agreed to supply them with both, and amply; and

that considerable subscriptions were raising for other purposes. What

they now required was a commander-in-chief equal to the occasion, and in

whom all would have confidence; and therefore they had telegraphed for

the general.

“I doubt not our friends over the water would send us plenty of rifles,”

said the general, “if we could only manage to land them; and, I think, I

know men now in the States from whom I could form a good staff; but how

about the people of Ireland? What evidence have we that they will rise,

if we land?”

“The best,” said the president. “We have a head-centre here, Citizen

Desmond, who will give you the most recent and the most authentic

intelligence on that head.”

“The whole country is organized,” said the head-centre; “we could put

three hundred thousand men in the field at any time in a fortnight. The

movement is not sectarian; it pervades all classes and all creeds. All

that we want are officers and arms.”

“Hem!” said the general; “and as to your other supplies? Any scheme of

commissariat?”

“There will be no lack of means,” replied the head-centre. “There is no

country where so much money is hoarded as in Ireland. But, depend

upon it, so far as the commissariat is concerned, the movement will be

self-supporting.”

“Well, we shall see,” said, the general; “I am sorry it is an Irish

affair, though, to be sure, what else could it be? I am not fond of

Irish affairs: whatever may be said, and however plausible things may

look, in an Irish business there is always a priest at the bottom of it.

I hate priests. By-the-by, I was stopped on my way here by a cardinal

getting into his carriage. I thought I had burnt all those vehicles when

I was at Rome with Garibaldi in ‘48. A cardinal in his carriage! I had

no idea you permitted that sort of cattle in London.”

“London is a roost for every bird,” said Felix Drolin.

“Very few of the priests favor this movement,” said Desmond.

“Then you have a great power against you,” said the general, “in

addition to England.”

“They are not exactly against; the bulk of them are too national for

that; but Rome does not sanction—you understand?”

“I understand enough,” said the general, “to see that we must not act

with precipitation. An Irish business is a thing to be turned over

several times.”

“But yet,” said a Pole, “what hope for humanity except from the rising

of an oppressed nationality? We have offered ourselves on the altar, and

in vain! Greece is too small, and Roumania—though both of them are ready

to do any thing; but they would be the mere tools of Russia. Ireland

alone remains, and she is at our feet.”

“The peoples will never succeed until they have a fleet,” said a German.

“Then you could land as many rifles as you like, or any thing else. To

have a fleet we rose against Denmark in my country, but we have been

betrayed. Nevertheless, Germany will yet be united, and she can only be

united as a republic. Then she will be the mistress of the seas.”

“That is the mission of Italy,” said Perroni. “Italy—with the traditions

of Genoa, Venice, Pisa—Italy is plainly indicated as the future mistress

of the seas.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the German; “the future mistress of the sees

is the land of the Viking. It is the forests of the Baltic that will

build the Best of the future. You have no timber in Italy.”

“Timber is no longer wanted,” said Perroni. “Nor do I know of what will

be formed the fleets of the future. But the sovereignty of the seas

depends upon seamen, and the nautical genius of the Italians—”

“Comrades,” said the general, “we have discussed to-night a great

subject. For my part I have travelled rather briskly, as you wished it.

I should like to sleep on this affair.”

“‘Tis most reasonable,” said the president. “Our refreshment at council

is very spare,” he continued, and he pointed to a vase of water and some

glasses ranged round it in the middle of the table; “but we always drink

one toast, general, before we separate. It is to one whom you love,

and whom you have served well. Fill glasses, brethren and now ‘TO

MARY-ANNE.’”

If they had been inspired by the grape, nothing could be more animated

and even excited than all their countenances suddenly became. The cheer

might have been heard in the coffee-room, as they expressed, in

the phrases of many languages, the never-failing and never-flagging

enthusiasm invoked by the toast of their mistress.

CHAPTER 12 “Did you read that paragraph, mamma?” inquired Lady Corisande

of the duchess, in a tone of some seriousness.

“I did.”

“And what did you think of it?”

“It filled me with so much amazement that I have hardly begun to think.”

“And Bertram never gave a hint of such things!”

“Let us believe they are quite untrue.”

“I hope Bertram is in no danger,” said his sister.

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the mother, with unaffected alarm.

“I know not how it is,” said Lady Corisande, “but I frequently feel that

some great woe is hanging over our country.”

“You must dismiss such thoughts, my child; they are fanciful.”

“But they will come, and when least expected—frequently in church, but

also in the sunshine; and when I am riding too, when, once, every thing

seemed gay. But now I often think of strife, and struggle, and war—civil

war: the stir of our cavalcade seems like the tramp of cavalry.”

“You indulge your imagination too much, dear Corisande. When you return

to London, and enter the world, these anxious thoughts will fly.”

