As Lothair rose, Miss Arundel passed him with streaming eyes.

“There is nothing in this holy office,” said Father Coleman to Lothair,

“to which every real Christian might not give his assent.”

“Nothing,” said Lothair, with great decision.

CHAPTER 15 There were Tenebrae on the following days, Maundy Thursday

and Good Friday, and Lothair was present on both occasions.

“There is also a great office on Friday,” said Father Coleman to

Lothair, “which perhaps you would not like to attend—the mass of the

pre-sanctified. We bring back the blessed sacrament to the desolate

altar, and unveil the cross. It is one of our highest ceremonies,

the adoration of the cross, which the Protestants persist in calling

idolatry, though I presume they will give us leave to know the meaning

of our own words and actions, and hope they will believe us when we tell

them that our genuflexions and kissing of the cross are no more than

exterior expressions of that love which we bear in our hearts to Jesus

crucified; and that the words adoration and adore, as applied to

the cross, only signify that respect and veneration due to things

immediately relating to God and His service.”

“I see no idolatry in it,” said Lothair, musingly.

“No impartial person could,” rejoined Father Coleman; “but unfortunately

all these prejudices were imbibed when the world was not so well

informed as at present. A good deal of mischief has been done, too, by

the Protestant versions of the Holy Scriptures; made in a hurry, and by

men imperfectly acquainted with the Eastern tongues, and quite ignorant

of Eastern manners. All the accumulated research and investigation of

modern times have only illustrated and justified the offices of the

Church.”

“That is very interesting,” said Lothair.

“Now, this question of idolatry,” said Father Coleman, “that is a

fertile subject of misconception. The house of Israel was raised up

to destroy idolatry because idolatry then meant dark images of Moloch

opening their arms by machinery, and flinging the beauteous first-born

of the land into their huge forms, which were furnaces of fire; or

Ashtaroth, throned in moonlit groves, and surrounded by orgies of

ineffable demoralization. It required the declared will of God to redeem

man from such fatal iniquity, which would have sapped the human race.

But to confound such deeds with the commemoration of God’s saints, who

are only pictured because their lives are perpetual incentives to purity

and holiness, and to declare that the Queen of Heaven and the Mother of

God should be to human feeling only as a sister of charity or a gleaner

in the fields, is to abuse reason and to outrage the heart.”

“We live in dark times,” said Lothair, with an air of distress.

“Not darker than before the deluge,” exclaimed Father Coleman; “not

darker than before the nativity; not darker even than when the saints

became martyrs. There is a Pharos in the world, and, its light will

never be extinguished, however black the clouds and wild the waves. Man

is on his trial now, not the Church; but in the service of the Church

his highest energies may be developed, and his noblest qualities

proved.”

Lothair seemed plunged in thought, and Father Coleman glided away as

Lady St. Jerome entered the gallery, shawled and bonneted, accompanied

by another priest, Monsignore Catesby.

Catesby was a youthful member of an ancient English house, which for

many generations had without a murmur, rather in a spirit of triumph,

made every worldly sacrifice for the Church and court of Rome. For that

cause they had forfeited their lives, broad estates, and all the

honors of a lofty station in their own land. Reginald Catesby, with

considerable abilities, trained with consummate skill, inherited

their determined will, and the traditionary beauty of their form and

countenance. His manners were winning, and, he was as well informed in

the ways of the world as he was in the works of the great casuists.

“My lord has ordered the charbanc, and is going to drive us all to

Chart, where we will lunch,” said Lady St. Jerome; “‘tis a curious

place, and was planted, only seventy years ago, by my lord’s

grandfather, entirely with spruce-firs, but with so much care and skill,

giving each plant and tree ample distance, that they have risen to the

noblest proportions, with all their green branches far-spreading on the

ground like huge fans.”

It was only a drive of three or four miles entirely in the park. This

was a district that had been added to the ancient enclosure—a striking

scene. It was a forest of firs, but quite unlike such as might be met

with in the north of Europe or of America. Every tree was perfect—huge

and complete, and full of massy grace. Nothing else was permitted to

grow there except juniper, of which there were abounding and wondrous

groups, green and spiral; the whole contrasting with the tall brown

fern, of which there were quantities about, cut for the deer.

The turf was dry and mossy, and the air pleasant. It was a balmy

day. They sat down by the great trees, the servants opened the

luncheon-baskets, which were a present from Balmoral. Lady St. Jerome

was seldom seen to greater advantage than distributing her viands under

such circumstances. Never was such gay and graceful hospitality.

Lothair was quite fascinated as she playfully thrust a paper of

lobster-sandwiches into his hand, and enjoined Monsignore Catesby to

fill his tumbler with Chablis.

“I wish Father Coleman were here,” said Lothair to Miss Arundel.

“Why?” said Miss Arundel.

“Because we were in the midst of a very interesting conversation on

idolatry and on worship in groves, when Lady St. Jerome summoned us to

our drive. This seems a grove where one might worship.”

“Father Coleman ought to be at Rome,” said Miss Arundel. “He was to have

passed Holy Week there. I know not why he changed his plans.”

“Are you angry with him for it?”

“No, not angry, but surprised; surprised that any one might be at Rome,

and yet be absent from it.”

“You like Rome?”

“I have never been there. It is the wish of my life.”

“May I say to you what you said to me just now—why?”

“Naturally, because I would wish to witness the ceremonies of the Church

in their most perfect form.”

“But they are fulfilled in this country, I have heard, with much

splendor and precision.”

Miss Arundel shook her head.

“Oh! no,” she said; “in this country we are only just emerging from the

catacombs. If the ceremonies of the Church were adequately fulfilled in

England, we should hear very little of English infidelity.”

“That is saying a great deal,” observed Lothair, inquiringly.

“Had I that command of wealth of which we hear so much in the present

day, and with which the possessors seem to know so little what to do, I

would purchase some of those squalid streets in Westminster, which are

the shame of the metropolis, and clear a great space and build a real

cathedral, where the worship of heaven should be perpetually conducted

in the full spirit of the ordinances of the Church. I believe, were this

done, even this country might be saved.”

CHAPTER 16 Lothair began to meditate on two great ideas—the

reconciliation of Christendom, and the influence of architecture on

religion. If the differences between the Roman and Anglican Churches,

and between the papacy and Protestantism generally arose, as Father

Coleman assured him, and seemed to prove, in mere misconception,

reconciliation, though difficult, did not seem impossible, and appeared

to be one of the most efficient modes of defeating the atheists. It was

a result which, of course, mainly depended on the authority of Reason;

but the power of the imagination might also be enlisted in the good

cause through the influence of the fine arts, of which the great mission

is to excite, and at the same time elevate, the feelings of the

human family. Lothair found himself frequently in a reverie over Miss

Arundel’s ideal fane; and, feeling that he had the power of buying up

a district in forlorn Westminster, and raising there a temple to the

living God, which might influence the future welfare of millions,

and even effect the salvation of his country, he began to ask himself

whether he could incur the responsibility of shrinking from the

fulfilment of this great duty.

Lothair could not have a better adviser on the subject of the influence

of architecture on religion than Monsignore Catesby. Monsignore Catesby

had been a pupil of Pugin; his knowledge of ecclesiastical architecture

was only equalled by his exquisite taste. To hear him expound the

mysteries of symbolical art, and expatiate on the hidden revelations

of its beauteous forms, reached even to ecstasy. Lothair hung upon his

accents like a neophyte. Conferences with Father Coleman on those points

of faith on which they did not differ, followed up by desultory remarks

on those points of faith on which they ought not to differ—critical

discussions with Monsignore Catesby on cathedrals, their forms, their

purposes, and the instances in several countries in which those forms

were most perfect and those purposes best secured—occupied a good deal

of time; and yet these engaging pursuits were secondary in real emotion

to his frequent conversations with Miss Arundel in whose society every

day he took a strange and deeper interest.

She did not extend to him that ready sympathy which was supplied by

the two priests. On the contrary, when he was apt to indulge in those

speculations which they always encouraged, and rewarded by adroit

applause, she was often silent, throwing on him only the scrutiny

of those violet yes, whose glance was rather fascinating than apt to

captivate. And yet he was irresistibly drawn to her, and, once recalling

the portrait in the gallery, he ventured to murmur that they were

kinsfolk.

“Oh! I have no kin, no country,” said Miss Arundel. “These are not times

for kin and country. I have given up all these things for my Master!”

“But are our times so trying as that?” inquired Lothair.

“They are times for new crusades,” said Miss Arundel, with energy,

“though it may be of a different character from the old. If I were a

man, I would draw my sword for Christ. There are as great deeds to

be done as the siege of Ascalon, or even as the freeing of the Holy

Sepulchre.”

In the midst of a profound discussion with Father Coleman on Mariolatry,

Lothair, rapt in reverie, suddenly introduced the subject of Miss

Arundel. “I wonder what will be her lot?” he exclaimed.

“It seems to, me to be settled,” said Father Coleman. “She will be the

bride of the Church.”

“Indeed?” and he started, and even changed color.

“She deems it her vocation,” said Father Coleman.

“And yet, with such gifts, to be immured in a convent,” said Lothair.

“That would not necessarily follow,” replied Father Coleman. “Miss

Arundel may occupy a position in which she may exercise much influence

for the great cause which absorbs her being.”

“There is a divine energy about her,” said Lothair, almost speaking to

himself. “It could not have been given for little ends.”

“If Miss Arundel could meet with a spirit as and as energetic as her

own,” said Father. Coleman, “Her fate might be different. She has no

thoughts which are not great, and no purposes which are not sublime. But

for the companion of her life she would require no less than a Godfrey

de Bouillon.”

Lothair began to find the time pass very rapidly at Vauxe. Easter week

had nearly vanished; Vauxe had been gay during the last few days. Every

day some visitors came down from London; sometimes they returned in the

evening; sometimes they passed the night at Vauxe, and returned to town

in the morning with large bouquets. Lothair felt it was time for him to

interfere, and he broke his intention to Lady St. Jerome; but Lady St.

Jerome would not hear of it. So he muttered something about business.

“Exactly,” she said; “everybody has business, and I dare say you have

a great deal. But Vauxe is exactly the place for persons who have

business. You go up to town by an early train, and then you return

exactly in time for dinner, and bring us all the news from the clubs.”

Lothair was beginning to say something, but Lady St. Jerome, who, when

necessary, had the rare art of not listening without offending the

speaker, told him that they did not intend themselves to return to town

for a week or so, and that she knew Lord St. Jerome would be greatly

annoyed if Lothair did not remain.