“Is it imagination? I should rather have doubted my being of an

imaginative nature. It seems to me that I am rather literal. But I

cannot help hearing and reading things, and observing things, and they

fill me with disquietude. All seems doubt and change, when it would

appear that we require both faith and firmness.”

“The duke is not alarmed about affairs,” said his wife.

“And, if all did their duty like papa, there might be less, or no

cause,” said Corisande. “But, when I hear of young nobles, the natural

leaders of the land, going over to the Roman Catholic Church, I confess

I lose heart and patience. It seems so unpatriotic, so effeminate.”

“It may not be true,” said the duchess.

“It may not be true of him, but it is true of others,” said Lady

Corisande. “And why should he escape? He is very young, rather

friendless, and surrounded by wily persons. I am disappointed about

Bertram too. He ought to have prevented this, if it be true. Bertram

seemed to me to have such excellent principles, and so completely to

feel that he was born to maintain the great country which his ancestors

created, that I indulged in dreams. I suppose you are right, mamma; I

suppose I am imaginative without knowing it; but I have always thought,

and hoped, that when the troubles came the country might, perhaps, rally

round Bertram.”

“I wish to see Bertram in Parliament,” said the duchess. “That will be

the best thing for him. The duke has some plans.”

This conversation had been occasioned by a paragraph in the Morning

Post, circulating a rumor that a young noble, obviously Lothair, on

the impending completion of his minority, was about to enter the Roman

Church. The duchess and her daughter were sitting in a chamber of their

northern castle, and speculating on their return to London, which was to

take place after the Easter which had just arrived. It was an important

social season for Corisande, for she was to be formally introduced into

the great world, and to be presented at court.

In the mean while, was there any truth in the report about Lothair?

After their meeting at their lawyer’s, a certain intimacy had occurred

between the cardinal and his ward. They met again immediately and

frequently, and their mutual feelings were cordial. The manners of his

eminence were refined and affectionate; his conversational powers were

distinguished; there was not a subject on which his mind did not teem

with interesting suggestions; his easy knowledge seemed always ready and

always full; and whether it were art, or letters, or manners, or even

political affairs, Lothair seemed to listen to one of the wisest, most

enlightened, and most agreeable of men. There was only one subject

on which his eminence seemed scrupulous never to touch, and that was

religion; or so indirectly, that it was only when alone that Lothair

frequently found himself musing over the happy influence on the arts,

and morals, and happiness of mankind—of the Church.

In due time, not too soon, but when he was attuned to the initiation,

the cardinal presented Lothair to Lady St. Jerome. The impassioned

eloquence of that lady germinated the seed which the cardinal had seemed

so carelessly to scatter. She was a woman to inspire crusaders. Not that

she ever: condescended to vindicate her own particular faith, or spoke

as if she were conscious that Lothair did not possess it. Assuming

that religion was true, for otherwise man would be in a more degraded

position than the beasts of the field, which are not aware of their own

wretchedness, then religion should be the principal occupation of man,

to which all other pursuits should be subservient. The doom of eternity,

and the fortunes of life, cannot be placed in competition. Our days

should be pure, and holy, and heroic—full of noble thoughts and solemn

sacrifice. Providence, in its wisdom, had decreed that the world should

be divided between the faithful and atheists; the latter even seemed

to predominate. There was no doubt that, if they prevailed, all that

elevated man would become extinct. It was a great trial; but happy

was the man who was privileged even to endure the awful test. It might

develop the highest qualities and the most sublime conduct. If he were

equal to the occasion, and could control and even subdue these sons of

Korah, he would rank with Michael the Archangel.

This was the text on which frequent discourses were delivered to

Lothair, and to which he listened at first with eager, and soon with

enraptured attention. The priestess was worthy of the shrine. Few

persons were ever gifted with more natural eloquence: a command of

language, choice without being pedantic; beautiful hands that fluttered

with irresistible grace; flashing eyes and a voice of melody.

Lothair began to examine himself, and to ascertain whether he possessed

the necessary qualities, and was capable of sublime conduct. His natural

modesty and his strong religious feeling struggled together. He feared

he was not an archangel, and yet he longed to struggle with the powers

of darkness.

One day he ventured to express to Miss Arundel a somewhat hopeful view

of the future, but Miss Arundel shook her head.

“I do not agree with my aunt, at least as regards this country,” said

Miss Arundel; “I think our sins are too great. We left His Church, and

God is now leaving us.”

Lothair looked grave, but was silent.

Weeks had passed since his introduction to the family of Lord St.

Jerome, and it was remarkable how large a portion of his subsequent time

had passed under that roof. At first there were few persons in town,

and really of these Lothair knew none; and then the house in St. James’s

Square was not only an interesting but it was an agreeable house. All

Lady St. Jerome’s family connections were persons of much fashion, so

there was more variety and entertainment than sometimes are to be found

under a Roman Catholic roof. Lady St. Jerome was at home every evening

before Easter. Few dames can venture successfully on so decided a step;

but her saloons were always attended, and by “nice people.” Occasionally

the cardinal stepped in, and, to a certain degree, the saloon was the

rendezvous of the Catholic party; but it was also generally social and

distinguished. Many bright dames and damsels, and many influential men,

were there, who little deemed that deep and daring thoughts were there

masked by many a gracious countenance. The social atmosphere infinitely

pleased Lothair. The mixture of solemn duty and graceful diversion, high

purposes and charming manners, seemed to realize some youthful dreams of

elegant existence. All, too, was enhanced by the historic character of

the roof and by the recollection that their mutual ancestors, as Clare

Arundel more than once intimated to him, had created England. Having had

so many pleasant dinners in St. James’s Square, and spent there so

many evening hours, it was not wonderful that Lothair had accepted an

invitation from Lord St. Jerome to pass Easter at his country-seat.

CHAPTER 13 Vauxe, the seat of the St. Jeromes, was the finest specimen

of the old English residence extant. It was the perfection of the

style, which had gradually arisen after the Wars of the Roses had alike

destroyed all the castles and the purpose of those stern erections.

People said Vauxe looked like a college: the truth is, colleges looked

like Vauxe, for, when those fair and civil buildings rose, the wise and

liberal spirits who endowed them intended that they should resemble, as

much as possible, the residence of a great noble.

There were two quadrangles at Vauxe of gray-stone; the outer one of

larger dimensions and much covered with ivy; the inner one not so

extensive, but more ornate, with a lofty tower, a hall, and a chapel.

The house was full of galleries, and they were full of portraits. Indeed

there was scarcely a chamber in this vast edifice of which the walls

were not breathing with English history in this interesting form.

Sometimes more ideal art asserted a triumphant claim—transcendental Holy

Families, seraphic saints, and gorgeous scenes by Tintoret and Paul of

Verona.

The furniture of the house seemed never to have been changed. It was

very old, somewhat scanty, but very rich—tapestry and velvet hangings,

marvellous cabinets, and crystal girandoles. Here and there a group of

ancient plate; ewers and flagons and tall salt-cellars, a foot high and

richly chiselled; sometimes a state bed shadowed with a huge pomp of

stiff brocade and borne by silver poles.

Vauxe stood in a large park, studded with stately trees; here and there

an avenue of Spanish chestnuts or a grove of oaks; sometimes a gorsy

dell, and sometimes a so great spread of antlered fern, taller than the

tallest man.

It was only twenty miles from town, and Lord St. Jerome drove Lothair

down; the last ten miles through a pretty land, which, at the

right season, would have been bright with orchards, oak-woods, and

hop-gardens. Lord St. Jerome loved horses, and was an eminent whip. He

had driven four-in-hand when a boy, and he went on driving four-in-hand;

not because it was the fashion, but because he loved it. Toward the

close of Lent, Lady St. Jerome and Clare Arundel had been at a convent

in retreat, but they always passed Holy Week at home, and they were to

welcome Lord St. Jerome again at Vauxe.

The day was bright, the mode of movement exhilarating, all the

anticipated incidents delightful, and Lothair felt the happiness of

health and youth.

“There is Vauxe,” said Lord St. Jerome, in a tone of proud humility, as

a turn in the road first displayed the stately pile.

“How beautiful!” said Lothair. “Ah! our ancestors understood the

country.”

“I used to think when I was a boy,” said Lord St. Jerome, “that I lived

in the prettiest village in the world; but these railroads have

so changed every thing that Vauxe seems to me now only a second

town-house.”

The ladies were in a garden, where they were consulting with the

gardener and Father Coleman about the shape of some new beds, for the

critical hour of filling them was approaching. The gardener, like all

head-gardeners, was opinionated. Living always at Vauxe, he had come to

believe that the gardens belonged to him, and that the family were only

occasional visitors; and he treated them accordingly. The lively and

impetuous Lady St. Jerome had a thousand bright fancies, but her morose

attendant never indulged them. She used to deplore his tyranny with

piteous playfulness. “I suppose,” she would say, “it is useless to

resist, for I observe ‘tis the same everywhere. Lady Roehampton says she

never has her way with her gardens. It is no use speaking to Lord St.

Jerome, for, though he is afraid of nothing else, I am sure he is afraid

of Hawkins.”

The only way that Lady St. Jerome could manage Hawkins was through

Father Coleman. Father Coleman, who knew every thing, knew a great deal

about gardens; from the days of Le Notre to those of the fine gentlemen

who now travel about, and when disengaged deign to give us advice.