Lothair remained; and he went up to town one or two mornings to transact

business; that is to say, to see a celebrated architect and to order

plans for a cathedral, in which all the purposes of those sublime and

exquisite structures were to be realized. The drawings would take a

considerable time to prepare, and these must be deeply considered. So

Lothair became quite domiciliated at Vauxe: he went up to town in the

morning, and returned, as it were, to his home; everybody delighted to

welcome him, and yet he seemed not expected. His rooms were called after

his name; and the household treated him as one of the family.

CHAPTER 17 A few days before Lothair’s visit was to terminate, the

cardinal and Monsignore Berwick arrived at Vauxe. His eminence was

received with much ceremony; the marshalled household, ranged in lines,

fell on their knees at his approach, and Lady St. Jerome, Miss Arundel,

and some other ladies, scarcely less choice and fair, with the lowest

obeisance, touched, with their honored lips, his princely hand.

The monsignore had made another visit to Paris on his intended return

to Rome, but, in consequence of some secret intelligence which he had

acquired in the French capital, had thought fit to return to England

to consult with the cardinal. There seemed to be no doubt that the

revolutionary party in Italy, assured by the withdrawal of the French

troops from Rome, were again stirring. There seemed also little doubt

that London was the centre of preparation, though the project and the

projectors were involved in much, mystery. “They want money,” said

the monsignore; “that we know, and that is now our best chance. The

Aspromonte expedition drained their private resources; and as for

further aid, that is out of the question; the galantuomo is bankrupt.

But the atheists are desperate, and we must prepare for events.”

On the morning after their arrival, the cardinal invited Lothair to a

stroll in the park. “There is the feeling of spring this morning,” said

his eminence, “though scarcely yet its vision.” It was truly a day of

balm, and sweetness, and quickening life; a delicate mist hung about the

huge trees and the masses of more distant woods, and seemed to clothe

them with that fulness of foliage which was not yet theirs. The cardinal

discoursed much on forest-trees, and, happily. He recommended Lothair to

read Evelyn’s “Sylva.” Mr. Evelyn had a most accomplished mind; indeed,

a character in every respect that approached perfection. He was also a

most religious man.

“I wonder,” said Lothair, “how any man who is religious can think of any

thing but religion.”

“True,” said the cardinal, and looking at him earnestly, “most true. But

all things that are good and beautiful make us more religious. They tend

to the development of the religious principle in us, which is our divine

nature. And, my dear young friend,” and here his eminence put his arm

easily and affectionately into that of Lothair, “it is a most happy

thing for you, that you live so much with a really religious family. It

is a great boon for a young man, and a rare one.”

“I feel it so,” said Lothair, his face kindling.

“Ah!” said the cardinal, “when we remember that this country once

consisted only of such families!” And then, with a sigh, and as if

speaking to himself, “And they made it so great and so beautiful!”

“It is still great and beautiful,” said Lothair, but rather in a tone of

inquiry than decision.

“But the cause of its greatness and its beauty no longer exists. It

became great and beautiful because it believed in God.”

“But faith is not extinct?” said Lothair.

“It exists in the Church,” replied the cardinal, with decision. “All

without that pale is practical atheism.”

“It seems to me that a sense of duty is natural to man,” said Lothair,

“and that there can be no satisfaction in life without attempting to

fulfil it.”

“Noble words, my dear young friend; noble and true. And the highest

duty of man, especially in this age, is to vindicate the principles of

religion, without which the world must soon become a scene of universal

desolation.”

“I wonder if England will ever again be a religious country?” said

Lothair, musingly.

“I pray for that daily,” said the cardinal; and he invited his companion

to seat himself on the trunk of an oak that had been lying there

since the autumn fall. A slight hectic flame played over the pale and

attenuated countenance of the cardinal; he seemed for a moment in deep

thought; and then, in a voice distinct yet somewhat hushed, and at first

rather faltering, he said: “I know not a grander, or a nobler career,

for a young man of talents and position in this age, than to be the

champion and asserter of Divine truth. It is not probable that there

could be another conqueror in our time. The world is wearied of

statesmen; whom democracy has degraded into politicians, and of orators

who have become what they call debaters. I do not believe there could

be another Dante, even another Milton. The world is devoted to physical

science, because it believes these discoveries will increase its

capacity of luxury and self-indulgence. But the pursuit of science leads

only to the insoluble. When we arrive at that barren term, the Divine

voice summons man, as it summoned Samuel; all the poetry and passion and

sentiment of human nature are taking refuge in religion; and he, whose

deeds and words most nobly represent Divine thoughts, will be the man of

this century.”

“But who could be equal to such a task?” murmured Lothair.

“Yourself,” exclaimed the cardinal, and he threw his glittering eye upon

his companion. “Any one with the necessary gifts, who had implicit faith

in the Divine purpose.”

“But the Church is perplexed; it is ambiguous, contradictory.”

“No, no,” said the cardinal; “not the Church of Christ; it is never

perplexed, never ambiguous, never contradictory. Why should it be? How

could it be? The Divine persons are ever with it, strengthening and

guiding it with perpetual miracles. Perplexed churches are churches made

by Act of Parliament, not by God.”

Lothair seemed to start, and looked at his guardian with a scrutinizing

glance. And then he said, but not without hesitation, “I experience at

times great despondency.”

“Naturally,” replied the cardinal. “Every man must be despondent who is

not a Christian.”

“But I am a Christian,” said Lothair.

“A Christian estranged,” said the cardinal; “a Christian without the

consolations of Christianity.”

“There is something in that,” said Lothair. “I require the consolations

of Christianity, and yet I feel I have them not. Why is this?”

“Because what you call your religion is a thing apart from your life,

and it ought to be your life. Religion should be the rule of life, not

a casual incident of it. There is not a duty of existence, not a joy

or sorrow which the services of the Church do not assert, or with which

they do not sympathize. Tell me, now; you have, I was glad to hear,

attended the services of the Church of late, since you have been under

this admirable roof. Have you not then found some consolation?”

“Yes; without doubt I have been often solaced.” And Lothair sighed.

“What the soul is to man, the Church is to the world,” said the

cardinal. “It is the link between us and the Divine nature. It came

from heaven complete; it has never changed, and it can never alter. Its

ceremonies are types of celestial truths; its services are suited to all

the moods of man; they strengthen him in his wisdom and his purity, and

control and save him in the hour of passion and temptation. Taken as

a whole, with all its ministrations, its orders, its offices, and the

divine splendor of its ritual, it secures us on earth some adumbration

of that ineffable glory which awaits the faithful in heaven, where the

blessed Mother of God and ten thousand saints perpetually guard over us

with Divine intercession.”

“I was not taught these things in my boyhood,” said Lothair.

“And you might reproach me, and reasonably, as your guardian, for my

neglect,” said the cardinal. “But my power was very limited, and, when

my duties commenced, you must remember that I was myself estranged from

the Church, I was myself a Parliamentary Christian, till despondency and

study and ceaseless thought and prayer, and the Divine will, brought

me to light and rest. But I at least saved you from a Presbyterian

university; I at least secured Oxford for you; and I can assure you, of

my many struggles, that was not the least.”

“It gave the turn to my mind,” said Lothair, “and I am grateful to you

for it. What it will all end in, God only knows.”

“It will end in His glory and in yours,” said the cardinal. “I have

spoken, perhaps, too much and too freely, but you greatly interest me,

not merely because you are my charge, and the son of my beloved friend,

but because I perceive in you great qualities—qualities so great,”

continued the cardinal with earnestness, “that properly guided, they may

considerably affect the history of this country, and perhaps even have a

wider range.”

Lothair shook his head.

“Well, well,” continued the cardinal in a lighter tone, “we will pursue

our ramble. At any rate, I am not wrong in this, that you have no

objection to join in my daily prayer for the conversion of this kingdom

to—religious truth,” his eminence added after a pause.

“Yes religious truth,” said Lothair, “we must all pray for that.”

CHAPTER 18 Lothair returned to town excited and agitated. He felt that

he was on the eve of some great event in his existence, but its precise

character was not defined. One conclusion, however, was indubitable:

life must be religion; when we consider what is at stake, and that our

eternal welfare depends on our due preparation for the future, it was

folly to spare a single hour from the consideration of the best means to

secure our readiness. Such a subject does not admit of half measures or

of halting opinions. It seemed to Lothair that nothing could interest

him in life that was not symbolical of divine truths and an adumbration

of the celestial hereafter.

Could truth have descended from heaven ever to be distorted, to be

corrupted, misapprehended, misunderstood? Impossible! Such a belief

would confound and contradict all the attributes of the All-wise and the

All-mighty. There must be truth on earth now as fresh and complete is it

was at Bethlehem. And how could it be preserved but by the influence

of the Paraclete acting on an ordained class? On this head his tutor at

Oxford had fortified him; by a conviction of the Apostolical succession

of the English bishops, which no Act of Parliament could alter or

affect. But Lothair was haunted by a feeling that the relations of his

Communion with the Blessed Virgin were not satisfactory. They could

not content either his heart or his intellect. Was it becoming that a

Christian should live as regards the hallowed Mother of his God in a

condition of harsh estrangement? What mediatorial influence more awfully

appropriate than the consecrated agent of the mighty mystery? Nor could

he, even in his early days, accept without a scruple the frigid system

that would class the holy actors in the divine drama of the Redemption

as mere units in the categories of vanished generations. Human beings

who had been in personal relation with the Godhead must be different

from other human beings. There must be some transcendent quality in

their lives and careers, in their very organization, which marks them

out from all secular heroes. What was Alexander the Great, or even Caius

Julius, compared with that apostle whom Jesus loved?

Restless and disquieted, Lothair paced the long and lofty rooms which

had been secured for him in a London hotel which rivalled the colossal

convenience of Paris and the American cities. Their tawdry ornaments

and their terrible new furniture would not do after the galleries and

portraits of Vauxe. Lothair sighed.

Why did that visit ever end? Why did the world consist of any thing else

but Tudor palaces in ferny parks, or time be other than a perpetual Holy

Week? He never sighed at Vauxe. Why? He supposed it was because their

religion was his life, and here—and he looked around him with a shudder.

The cardinal was right: it was a most happy thing for him to be living

so much with so truly a religious family.

The door opened, and servants came in bearing a large and magnificent

portfolio. It was of morocco and of prelatial purple with broad bands of

gold and alternate ornaments of a cross and a coronet. A servant handed

to Lothair a letter, which enclosed the key that opened its lock. The

portfolio contained the plans and drawings of the cathedral.

Lothair was lost in admiration of these designs and their execution. But

after the first fever of investigation was over, he required sympathy

and also information. In a truly religious family there would always be

a Father Coleman or a Monsignore Catesby to guide and to instruct. But a

Protestant, if he wants aid or advice on any matter, can only go to his

solicitor. But as he proceeded in his researches he sensibly felt

that the business was one above even an oratorian or a monsignore. It

required a finer and a more intimate sympathy; a taste at the same

time more inspired and more inspiring; some one who blended with divine

convictions the graceful energy of human feeling, and who would not

only animate him to effort but fascinate him to its fulfilment. The

counsellor he required was Miss Arundel.

Lothair had quitted Vauxe one week, and it seemed to him a year. During

the first four-and-twenty hours he felt like a child who had returned to

school, and, the day after, like a man on a desert island. Various

other forms of misery and misfortune were suggested by his succeeding

experience. Town brought no distractions to him; he knew very few

people, and these be had not yet encountered; he had once ventured to

White’s, but found only a group of gray-beaded men, who evidently did

not know him, and who seemed to scan him with cynical nonchalance. These

were not the golden youth whom he had been assured by Bertram would

greet him; so, after reading a newspaper for a moment upside downward,

he got away. But he had no harbor of refuge, and was obliged to ride

down to Richmond and dine alone, and meditate on symbols and celestial

adumbrations. Every day he felt how inferior was this existence to that

of a life in a truly religious family.

But, of all the members of the family to which his memory recurred with

such unflagging interest, none more frequently engaged his thoughts than

Miss Arundel. Her conversation, which stimulated his intelligence while

it rather piqued his self-love, exercised a great influence over him,

and he had omitted no opportunity of enjoying her society. That society

and its animating power he sadly missed; and now that he had before him

the very drawings about which they had frequently talked, and she was

not by his side to suggest and sympathize and criticise and praise, he

felt unusually depressed.

Lothair corresponded with Lady St. Jerome, and was aware of her intended

movements. But the return the family to London had been somewhat

delayed. When this disappointment was first made known to him, his

impulse was to ride down to Vauxe; but the tact in which he was not

deficient assured him that he ought not to reappear on a stage where he

had already figured for perhaps too considerable a time, and so another

week had to be passed, softened, however, by visits from the father of

the oratory and the chamberlain of his holiness, who came to look after

Lothair with much friendliness, and with whom it was consolatory and

even delightful for him to converse on sacred art, still holier things,

and also Miss Arundel.

At length, though it seemed impossible, this second week elapsed, and

to-morrow Lothair was to lunch with Lady St. Jerome in St. James’s

Square, and to meet all his friends. He thought of it all day, and he

passed a restless night. He took an early canter to rally his energies,

and his fancy was active in the splendor of the spring. The chestnuts

were in silver bloom, and the pink May had flushed the thorns, and banks

of sloping turf were radiant with plots of gorgeous flowers. The waters

glittered in the sun, and the air was fragrant with that spell which

only can be found in metropolitan mignonette. It was the hour and the

season when heroic youth comes to great decisions, achieves exploits, or

perpetrates scrapes.

Nothing could be more cordial, nothing more winning, than the reception

of Lothair by Lady St. Jerome. She did not conceal her joy at their

being again together. Even Miss Arundel, though still calm, even a

little demure, seemed glad to see him: her eyes looked kind and pleased,

and she gave him her hand with graceful heartiness. It was the sacred

hour of two when Lothair arrived, and they were summoned to luncheon

almost immediately. Then they were not alone; Lord St. Jerome was not

there, but the priests were present and some others. Lothair, however,

sat next to Miss Arundel.

“I have been thinking of you very often since I left Vauxe,” said

Lothair to his neighbor.

“Charitably, I am sure.”

“I have been thinking of you every day,” he continued, “for I wanted

your advice.”

“Ah! but that is not a popular thing to give.”

“But it is precious—at least, yours is to me—and I want it now very

much.”

“Father Coleman told me you had got the plans for the cathedral,” said

Miss Arundel.

“And I want to show them to you.”

“I fear I am only a critic,” said Miss Arundel, “and I do not admire

mere critics. I was very free in my comments to you on several subjects

at Vauxe; and I must now say I thought you bore it very kindly.”

“I was enchanted,” said Lothair, “and desire nothing but to be ever

subject to such remarks. But this affair of the cathedral, it is your

own thought—I would fain hope your own wish, for unless it were your own

wish I do not think I ever should be able to accomplish it.”

“And when the cathedral is built,” said Miss Arundel “what then?”

“Do you not remember telling me at Vauxe that all sacred buildings

should be respected, for that in the long-run they generally fell to the

professors of the true faith?”

“But when they built St. Peter’s, they dedicated it to a saint in

heaven,” said Miss Arundel. “To whom is yours to be inscribed?”

“To a saint in heaven and in earth,” said Lothair, blushing; “to St.

Clare.”

But Lady St. Jerome and her guests rose at this moment, and it is

impossible to say with precision whether this last remark of Lothair

absolutely reached the ear of Miss Arundel. She looked as if it had

not. The priests and the other guests dispersed. Lothair accompanied the

ladies to the drawing-room; he lingered, and he was meditating if the

occasion served to say more.

Lady St. Jerome was writing a note, Mss Arundel was arranging some work,

Lothair was affecting an interest in her employment in order that he

might be seated by her and ask her questions, when the groom of the

chambers entered and inquired whether her ladyship was at home, and

being answered in the affirmative, retired, and announced and ushered in

the duchess and Lady Corisande.

CHAPTER 19 It seemed that the duchess and Lady St. Jerome were intimate,

for they called each other by their Christian names, and kissed each

other. The young ladies also were cordial. Her grace greeted Lothair

with heartiness; Lady Corisande with some reserve. Lothair thought she

looked very radiant and very proud.

It was some time since they had all met—not since the end of the last

season—so there was a great deal to talk about. There had been deaths

and births and marriages which required a flying comment—all important

events; deaths which solved many difficulties, heirs to estates which

were not expected, and weddings which surprised everybody.

“And have you seen Selina?” inquired Lady St. Jerome.

“Not yet; except mamma, this is our first visit,” replied the duchess.

“Ah! that is real friendship. She came down to Vauxe the other day, but

I did not think she was looking well. She frets herself too much about

her boys; she does not know what to do with them. They will not go into

the Church, and they have no fortune for the Guards.”

“I understood that Lord Plantagenet was to be a civil engineer,” said

Lady Corisande.

“And Lord Albert Victor to have a sheep-walk in Australia,” continued

Lady St. Jerome.

“They say that a lord must not go to the bar,” said Miss Arundel. “It

seems to me very unjust.”

“Alfred Beaufort went the circuit,” said Lady Corisande, “but I believe

they drove him into Parliament.”

“You will miss your friend Bertram at Oxford,” said the duchess,

addressing Lothair.

“Indeed,” said Lothair, rather confused, for he was himself a defaulter

in collegiate attendance. “I was just going to write to him to see

whether one could not keep half a term.”

“Oh! nothing will prevent his taking his degree,” said the duchess, “but

I fear there must be some delay. There is a vacancy for our county—Mr.

Sandstone is dead, and they insist upon returning Bertram. I hope he

will be of age before the nomination. The duke is much opposed to it; he

wishes him to wait; but in these days it is not so easy for young men to

get into Parliament. It is not as it used to be; we cannot choose.”

“This is an important event,” said Lothair to Lady Corisande.

“I think it is; nor do I believe Bertram is too young for public life.

These are not times to be laggard.”

“There is no doubt they are very serious times,” said Lothair.

“I have every confidence in Bertram—in his ability and his principles.”

The ladies began to talk about the approaching drawing-room and Lady

Corisande’s presentation, and Lothair thought it right to make his

obeisance and withdraw. He met in the hall Father Coleman, who was in

fact looking after him, and would have induced him to repair to the

father’s room and hold some interesting conversation, but Lothair was

not so congenial as usual. He was even abrupt, and the father, who

never pressed any thing, assuming that Lothair had some engagement,

relinquished with a serene brow, but not without chagrin, what he had

deemed might have proved a golden opportunity.

And yet Lothair had no engagement, and did not know where to go or what

to do with himself. But he wanted to be alone, and of all persons in the

world at that moment, he had a sort of instinct that the one he wished

least to converse with was Father Coleman.

“She has every confidence in his principles,” said Lothair to himself as

he mounted his horse, “and his principles were mine six months ago, when

I was at Brentham. Delicious Brentham! It seems like a dream; but every

thing seems like a dream; I hardly know whether life is agony or bliss.”

CHAPTER 20 The duke was one of the few gentlemen in London who lived

in a palace. One of the half-dozen of those stately structures that our

capital boasts had fallen to his lot.

An heir-apparent to the throne, in the earlier days of the present

dynasty, had resolved to be lodged as became a prince, and had raised,

amid gardens which he had diverted from one of the royal parks, an

edifice not unworthy of Vicenza in its best days, though on a far more

extensive scale than any pile that favored city boasts. Before the

palace was finished, the prince died, and irretrievably in debt. His

executors were glad to sell to the trustees of the ancestors of the

chief of the house of Brentham the incomplete palace, which ought never

to have been commenced. The ancestor of the duke was by no means so

strong a man as the duke himself, and prudent people rather murmured at

the exploit. But it was what is called a lucky family—that is to say,

a family with a charm that always attracted and absorbed heiresses; and

perhaps the splendor of CRECY HOUSE—for it always retained its original

title—might have in some degree contributed to fascinate the taste or

imagination of the beautiful women who, generation after generation,

brought their bright castles and their broad manors to swell the state

and rent-rolls of the family who were so kind to Lothair.

The centre of Crecy House consisted of a hall of vast proportion, and

reaching to the roof. Its walls commemorated, in paintings by the most

celebrated artists of the age, the exploits of the Black Prince; and its

coved ceiling, in panels resplendent with Venetian gold, contained

the forms and portraits of English heroes. A corridor round this hall

contained the most celebrated private collection of pictures in England

and opened into a series of sumptuous saloons.

It was a rather early hour when Lothair, the morning after his meeting

the duchess at Lady St. Jerome’s, called at Crecy House; but it was only

to leave his card. He would not delay for a moment paying his respects

there, and yet he shrank from thrusting himself immediately into the

circle. The duke’s brougham was in the court-yard. Lothair was holding

his groom’s horse, who had dismounted, when the hall-door opened, and

his grace and Bertram came forth.

“Halloa, old fellow!” exclaimed Bertram, “only think of your being here.

It seems an age since we met. The duchess was telling us about you at

breakfast.”

“Go in and see them,” said the duke, “there is a large party at

luncheon; Augusta Montairy is there. Bertram and I are obliged to go to

Lincoln’s Inn, something about his election.”