Father Coleman had only just entered middle-age, was imperturbable and

mild in his manner. He passed his life very much at Vauxe, and imparted

a great deal of knowledge to Mr. Hawkins without apparently being

conscious of so doing. At the bottom of his mind, Mr. Hawkins felt

assured that he had gained several distinguished prizes, mainly through

the hints and guidance of Father Coleman; and thus, though on the

surface, a little surly, he was ruled by Father Coleman, under the

combined influence of self-interest and superior knowledge.

“You find us in a garden without flowers,” said Lady St. Jerome; “but

the sun, I think, alway loves these golden yews.”

“These are for you, dear uncle,” said Clare Arundel, as she gave him a

rich cluster of violets. “Just now the woods are more fragrant than the

gardens, and these are the produce of our morning walk. I could have

brought you some primroses, but I do not like to mix violets with any

thing.”

“They say primroses make a capital salad,” said Lord St. Jerome.

“Barbarian!” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome. “I see you want luncheon; it

must, be ready;” and she took Lothair’s arm. “I will show you a portrait

of one of your ancestors,” she said; “he married an Arundel.”

CHAPTER 14 “Now, you know,” said Lady St. Jerome to Lothair in a hushed

voice, as they sat together in the evening, “you are to be quite free

here; to do exactly what you like; and we shall follow our ways. If you

like to have a clergyman of your own Church visit you while you are

with us, pray say so without the slightest scruple. We have an excellent

gentleman in this parish; he often dines here; and I am sure he would

be most happy to attend you. I know that Holy Week is not wholly

disregarded by some of the Anglicans.”

“It is the anniversary of the greatest event of time,” said Lothair;

“and I should be sorry if any of my Church did not entirely regard it,

though they may show that regard in a way different from your own.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured Lady St. Jerome; “there should be no difference

between our Churches, if things were only properly understood. I would

accept all who really bow to the name of Christ; they will come to the

Church at last; they must. It is the atheists alone, I fear, who are now

carrying every thing before them, and against whom there is no comfort,

except the rock of St. Peter.”

Miss Arundel crossed the room, whispered something to her aunt, and

touched her forehead with her lips, and then left the apartment.

“We must soon separate, I fear,” said Lady St. Jerome; “we have an

office to-night of great moment; the Tenebrae commence to-night. You

have, I think, nothing like it; but you have services throughout this

week.”

“I am sorry to say I have not attended them,” said Lothair. “I did

at Oxford; but I don’t know how it is, but in London there seems no

religion. And yet, as you sometimes say, religion is the great business

of life; I sometimes begin to think the only business.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lady St. Jerome, with much interest, “if you believe

that you are safe. I wish you had a clergyman near you while you are

here. See Mr. Claughton, if you like; I would; and, if you do not, there

is Father Coleman. I cannot convey to you how satisfactory conversation

is with him on religious matters. He is the holiest of men, and yet he

is a man of the world; he will not invite you into any controversies. He

will speak with you only on points on which we agree. You know there are

many points on which we agree?”

“Happily,” said Lothair. “And now about the office to-night: tell me

about these Tenebrae. Is there any thing in the Tenebrae why I ought not

to be present?”

“No reason whatever; not a dogma which you do not believe; not a

ceremony of which you cannot approve. There are Psalms, at the end of

which a light on the altar is extinguished. There is the Song of Moses,

the Canticle of Zachary, the Miserere—which is the 50th Psalm you read

and chant regularly in your church—the Lord’s Prayer in silence; and

then all is darkness and distress—what the Church was when our Lord

suffered, what the whole world is now except His Church.”

“If you will permit me,” said Lothair, “I will accompany you to the

Tenebrae.”

Although the chapel at Vauxe was, of course, a private chapel, it was

open to the surrounding public, who eagerly availed themselves of a

permission alike politic and gracious.

Nor was that remarkable. Manifold art had combined to create this

exquisite temple, and to guide all its ministrations. But to-night

it was not the radiant altar and the splendor of stately priests,

the processions and the incense, the divine choir and the celestial

harmonies resounding lingering in arched roofs, that attracted many

a neighbor. The altar was desolate, the choir was dumb; and while the

services proceeded in hushed tones of subdued sorrow, and sometimes even

of suppressed anguish, gradually, with each psalm and canticle, a light

of the altar was extinguished, till at length the Miserere was muttered,

and all became darkness. A sound as of a distant and rising wind was

heard, and a crash, as it were the fall of trees in a storm. The earth

is covered with darkness, and the veil of the temple is rent. But just

at this moment of extreme woe, when all human voices are silent,

and when it is forbidden even to breathe “Amen”—when every thing is

symbolical of the confusion and despair of the Church at the loss of her

expiring Lord—a priest brings forth a concealed light of silvery

flame from a corner of the altar. This is the light of the world, and

announced the resurrection, and then all rise up and depart in silence.