But Lothair murmured thanks and declined.

“What are you going to do with yourself to-day?” said the duke. And

Lothair hesitating, his grace continued: “Well, then, come and dine with

us.”

“Of course you will come, old fellow. I have not seen you since you left

Oxford at the beginning of the year. And then we can settle about your

term.” And Lothair assenting, they drove away.

It was nine o’clock before they dined. The days were getting very long,

and soft, and sweet; the riding-parties lingered amid the pink May and

the tender twilight breeze. The Montairys dined to-day at Crecy House,

and a charming married daughter without her husband, and Lord and

Lady Clanmorne, who were near kin to the duchess, and themselves so

good-looking and agreeable that they were as good at a dinner-party as

a couple of first-rate entrées. There was also Lord Carisbrooke, a young

man of distinguished air and appearance; his own master, with a large

estate, and three years or so older than Lothair.

They dined in the Chinese saloon, which was of moderate dimensions, but

bright with fantastic forms and colors, brilliantly lit up. It was the

privilege of Lothair to hand the duchess to her seat. He observed that

Lord Carisbrooke was placed next to Lady Corisande, though he had not

taken her out.

“This dinner reminds me of my visit to Brentham,” said Lothair.

“Almost the same party,” said the duchess.

“The visit to Brentham was the happiest time of my life,” said Lothair,

moodily.

“But you have seen a great deal since,” said the duchess.

“I am not a sure it is of any use seeing things,” said Lothair.

When the ladies retired, there was some talk about horses. Lord

Carisbrooke was breeding; Lothair thought it was a duty to breed, but

not to go on the turf. Lord Carisbrooke thought there could be no good

breeding without racing; Lothair was of opinion that races might be

confined to one’s own parks, with no legs admitted, and immense prizes,

which must cause emulation. Then they joined the ladies, and then, in a

short time, there was music. Lothair hovered about Lady Corisande, and

at last seized a happy opportunity of addressing her.

“I shall never forget your singing at Brentham,” he said; “at first I

thought it might be as Lady Montairy said, because I was not used to

fine singing; but I heard the Venusina the other day, and I prefer your

voice and style.”

“Have you heard the Venusina?” said Lady Corisande, with animation; “I

know nothing that I look forward to with more interest. But I was told

she was not to open her mouth until she appeared at the opera. Where did

you hear her?”

“Oh, I heard her,” said Lothair, “at the Roman Catholic cathedral.”

“I am sure I shall never hear her there,” said Lady Corisande, looking

very grave.

“Do not you think music a powerful accessory to religion?” said Lothair,

but a little embarrassed.

“Within certain limits,” said Lady Corisande—“the limits I am used to;

but I should prefer to hear opera-singers at the opera.”

“Ah! if all amateurs could sing like you,” said Lothair, “that would be

unnecessary. But a fine mass by Mozart—it requires great skill as well

as power to render it. I admire no one so much as Mozart, and especially

his masses. I have been hearing a great many of them lately.”

“So we understood,” said Lady Corisande, rather dryly, and looking

about her as if she were not much interested, or at any rate not much

gratified by the conversation.

Lothair felt he was not getting on, and he wished to get on, but he was

socially inexperienced, and his resources not much in hand. There was a

pause—it seemed to him an awkward pause; and then Lady Corisande walked

away and addressed Lady Clanmorne.

Some very fine singing began at this moment; the room was hushed, no

one moved, and Lothair, undisturbed, had the opportunity of watching his

late companion. There was something in Lady Corisande that to him was

irresistibly captivating; and as he was always thinking and analyzing,

he employed himself in discovering the cause. “She is not particularly

gracious,” he said to himself, “at least not to me; she is beautiful,

but so are others; and others, like her, are clever—perhaps more clever.

But there is something in her brow, her glance, her carriage, which

intimate what they call character, which interests me. Six months ago I

was in love with her, because I thought she was like her sisters. I love

her sisters, but she is not the least like them.”

The music ceased; Lothair moved away, and he approached the duke.

“I have a favor to ask your grace,” he said. “I have made up my mind

that I shall not go back to Oxford this term; would your grace do me the

great favor of presenting me at the next levée?”

CHAPTER 21 One’s life changes in a moment. Half a month ago, Lothair,

without an acquaintance, was meditating his return to Oxford. Now he

seemed to know everybody who was anybody. His table was overflowing with

invitations to all the fine houses in town. First came the routs and

the balls; then, when he had been presented to the husbands, came the

dinners. His kind friends the Duchess and Lady St. Jerome were the

fairies who had worked this sudden scene of enchantment. A single word

from them, and London was at Lothair’s feet.

He liked it amazingly. He quite forgot the conclusion at which he had

arrived respecting society a year ago, drawn from his vast experience of

the single party which he had then attended. Feelings are different when

you know a great many persons, and every person is trying to please you;

above all, when there are individuals whom you want to meet, and whom,

if you do not meet, you become restless.

Town was beginning to blaze. Broughams whirled and bright barouches

glanced, troops of social cavalry cantered and caracolled in morning

rides, and the bells of prancing ponies, lashed by delicate hands,

gingled in the laughing air. There were stoppages in Bond Street,

which seems to cap the climax of civilisation, after crowded clubs and

swarming parks.

But the great event of the season was the presentation of Lady

Corisande. Truly our bright maiden of Brenthani woke and found herself

famous. There are families whom everybody praises, and families who are

treated in a different way. Either will do; all the sons and daughters

of the first succeed, all the sons and daughters of the last are

encouraged in perverseness by the prophetic determination of society.

Half a dozen married sisters, who were the delight and ornament of

their circles, in the case of Lady Corisande were good precursors of

popularity; but the world would not be content with that: they credited

her with all their charms and winning qualities, but also with something

grander and beyond comparison; and from the moment her fair cheek was

sealed by the gracious approbation of Majesty, all the critics of the

Court at once recognised her as the cynosure of the Empyrean.

Monsignore Catesby, who looked after Lothair, and was always

breakfasting with him without the necessity of an invitation (a

fascinating man, and who talked upon all subjects except High Mass),

knew everything that took place at Court without being present there

himself. He led the conversation to the majestic theme, and while he

seemed to be busied in breaking an egg with delicate precision, and

hardly listening to the frank expression of opinions which he carelessly

encouraged, obtained a not insufficient share of Lothair’s views and

impressions of human beings and affairs in general during the last few

days, which had witnessed a Levée and a Drawing-room.

‘Ah! then you were so fortunate as to know the beauty before her début,’

said the Monsignore.

‘Intimately; her brother is my friend. I was at Brentham last summer.

Delicious place! and the most agreeable visit I ever made in my life, at

least, one of the most agreeable.’

‘Ah! ah!’ said the Monsignore. ‘Let me ring for some toast.’

On the night of the Drawing-room, a great ball was given at Crecy

House to celebrate the entrance of Corisande into the world. It was a

sumptuous festival. The palace, resonant with fantastic music, blazed

amid illumined gardens rich with summer warmth.

A prince of the blood was dancing with Lady Corisande. Lothair was

there, vis-à-vis with Miss Arundel.

‘I delight in this hall,’ she said to Lothair; ‘but how superior the

pictured scene to the reality!’

‘What! would you like, then, to be in a battle?’

‘I should like to be with heroes, wherever they might be. What a fine

character was the Black Prince! And they call those days the days of

superstition!’

The silver horns sounded a brave flourish. Lothair had to advance and

meet Lady Corisande. Her approaching mien was full of grace and majesty,

but Lothair thought there was a kind expression in her glance, which

seemed to remember Brentham, and that he was her brother’s friend.

A little later in the evening he was her partner. He could not refrain

from congratulating her on the beauty and the success of the festival.

‘I am glad you are pleased, and I am glad you think it successful; but,

you know, I am no judge, for this is my first ball!’

‘Ah! to be sure; and yet it seems impossible,’ he continued, in a tone

of murmuring admiration.

‘Oh! I have been at little dances at my sisters’; half behind the door,’

she added, with a slight smile. ‘But to-night I am present at a scene of

which I have only read.’

‘And how do you like balls?’ said Lothair.

‘I think I shall like them very much,’ said Lady Corisande; ‘but

to-night, I will confess, I am a little nervous.’

‘You do not look so.’

‘I am glad of that.’

‘Why?’

‘Is it not a sign of weakness?’

‘Can feeling be weakness?’

‘Feeling without sufficient cause is, I should think.’ And then, and in

a tone of some archness, she said, ‘And how do you like balls?’

‘Well, I like them amazingly,’ said Lothair. ‘They seem to me to have

every quality which can render an entertainment agreeable: music, light,

flowers, beautiful faces, graceful forms, and occasionally charming

conversation.’

‘Yes; and that never lingers,’ said Lady Corisande, ‘for see, I am

wanted.’

When they were again undisturbed, Lothair regretted the absence of

Bertram, who was kept at the House.

‘It is a great disappointment,’ said Lady Corisande; ‘but he will yet

arrive, though late. I should be most unhappy though, if he were absent

from his post on such an occasion I am sure if he were here I could not

dance.’

‘You are a most ardent politician,’ said Lothair.

‘Oh! I do not care in the least about common politics, parties and

office and all that; I neither regard nor understand them,’ replied Lady

Corisande. ‘But when wicked men try to destroy the country, then I like

my family to be in the front.’

As the destruction of the country meditated this night by wicked men

was some change in the status of the Church of England, which Monsignore

Catesby in the morning had suggested to Lothair as both just and

expedient and highly conciliatory, Lothair did not pursue the theme,

for he had a greater degree of tact than usually falls to the lot of the

ingenuous.

The bright moments flew on. Suddenly there was a mysterious silence in

the hall, followed by a kind of suppressed stir. Everyone seemed to be

speaking with bated breath, or, if moving, walking on tiptoe. It was the

supper hour?

Soft hour which wakes the wish and melts the heart.

Royalty, followed, by the imperial presence of ambassadors, and escorted

by a group of dazzling duchesses and paladins of high degree, was

ushered with courteous pomp by the host and hostess into a choice

saloon, hung with rose-coloured tapestry and illumined by chandeliers of

crystal, where they were served from gold plate. But the thousand less

favoured were not badly off, when they found themselves in the more

capacious chambers, into which they rushed with an eagerness hardly in

keeping with the splendid nonchalance of the preceding hours.

‘What a perfect family,’ exclaimed Hugo Bohun, as he extracted a couple

of fat little birds from their bed of aspic jelly; ‘everything they

do in such perfect taste. How safe you were here to have ortolans for

supper!’

All the little round tables, though their number was infinite, were

full. Male groups hung about; some in attendance on fair dames, some

foraging for themselves, some thoughtful and more patient and awaiting a

satisfactory future. Never was such an elegant clatter.

‘I wonder where Carisbrooke is,’ said Hugo Bohun. ‘They say he is

wonderfully taken with the beauteous daughter of the house.’

‘I will back the Duke of Brecon against him,’ said one of his

companions. ‘He raved about her at White’s yesterday.’

‘Hem!’

‘The end is not so near as all that,’ said a third wassailer.

‘I do not know that,’ said Hugo Bohun. ‘It is a family that marries off

quickly. If a fellow is obliged to marry, he always likes to marry one

of them.’

‘What of this new star?’ said his friend, and he mentioned Lothair.

‘Oh! he is too young; not launched. Besides he is going to turn

Catholic, and I doubt whether that would do in that quarter.’

‘But he has a greater fortune than any of them.’

‘Immense! A man I know, who knows another man——’ and then he began a

long statistical story about Lothair’s resources.

‘Have you got any room here, Hugo?’ drawled out Lord St. Aldegonde.

‘Plenty, and here is my chair.’

‘On no account; half of it and some soup will satisfy me.’

‘I should have thought you would have been with the swells,’ said Hugo

Bohun.

‘That does not exactly suit me,’ said St. Aldegonde. ‘I was ticketed to

the Duchess of Salop, but I got a first-rate substitute with the charm

of novelty for her Grace, and sent her in with Lothair.’

St. Aldegonde was the heir apparent of the wealthiest, if not the most

ancient, dukedom in the United Kingdom. He was spoiled, but he knew

it. Had he been an ordinary being, he would have merely subsided

into selfishness and caprice, but having good abilities and a

good disposition, he was eccentric, adventurous, and sentimental.

Notwithstanding the apathy which had been engendered by premature

experience, St. Aldegonde held extreme opinions, especially on political

affairs, being a republican of the reddest dye. He was opposed to all

privilege, and indeed to all orders of men, except dukes, who were a

necessity. He was also strongly in favour of the equal division of all

property, except land. Liberty depended on land, and the greater the

landowners, the greater the liberty of a country. He would hold forth on

this topic even with energy, amazed at anyone differing from him; ‘as

if a fellow could have too much land,’ he would urge with a voice and

glance which defied contradiction. St. Aldegonde had married for love,

and he loved his wife, but he was strongly in favour of woman’s rights

and their extremest consequences. It was thought that he had originally

adopted these latter views with the amiable intention of piquing Lady

St. Aldegonde; but if so, he had not succeeded. Beaming with brightness,

with the voice and airiness of a bird, and a cloudless temper, Albertha

St. Aldegonde had, from the first hour of her marriage, concentrated her

intelligence, which was not mean, on one object; and that was never

to cross her husband on any conceivable topic. They had been married

several years, and she treated him as a darling spoiled child. When he

cried for the moon, it was promised him immediately; however irrational

his proposition, she always assented to it, though generally by tact

and vigilance she guided him in the right direction. Nevertheless, St.

Aldegonde was sometimes in scrapes; but then he always went and told

his best friend, whose greatest delight was to extricate him from his

perplexities and embarrassments.

CHAPTER 22 Although Lothair was not in the slightest degree shaken in

his conviction that life should be entirely religious, he was perplexed

by the inevitable obstacles which seemed perpetually to oppose

themselves to the practice of his opinions. It was not merely pleasure

in its multiform appearances that he had to contend against, but

business began imperiously to solicit his attention. Every month brought

him nearer to his majority, and the frequent letters from Mr. Putney

Giles now began to assume the pressing shape of solicitations for

personal interviews. He had a long conversation one morning with Father

Coleman on this subject, who greatly relieved him by the assurance that

a perfectly religious life was one of which the sovereign purpose was to

uphold the interests of the Church of Christ, the father added after a

momentary pause. Business, and even amusement, were, not only compatible

with such a purpose, but might even be conducive to its fulfilment.

Mr. Putney Giles reminded Lothair that the attainment of his majority

must be celebrated, and in a becoming manner. Preparation, and even

considerable preparation, was necessary. There were several scenes

of action—some very distant. It was not too early to contemplate

arrangements. Lothair really must confer with his guardians. They were

both now in town, the Scotch uncle having come up to attend Parliament.

Could they be brought together? Was it indeed impossible? If so, who was

to give the necessary instructions?

It was much more than a year since Lothair had met his uncle, and he did

not anticipate much satisfaction from the renewal of their intimacy; but

every feeling of propriety demanded that it should be recognized, and to

a certain degree revived. Lord Culloden was a black Scotchman, tall and

lean, with good features, a hard red face and iron-gray hair. He was a

man who shrank from scenes, and he greeted Lothair as if they had only

parted yesterday. Looking at him with his keen, unsentimental, but

not unkind, eye, he said: “Well, sir, I thought you would have been at

Oxford.”

“Yes, my dear uncle; but circumstances—”

“Well, well, I don’t want to hear the cause. I am very glad you are not

there; I believe you might as well be at Rome.”

And then in due course, and after some talk of the past and old times,

Lothair referred to the suggestions of Mr. Giles, and hinted at a

meeting of his guardians to confer and advise together.

“No, no,” said the Scotch peer, shaking his head; “I will have nothing

to do with the Scarlet Lady. Mr. Giles is an able and worthy man; he may

well be trusted to draw up a programme for our consideration, and indeed

it is an affair in which yourself should be most consulted. Let all

be done liberally, for you have a great inheritance, and I would be no

curmudgeon in these matters.”

“Well, my dear uncle, whatever is arranged, I hope you and my

cousins will honor and gratify me with your presence throughout the

proceedings.”

“Well, well, it is not much in my way. You will be having balls and fine

ladies. There is no fool like an old fool, they say; but I think, from

what I hear, the young fools will beat us in the present day. Only think

of young persons going over to the Church of Rome. Why, they are just

naturals!”

The organizing genius of Mr. Putney Giles had rarely encountered a more

fitting theme than the celebration of the impending majority. There

was place for all his energy and talent and resources; a great central

inauguration; sympathetical festivals and gatherings in half a dozen

other counties; the troth, as it were, of a sister kingdom to be

pledged; a vista of balls and banquets, and illuminations and addresses,

of ceaseless sports and speeches, and processions alike endless.

“What I wish to effect,” said Mr. Giles, as he was giving his

multifarious orders, “is to produce among all classes an impression

adequate to the occasion. I wish the lord and the tenantry alike to feel

they have a duty to perform.”

In the mean time, Monsignore Catesby was pressing Lothair to become one

of the patrons of a Roman Catholic Bazaar, where Lady St. Jerome and

Miss Arundel were to preside over a stall. It was of importance to show

that charity was not the privilege of any particular creed.

Between his lawyers, and his monsignores, and his architects, Lothair

began to get a little harassed. He was disturbed in his own mind,

too, on greater matters, and seemed to feel every day that it was more

necessary to take a decided step, and more impossible to decide upon

what it should be. He frequently saw the cardinal, who was very kind

to him, but who had become more reserved on religious subjects. He had

dined more than once with his eminence, and had met some distinguished

prelates and some of his fellow-nobles who had been weaned from the

errors of their cradle. The cardinal, perhaps, thought that the presence

of these eminent converts would facilitate the progress, perhaps the

decision, of his ward; but something seemed always to happen to divert

Lothair in his course. It might-be sometimes apparently a very slight

cause, but yet for the time sufficient; a phrase of Lady Corisande for

example, who, though she never directly addressed him on the subject,

was nevertheless deeply interested in his spiritual condition.

“You ought to speak to him, Bertram,” she said one day to her brother

very indignantly, as she read a fresh paragraph alluding to an impending

conversion. “You are his friend. What is the use of friendship if not in

such a crisis as this?”

“I see no use in speaking to a man about love or religion,” said

Bertram; “they are both stronger than friendship. If there be any

foundation for the paragraph, my interference would be of no avail; if

there be none, I should only make myself ridiculous.”

Nevertheless, Bertram looked a little more after his friend, and

disturbing the monsignore, who was at breakfast with Lothair one

morning, Bertram obstinately outstayed the priest, and then said: “I

tell you what, old fellow, you are rather hippish; I wish you were in

the House of Commons.”

“So do I,” said Lothair, with a sigh; “but I have come into every thing

ready-made. I begin to think it very unfortunate.”

“What are you going to do with yourself to-day? If you be disengaged, I

vote we dine together at White’s, and then we will go down to the House.

I will take you to the smoking-room and introduce you to Bright, and we

will trot him out on primogeniture.”

At this moment the servant brought Lothair two letters: one was an

epistle from Father Coleman, meeting Lothair’s objections to becoming a

patron of the Roman Catholic Bazaar, in a very unctuous and exhaustive

manner; and the other from his stud-groom at Oxford, detailing some of

those disagreeable things which will happen with absent masters who

will not answer letters. Lothair loved his stable, and felt particularly

anxious to avoid the threatened visit of Father Coleman on the morrow.

His decision was rapid. “I must go down, this afternoon to Oxford,

my dear fellow. My stable is in confusion. I shall positively return

to-morrow, and I will dine with you at White’s, and we will go to the

House of Commons together, or go to the play.”

CHAPTER 23 Lothair’s stables were about three miles from Oxford. They

were a rather considerable establishment, in which he had taken much

interest, and, having always intended to return to Oxford in the early

part of the year, although he had occasionally sent for a hack or two to

London, his stud had been generally maintained.

The morning after his arrival, he rode over to the stables, where he

had ordered his drag to be ready. About a quarter of a mile before he

reached his place of destination, he observed at some little distance

a crowd in the road, and, hastening on, perceived as he drew nearer

a number of men clustered round a dismantled vehicle, and vainly

endeavoring to extricate and raise a fallen horse; its companion,

panting and foaming, with broken harness but apparently uninjured,

standing aside and held by a boy. Somewhat apart stood a lady alone.

Lothair immediately dismounted and approached her, saying, “I fear you

are in trouble, madam. Perhaps I may be of service?”

The lady was rather tall, and of a singularly distinguished presence.

Her air and her costume alike intimated high breeding and fashion. She

seemed quite serene amid the tumult and confusion, and apparently the

recent danger. As Lothair spoke, she turned her head to him, which had

been at first a little averted, and he beheld a striking countenance,

but one which he instantly felt he did not see for the first time.

She bowed with dignity to Lothair, and said in a low but distinct voice:

“You are most courteous, sir. We have had a sad: accident, but a great

escape. Our horses ran away with us, and, had it not been for that heap

of stones, I do not see how we could have been saved.”

“Fortunately my stables are at hand,” said Lothair, “and I have a

carriage waiting for me at this moment, not a quarter of a mile away. It

is at your service, and I will send for it,” and his groom, to whom he

gave directions, galloped off.

There was a shout as the fallen horse was on his legs again, much cut,

and the carriage shattered and useless. A gentleman came from the crowd

and approached the lady. He was tall and fair, and not ill-favored, with

fine dark eyes and high cheekbones, and still young, though an enormous

beard at the first glance gave him an impression of years, the burden of

which he really did not bear. His dress, though not vulgar, was richer

and more showy than is usual in this country, and altogether there was

something in his manner which, though calm and full of self-respect,

was different from the conventional refinement of England. Yet he was

apparently an Englishman, as he said to the lady, “It is a bad business,

but we must be thankful it is no worse. What troubles me is how you are

to get back. It will be a terrible walk over these stony roads, and I

can hear of no conveyance.”

“My husband,” said the lady, as with dignity she presented the person

to Lothair. “This gentleman,” she continued, “has most kindly offered us

the use of his carriage, which is almost at hand.”

“Sir, you are a friend,” said the gentleman. “I thought there were no

horses that I could not master, but it seems I am mistaken. I bought

these only yesterday; took a fancy to them as we were driving about, and

bought them of a dealer in the road.”

“That seems a clever animal,” said Lothair, pointing to the one

uninjured.

“Ah! you like horses?” said the gentleman.

“Well, I have some taste that way.”

“We are visitors to Oxford,” said the lady. “Colonel Campian, like all

Americans, is very interested in the ancient parts of England.”

“To-day we were going to Blenheim,” said the colonel, “but I thought I

would try these new tits a bit on a by-road first.”

“All’s well that ends well,” said Lothair; “and there is no reason why

you should not fulfil your intention of going to Blenheim, for here is

my carriage, and it is entirely at your service for the whole day, and,

indeed, as long as you stay at Oxford.”

“Sir, there requires no coronet on your carriage to tell me you are

a nobleman,” said the colonel. “I like frank manners, and I like your

team. I know few things that would please me more than to try them.”

They were four roans, highly bred, with black manes and tails. They had

the Arab eye, with arched neck and seemed proud of themselves and their

master.

“I do not see why we should not go to Blenheim,” said the colonel.

“Well, not to-day,” said the lady, “I think. We have had an escape, but

one feels these things a little more afterward than at the time. I

would rather go back to Oxford and be quiet; and there is more than one

college which you have not yet seen.”

“My team is entirely at your service wherever you go,” said Lothair;

“but I cannot venture to drive you to Oxford, for I am there in statu

pupillari and a proctor might arrest us all. But perhaps,” and he

approached the lady, “you will permit me to call on you to-morrow, when

I hope I may find you have not suffered by this misadventure.”

“We have got a professor dining with us to-day at seven o’clock,” said

the colonel, “at our hotel, and if you be disengaged and would join the

party you would add to the favors which you know so well how to confer.”

Lothair handed the lady into the carriage, the colonel mounted the box

and took the ribbons like a master, and the four roans trotted away with

their precious charge and their two grooms behind with folded arms and

imperturbable countenances.

Lothair watched the equipage until it vanished in the distance.

“It is impossible to forget that countenance,” he said; “and I fancy

I did hear at the time that she had married an American. Well, I shall

meet her at dinner—that is something.” And he sprang into his saddle.

CHAPTER 24 The Oxford professor, who was the guest of the American

colonel, was quite a young man, of advanced opinions on all

subjects, religious, social, and political. He was clever, extremely

well-informed, so far as books can make a man knowing, but unable to

profit even by his limited experience of life from a restless vanity and

overflowing conceit, which prevented him from ever observing or thinking

of any thing but himself. He was gifted with a great command of words,

which took the form of endless exposition, varied by sarcasm and

passages of ornate jargon. He was the last person one would have

expected to recognize in an Oxford professor; but we live in times of

transition.

A Parisian man of science, who had passed his life in alternately

fighting at barricades and discovering planets, had given Colonel

Campian, who had lived much in the French capital, a letter of

introduction to the professor, whose invectives against the principles

of English society were hailed by foreigners as representative of the

sentiments of venerable Oxford. The professor, who was not satisfied

with his home career, and, like many men of his order of mind, had

dreams of wild vanity which the New World, they think, can alone

realize, was very glad to make the colonel’s acquaintance, which might

facilitate his future movements. So he had lionized the distinguished

visitors during the last few days over the university, and had availed

himself of plenteous opportunities for exhibiting to them his celebrated

powers of exposition, his talent for sarcasm, which he deemed peerless,

and several highly-finished, picturesque passages, which were introduced

with contemporary art.

The professor was very much surprised when he saw Lothair enter the

saloon at the hotel. He was the last person in Oxford whom he expected

to encounter. Like sedentary men of extreme opinions, he was a social

parasite, and instead of indulging in his usual invectives against peers

and princes, finding himself unexpectedly about to dine with one of that

class, he was content only to dazzle and amuse him.

Mrs. Campian only entered the room when dinner was announced. She

greeted Lothair with calmness but amenity, and took his offered arm.

“You have not suffered, I hope?” said Lothair.

“Very little, and through your kindness.”

It was a peculiar voice, low and musical, too subdued to call thrilling,

but a penetrating voice, so that, however ordinary the observation, it

attracted and impressed attention. But it was in harmony with all her

appearance and manner. Lothair thought he had never seen any one or any

thing so serene; the serenity, however, not of humbleness, nor of merely

conscious innocence; it was not devoid of a degree of majesty; what one

pictures of Olympian repose. And the countenance was Olympian: a Phidian

face, with large gray eyes and dark lashes; wonderful hair, abounding

without art, and gathered together by Grecian fillets.

The talk was of Oxford, and was at first chiefly maintained by the

colonel and the professor.

“And do you share Colonel Campian’s feeling about Old England?” inquired

Lothair of his hostess.

“The present interests me more than the past,” said the lady, “and the

future more than the present.”

“The present seems to me as unintelligible as the future,” said Lothair.

“I think it is intelligible,” said the lady, with a faint smile. “It has

many faults but, not, I think, the want of clearness.”

“I am not a destructive,” said the professor, addressing the colonel,

but speaking loudly; “I would maintain Oxford, under any circumstances,

with the necessary changes.”

“And what are those might I ask?” inquired Lothair.

“In reality, not much. I would get rid of the religion.”

“Get rid of the religion!” said Lothair.

“You have got rid of it once,” said the professor.

“You have altered, you have what people call reformed it,” said Lothair;

“but you have not abolished or banished it from the university.”

“The shock would not be greater, nor so great, as the change from the

papal to the Reformed faith. Besides, universities have nothing to do

with religion.”

“I thought universities were universal,” said Lothair, “and had

something to do with every thing.”

“I cannot conceive any society of any kind without religion,” said the

lady.

Lothair glanced at her beautiful brow with devotion as she uttered these

words.

Colonel Campian began to talk about horses. After that the professor

proved to him that he was related to Edmund Campian, the Jesuit;

and then he got to the Gunpowder Plot, which, he was not sure, if

successful, might not have beneficially influenced the course of our

history. Probably the Irish difficulty would not then have existed.

“I dislike plots,” said the lady; “they always fail.”

“And, whatever their object, are they not essentially immoral?” said

Lothair.

“I have more faith in ideas than in persons,” said the lady. “When a

truth is uttered, it will, sooner or later, be recognized. It is only

an affair of time. It is better that it should mature and naturally

germinate than be forced.”

“You would reduce us to lotus-eaters,” exclaimed the professor. “Action

is natural to man. And what, after all, are conspiracies and revolutions

but great principles in violent action?”

“I think you must be an admirer of repose,” said Lothair to the lady, in

a low voice.

“Because I have seen something of action in my life;” said the lady,

“and it is an experience of wasted energies and baffled thoughts.”

When they returned to the saloon, the colonel and the professor

became interested in the constitution and discipline of the American

universities. Lothair hung about the lady, who was examining some views

of Oxford, and who was ascertaining what she had seen and what she had

omitted to visit. They were thinking of returning home on the morrow.

“Without seeing Blenheim?” said Lothair.

“Without seeing Blenheim,” said the lady; “I confess to a pang; but I

shall always associate with that name your great kindness to us.”

“But cannot we for once enter into a conspiracy together,” said Lothair,

“and join in a happy plot and contrive to go? Besides, I could take you

to the private gardens, for the duke has given me a perpetual order, and

they are really exquisite.”

The lady seemed to smile.

“Theodora,” said the colonel, speaking from the end of the room, “what

have you settled about your train to-morrow?”

“We want to stay another day here,” said Theodora, “and go to Blenheim.”

CHAPTER 25 They were in the private gardens at Blenheim. The sun was

brilliant over the ornate and yet picturesque scene.

“Beautiful, is it not?” exclaimed Lothair.

“Yes, certainly beautiful,” said Theodora. “But, do you know, I do

not feel altogether content in these fine gardens? The principle of

exclusion on which they are all founded is to me depressing. I require

in all things sympathy. You would not agree with me in this. The manners

of your country are founded on exclusion.”

“But, surely, there are times and places when one would like to be

alone.”

“Without doubt,” said the lady; “only I do not like artificial

loneliness. Even your parks, which all the world praises, do not quite

satisfy me. I prefer a forest where all may go—even the wild beasts.”

“But forests are not at command,” said Lothair.

“So you make a solitude and call it peace,” said the lady, with a slight

smile. “For my part, my perfect life would be a large and beautiful

village. I admire Nature, but I require the presence of humanity. Life

in great cities is too exhausting; but in my village there should be

air, streams, and beautiful trees, a picturesque scene, but enough of my

fellow-creatures to insure constant duty.”

“But the fulfilment of duty and society, founded on what you call the

principle of exclusion, are not incompatible,” said Lothair.

“No, but difficult. What should be natural becomes an art; and in every

art it is only the few who can be first rate.”

“I have an ambition to be a first-rate artist in that respect,” said

Lothair, thoughtfully.

“That does you much honor,” she replied, “for you necessarily embark

in a most painful enterprise. The toiling multitude have their sorrows,

which, I believe, will some day be softened, and obstacles hard to

overcome; but I have always thought that the feeling of satiety, almost

inseparable from large possessions, is a surer cause of misery than

ungratified desires.”

“It seems to me that there is a great deal to do,” said Lothair.

“I think so,” said the lady.

“Theodora,” said the colonel, who was a little in advance with the

professor, and turning round his head, “this reminds me of Mirabel,”

and he pointed to the undulating banks covered with rare shrubs, and

touching the waters of the lake.

“And where is Mirabel?” said Lothair.

“It was a green island in the Adriatic,” said the lady, “which belonged

to Colonel Campian; we lost it in the troubles. Colonel Campian was very

fond of it. I try to persuade him that our home was of volcanic origin,

and has only vanished and subsided into its native bed.”

“And were not you fond of it?”

“I never think of the past,” said the lady.

“Oxford is not the first place where I had the pleasure of meeting you,”

Lothair ventured at length to observe.

“Yes, we have met before, in Hyde Park Gardens. Our hostess is a clever

woman, and has been very kind to some friends of mine.”

“And have you seen her lately?”

“She comes to see us sometimes. We do not live in London, but in the

vicinity. We only go to London for the opera, of which we are devotees.

We do not at all enter general society; Colonel Campian only likes

people who interest or amuse him, and he is fortunate in having rather a

numerous acquaintance of that kind.”

“Rare fortune!” said Lothair.

“Colonel Campian lived a great deal at Paris before we marred,” said

the lady, “and in a circle of considerable culture and excitement. He is

social, but not conventional.”

“And you—are you conventional?”

“Well, I live only for climate and the affections,” said the lady “I am

fond of society that pleases me, that is, accomplished and natural and

ingenious; otherwise I prefer being alone. As for atmosphere, as I look

upon it as the main source of felicity, you may be surprised that I

should reside in your country. I should myself like to go to America,

but that would not suit Colonel Campian; and, if we are to live in

Europe, we must live in England. It is not pleasant to reside in a

country where, if you happen to shelter or succor a friend, you may be

subject to a domiciliary visit.”

The professor stopped to deliver a lecture or address on the villa

of Hadrian. Nothing could be more minute or picturesque than his

description of that celebrated pleasaunce. It was varied by portraits of

the emperor and some of his companions, and, after a rapid glance at

the fortunes of the imperial patriciate, wound up with some conclusions

favorable to communism. It was really very clever, and would have made

the fortune of a literary society.

“I wonder if they had gravel-walks in the villa of Hadrian?” said

the colonel. “What I admire most in your country, my lord, are your

gravel-walks, though that lady would not agree with me that matter.”

“You are against gravel-walks,” said Lothair.

“Well, I cannot bring myself to believe that they had gravel-walks in

the garden of Eden,” said the lady.

They had a repast at Woodstock, too late for luncheon, too early for

dinner, but which it was agreed should serve as the latter meal.

“That suits me exactly,” said the lady; “I am a great foe to dinners,

and indeed to all meals. I think when the good time comes we shall give

up eating in public, except perhaps fruit on a green bank with music.”

It was a rich twilight as they drove home, the lady leaning back in

the carriage silent. Lothair sat opposite to her, and gazed upon

a countenance on which the moon began to glisten, and which seemed

unconscious of all human observation.

He had read of such countenances in Grecian dreams; in Corinthian

temples, in fanes of Ephesus, in the radiant shadow of divine groves.

CHAPTER 26 When they had arrived at the hotel, Colonel Campian proposed

that they should come in and have some coffee; but Theodora did not

enforce this suggestion; and Lothair, feeling that she might be wearied,

gracefully though unwillingly waived the proposal. Remembering that on

the noon of the morrow they were to depart, with a happy inspiration, as

he said farewell, he asked permission to accompany them to the station.

Lothair walked away with the professor, who seemed in a conservative

vein, and graciously disposed to make several concessions to the customs

of an ancient country. Though opposed to the land laws, he would operate

gradually, and gave Lothair more than one receipt how to save the

aristocracy. Lothair would have preferred talking about the lady they

had just quitted, but, as he soon found the professor could really give

him no information about her, he let the subject drop.

But not out of his own mind. He was glad to be alone and brood over the

last two days. They were among the most interesting of his life. He had

encountered a character different from any he had yet met, had listened

to new views, and his intelligence had been stimulated by remarks made

casually, in easy conversation, and yet to him pregnant with novel

and sometimes serious meaning. The voice, too, lingered in his ear,

so hushed and deep, and yet so clear and sweet. He leaned over his

mantel-piece in teeming reverie.

“And she is profoundly religious,” he said to himself; “she can conceive

no kind of society without religion. She has arrived at the same

conclusion as myself. What a privilege it would be to speak to her on

such subjects!”

After a restless night the morrow came. About eleven o’clock Lothair

ventured to call on his new friends. The lady was alone; she was

standing by the window, reading an Italian newspaper, which she folded

up and placed aside when Lothair was announced.

“We propose to walk to the station,” said Theodora; “the servants have

gone on. Colonel Campian has a particular aversion to moving with any

luggage. He restricts me to this,” she said, pointing to her satchel, in

which she had placed the foreign newspaper, “and for that he will not be

responsible.”

“It was most kind of you to permit me to accompany you this morning,”

said Lothair; “I should have been grieved to have parted abruptly last

night.”

“I could not refuse such a request,” said the lady; “but do you know, I

never like to say farewell, even for four-and-twenty hours? One should

vanish like a spirit.”

“Then I have erred,” said Lothair, “against your rules and principles.”

“Say my fancies,” said the lady, “my humors, my whims. Besides, this is

not a farewell. You will come and see us. Colonel Campian tells me you

have promised to give us that pleasure.”

“It will be the greatest pleasure to me,” said Lothair; “I can conceive

nothing greater.” And then hesitating a little, and a little blushing,

he added, “When do you think I might come?”

“Whenever you like,” said the lady; “you will always find me at home. My

life is this: I ride every day very early, and far into the country, so

I return tamed some two or three hours after noon, and devote myself to

my friends. We are at home every evening, except opera nights; and

let me tell you, because it is not the custom generally among your

compatriots, we are always at home on Sundays.”

Colonel Campian entered the room; the moment of departure was at hand.

Lothair felt the consolation of being their companion to the station. He

had once hoped it might be possible to be their companion in the train;

but he was not encouraged.

“Railways have elevated and softened the lot of man,” said Theodora,

“and Colonel Campian views them with almost a religious sentiment. But I

cannot read in a railroad, and the human voice is distressing to me

amid the whirl and the whistling, and the wild panting of the loosened

megatheria who drag us. And then those terrible grottos—it is quite a

descent of Proserpine; so I have no resources but my thoughts.”

“And surely that is sufficient,” murmured Lothair.

“Not when the past is expelled,” said the lady.

“But the future,” said Lothair.

“Yes, that is ever interesting, but so vague that it sometimes induces

slumber.”

The bell sounded; Lothair handed the lady to her compartment.

“Our Oxford visit,” she said, “has been a great success, and mainly

through you.”

The colonel was profuse in his cordial farewells, and it seemed they

would never have ended had not the train moved.

Lothair remained upon the platform until it was out of sight, and then

exclaimed, “Is it a dream, or shall I ever see her again?”

CHAPTER 27 Lothair reached London late in the afternoon. Among the notes

and cards and letters on his table was a long and pressing dispatch from

Mr. Putney Giles awaiting his judgment and decision on many points.

“The central inauguration, if I may use the term,” said Mr. Putney

Giles, “is comparatively easy. It is an affair of expense and of

labor—great labor; I may say unremitting labor. But your lordship will

observe the other points are not mere points of expense and labor. We

have to consult the feelings of several counties where your lordship

cannot be present, at least certainly not on this occasion, and yet

where an adequate recognition of those sentiments which ought to exist

between the proprietor and all classes connected with him ought to be

secured. Then Scotland: Scotland is a very difficult business to manage.

It is astonishing how the sentiment lingers in that country connected

with its old independence. I really am quite surprised at it. One of

your lordship’s most important tenants wrote to me only a few days back

that great dissatisfaction would prevail among your lordship’s friends

and tenantry in Scotland, if that country on this occasion were placed

on the same level as a mere English county. It must be recognized as

a kingdom. I almost think it would be better if we could persuade Lord

Culloden, not to attend the English inauguration, but remain in the

kingdom of Scotland, and take the chair and the lead throughout the

festal ceremonies. A peer of the realm, and your lordship’s guardian,

would impart something of national character to the proceedings, and

this, with a judicious emblazoning on some of the banners of the royal

arms of Scotland, might have a conciliatory effect. One should always

conciliate. But your lordship, upon all these points, and especially

with reference to Lord Culloden, must be a much better judge than I am.”

Lothair nearly gave a groan. “I almost wish,” he thought, “my minority

would never end. I am quite satisfied with things as they are. What is

the kingdom of Scotland to me and all these counties? I almost begin to

feel that satiety which she said was inseparable from vast possessions.”

A letter from Bertram, reminding him that he had not dined at White’s as

he had promised, and suggesting some new arrangement, and another from

Monsignore Catesby, earnestly urging him to attend a most peculiar and

solemn function of the Church next Sunday evening, where the cardinal

would officiate and preach, and in which Lady St. Jerome and Miss

Arundel were particularly interested, did not restore his equanimity.

A dinner at White’s! He did not think he could stand a dinner at

White’s. Indeed, he was not sure that he could stand any dinner

anywhere, especially in this hot weather. There was a good deal in what

she said: “One ought to eat alone.”

The ecclesiastical function was a graver matter. It had been long

contemplated, often talked about, and on occasions looked forward to

by him even with a certain degree of eagerness. He wished he had had

an opportunity of speaking with her on these matters. She was eminently

religious; that she had voluntarily avowed. And he felt persuaded that

no light or thoughtless remark could fall from those lips. He wondered

to what Church she belonged? Protestant or papal? Her husband, being

an American, was probably a Protestant, but he was a gentleman of the

South, and with nothing puritanical about him. She was a European, and

probably of a Latin race. In all likelihood she was a Roman Catholic.

It was Wednesday evening, and his valet reminded him that he was engaged

to dine with Lord and Lady Montairy.

Lothair sighed. He was so absorbed by his new feelings that he shrunk

from society with a certain degree of aversion. He felt it quite out of

his power to fulfil his engagement. He sent an excuse. It was Lothair’s

first excuse. In short, he “threw over” the Montairys, to whom he was

so much attached, whom he so much admired, and whose society he had

hitherto so highly prized.

To “throw over” a host is the most heinous of social crimes. It

ought never to be pardoned. It disjoints a party, often defeats the

combinations which might affect the results of a season, and generally

renders the society incoherent and unsatisfactory. If the outrage

could ever be condoned, it might be in the instance of a young man

very inexperienced, the victim of some unexpected condition of nervous

feelings over which the defaulter has really no control.

It was evening, and the restless Lothair walked forth without a purpose,

and in a direction which he rarely visited. “It is a wonderful place,”

said he, “this London; a nation, not a city; with a population greater

than some kingdoms, and districts as different as if they were under

different governments and spoke different languages. And what do I know

of it? I have been living here six months, and my life has been passed

in a park, two or three squares, and half a dozen streets!”

So he walked on and soon crossed Oxford Street, like the Rhine a natural

boundary, and then got into Portland Place, and then found himself

in the New Road, and then he hailed a cruising Hansom, which he had

previously observed was well horsed.

“‘Tis the gondola of London,” said Lothair as he sprang in.

“Drive on till I tell you to stop.”

And the Hansom drove on, through, endless boulevards, some bustling,

some dingy, some tawdry and flaring, some melancholy and mean; rows of

garden gods, planted on the walls of yards full of vases and divinities

of concrete, huge railway halls, monster hotels, dissenting chapels in

the form of Gothic churches, quaint ancient almshouses that were once

built in the fields, and tea-gardens and stingo-houses and knackers’

yards. They were in a district far beyond the experience of Lothair,

which indeed had been exhausted when he had passed Eustonia, and from

that he had been long separated. The way was broad but ill-lit, with

houses of irregular size but generally of low elevation, and sometimes

detached in smoke-dried gardens. The road was becoming a bridge which

crossed a canal, with barges and wharves and timber-yards, when their

progress was arrested by a crowd. It seemed a sort of procession; there

was a banner, and the lamp-light fell upon a religious emblem. Lothair

was interested, and desired the driver not to endeavor to advance. The

procession was crossing the road and entering a building.

“It’s a Roman Catholic chapel,” said a bystander in answer to Lothair.

“I believe it is a meeting about one of their schools. They always have

banners.”

“I think I will get out,” said Lothair to his driver. “This, I suppose,

will pay your fare.”

The man stared with delight at the sovereign in his astonished palm, and

in gratitude suggested that he should remain and wait for the gentleman,

but the restless Lothair declined the proposal.

“Sir, sir,” said the man, leaning down his head as low as possible

from his elevated seat, and speaking in a hushed voice, “you are a real

gentleman. Do you know what all this is?”

“Yes, yes; some meeting about a Roman Catholic school.”

The man shook his head. “You are a real gentleman, and I will tell you

the truth. They meet about the schools of the order of St. Joseph—over

the left—it is a Fenian meeting.”

“A Fenian meeting?”

“Ay, ay, and you cannot enter that place without a ticket. Just you try!

However, if a gentleman like you wants to go, you shall have my ticket,”

said the cab-driver; “and here it is. And may I drive to-morrows as true

a gentleman as I have driven to-day!”

So saying, he took a packet from his breast-pocket, and opening it

offered to Lothair a green slip of paper, which was willingly accepted.

“I should like above all things to go,” he said, and he blended with

the rear of those who were entering the building. The collector of

the tickets stared at Lothair and scrutinized his pass, but all was in

order, and Lothair was admitted.

He passed through a house and a yard, at the bottom of which was a

rather spacious building. When he entered it, he saw in an instant it

was not a chapel. It was what is called a temperance-hall, a room to be

hired for public assemblies, with a raised platform at the end, on which

were half a dozen men. The hall was tolerably full, and Lothair came

in among the last. There were some children sitting on a form placed

against the wall of the room, each with a bun which kept them quiet; the

banner belonged to this school, and was the banner of St. Joseph.

A man dressed like a priest, and known as Father O’Molloy, came forward.

He was received with signs of much sympathy, succeeded by complete

silence. He addressed them in a popular and animated style on the

advantages of education. They knew what that was, and then they

cheered.. Education taught them to know their rights. But what was the

use of knowing their rights unless they enforced them? That was not

to be done by prayer-books, but by something else, and something else

wanted a subscription.

This was the object of the meeting and the burden of all the speeches

which followed, and which were progressively more outspoken than the

adroit introductory discourse. The Saxon was denounced, sometimes with

coarseness, but sometimes in terms of picturesque passion; the vast and

extending organization of the brotherhood was enlarged on, the great

results at hand intimated; the necessity of immediate exertion on the

part of every individual pressed with emphasis. All these views and

remarks received from the audience an encouraging response; and when

Lothair observed men going round with boxes, and heard the clink of

coin, he felt very embarrassed as to what he should do when asked to

contribute to a fund raised to stimulate and support rebellion against

his sovereign. He regretted the rash restlessness which had involved him

in such a position.

The collectors approached Lothair, who was standing at the end of the

room opposite to the platform, where the space was not crowded.

“I should like to speak to Father O’Molloy,” said Lothair; “he is a

priest, and will understand my views.”

“He is a priest here,” said one of the collectors with a sardonic laugh,

“but I am glad to say you will not find his name in the directory.

Father O’Molloy is on the platform and engaged.”

“If you want to speak to the father, speak from where you are,” said

the other collector. “Here, silence! a gentleman wants to address the

meeting.”

And there was silence, and Lothair felt extremely embarrassed, but he

was not wanting, though it was the first time in his life that he had

addressed a public meeting.

“Gentlemen,” said Lothair, “I really had no wish to intrude upon you;

all I desired was to speak to Father O’Molloy. I wished to tell him that

it would have given me pleasure to subscribe to these schools. I am not

a Roman Catholic, but I respect the Roman Catholic religion. But I can

do nothing that will imply the slightest sanction of the opinions I have

heard expressed this evening. For your own sakes—” but here a yell arose

which forever drowned his voice.

“A spy, a spy!” was the general exclamation. “We are betrayed! Seize

him! Knock him over!” and the whole meeting seemed to have turned their

backs on the platform and to be advancing on the unfortunate Lothair.

Two of the leaders on the platform at the same time leaped down from it,

to direct as it were the enraged populace.

But at this moment a man who had been in the lower part of the hall, in

the vicinity of Lothair and standing alone, pushed forward, and by his

gestures and general mien arrested somewhat the crowd, so that the two

leaders who leaped from the platform and bustled through the crowd came

in contact with him.

The stranger was evidently not of the class or country of the rest

assembled. He had a military appearance, and spoke with a foreign accent

when he said, “This is no spy. Keep your people off.”

“And who are you?” inquired the leader thus addressed.

“One accustomed to be obeyed,” said the stranger.

“You may be a spy yourself,” said the leader.

“I will not undertake to say that there are no spies in this room,” said

the stranger, “but this person is not one, and anybody who touches this

person will touch this person at his peril. Stand off, men!” And they

stood off. The wave retreated backward, leaving the two leaders in

front. A couple of hundred men, a moment before apparently full of

furious passion and ready to take refuge in the violence of fear, were

cowed by a single human being.

“Why, you are not afraid of one man?” said the leaders, ashamed of their

following. “Whatever betides, no one unknown shall leave this room, or

it will be Bow Street to-morrow morning.”

“Nevertheless,” said the stranger, “two unknown men will leave this room

and with general assent. If any one touches this person or myself I will

shoot him dead,” and he drew out his revolver, “and as for the rest,

look at that,” he added, giving a paper to the leader of the Fenian

Lodge, “and then give it me back again.”

The leader of the Fenian Lodge glanced at the paper; he grew pale, then

scarlet, folded the paper with great care and returned it reverentially

to the stranger, then looking round to the assembly and waving his hand

he said, “All right, the gentlemen are to go.”

“Well, you have got out of a scrape, young air,” said the stranger to

Lothair when they had escaped from the hall.

“And how can I express my gratitude to you?” Lothair replied.

“Poh!” said the stranger, “a mere affair of common duty. But what

surprises me is how you got your pass-ticket.”

Lothair told him all.

“They manage their affairs in general wonderfully close,” said the

stranger, “but I have no opinion of them. I have just returned from

Ireland, where I thought I would go and see what they really are after.

No real business in them. Their treason is a fairy tale, and their

sedition a child talking in its sleep.”

They walked together about half a mile, and then the stranger said, “At

the end of this we shall get into the City Road, and the land again of

omnibus and public conveyances, and I shall wish you good night.”

“But it is distressing to me to part thus,” said Lothair. “Pray let me

call and pay my respects to my benefactor.”

“No claim to any such title,” said the stranger; “I am always glad to

be of use. I will not trouble you to call on me, for, frankly, I have no

wish to increase the circle of my acquaintance. So, good-night; and, as

you seem to be fond of a little life, take my advice, and never go about

unarmed.”

CHAPTER 28 The Fenian adventure furnished the distraction which Lothair

required It broke that absorbing spell of sentiment which is the

delicious but enervating privilege of the youthful heart; yet, when

Lothair woke in the morning from his well-earned slumbers, the

charm returned, and he fell at once into a reverie of Belmont, and

a speculation when he might really pay his first visit there. Not

to-day—that was clearly out of the question. They had separated only

yesterday, and yet it seemed an age, and the adventure of another world.

There are moods of feeling which defy alike time and space.

But on the morrow, Friday, he might venture to go. But, then, would

to-morrow ever come? It seemed impossible. How were the intervening

hours to pass? The world, however, was not so devoid of resources

as himself, and had already appropriated his whole day. And, first,

Monsignore Catesby came to breakfast with him, talking of every thing

that was agreeable or interesting, but in reality bent on securing his

presence at the impending ecclesiastical ceremony of high import, where

his guardian was to officiate, and where the foundation was to be laid

of the reconciliation of all churches in the bosom of the true one.

Then, in the afternoon, Lothair had been long engaged to a match of

pigeon-shooting, in which pastime Bertram excelled. It seemed there was

to be a most exciting sweepstakes to-day, in which the flower of England

were to compete; Lothair among them, and for the first time.

This great exploit of arms was to be accomplished at the Castle in the

Air, a fantastic villa near the banks of the Thames, belonging to

the Duke of Brecon. His grace had been offended by the conduct or

the comments of the outer world, which in his pastime had thwarted or

displeased him in the free life of Battersea. The Duke of Brecon was a

gentleman easily offended, but not one of those who ever confined their

sense of injury to mere words. He prided himself on “putting down” any

individual or body of men who chose to come into collision with him. And

so in the present instance he formed a club of pigeon-shooters, and

lent them his villa for their rendezvous and enjoyment. The society was

exquisite, exclusive, and greatly sought after. And the fine ladies,

tempted, of course, by the beauty of the scene, honored and inspired the

competing confederates by their presence.

The Castle in the Air was a colossal thatched cottage, built by a

favorite of King George IV. It was full of mandarins and pagodas and

green dragons, and papered with birds of many colors and with vast

tails. The gardens were pretty, and the grounds park-like, with some

noble cedars and some huge walnut-trees.