The Duke of Brecon was rather below the middle size, but he had a

singularly athletic frame not devoid of symmetry. His head was well

placed on his broad shoulders, and his mien was commanding. He was

narrow-minded and prejudiced, but acute, and endowed with an unbending

will. He was an eminent sportsman, and brave even to brutality. His

boast was that he had succeeded in every thing he had attempted, and he

would not admit the possibility of future failure. Though still a

very young man, he had won the Derby, training his own horse; and he

successfully managed a fine stud in defiance of the ring, whom it was

one of the secret objects of his life to extirpate. Though his manner

to men was peremptory, cold, and hard, he might be described as popular,

for there existed a superstitious belief in his judgment, and it was

known that in some instances, when he had been consulted, he had given

more than advice. It could not be said that he was beloved, but he was

feared and highly considered. Parasites were necessary to him, though he

despised them.

The Duke of Brecon was an avowed admirer, of Lady Corisande, and was

intimate with her family. The duchess liked him much, and was often seen

at ball or assembly on his arm. He had such excellent principles, she

said; was so straight-forward, so true and firm. It was whispered that

even Lady Corisande had remarked that the Duke of Brecon was the only

young man of the time who had “character.” The truth is, the duke,

though absolute and hard to men, could be soft and deferential to women,

and such an exception to a general disposition has a charm. It was said,

also, that he had, when requisite, a bewitching smile.

If there were any thing or any person in the world that St. Aldegonde

hated more than another, it was the Duke of Brecon. Why St. Aldegonde

hated him was not very clear, for they had never crossed each other,

nor were the reasons for his detestation, which he occasionally gave,

entirely satisfactory: sometimes it was because the duke drove piebalds;

sometimes because he had a large sum in the funds, which St. Aldegonde

thought disgraceful for a duke; sometimes because he wore a particular

hat, though, with respect to this last allegation, it does not follow

that St. Aldegonde was justified in his criticism, for in all these

matters St. Aldegonde was himself very deficient, and had once strolled

up St. James’s Street with his dishevelled looks crowned with a

wide-awake. Whatever might be the cause, St. Aldegonde generally wound

up—“I tell you what, Bertha, if Corisande marries that follow, I have

made up my mind to go to the Indian Ocean. It is a country I never have

seen, and Pinto tells me you cannot do it well under five years.”

“I hope you will take me, Grenville, with you,” said Lady St. Aldegonde,

“because it is highly probable Corisande will marry the duke; mamma, you

know, likes him so much.”

“Why cannot Corisande marry Carisbrooke?” said St. Aldegonde, pouting;

“he is a really good fellow, much better-looking, and so far as land is

concerned, which after all is the only thing, has as large an estate as

the duke.”

“Well, these things depend a little upon taste,” said Lady St.

Aldegonde.

“No, no,” said St. Aldegonde; “Corisande must marry Carisbrooke.

Your father would not like my going to the Indian Archipelago and not

returning for five years, perhaps never returning. Why should Corisande

break up our society?—why are people so selfish? I never could go to

Brentham again if the Duke of Brecon is always to be there, giving his

opinion, and being what your mother calls ‘straightforward’—I hate a

straightforward fellow. As Pinto says, if every man were straightforward

in his opinions, there would be no conversation. The fun of talk is to

find out what a man really thinks, then contrast it with the enormous

lies he has been telling all dinner, and, perhaps, all his life.”

It was a favorable day for the Castle in the Air; enough, but not

too much sun, and a gentle breeze. Some pretty feet, not alone, were

sauntering in the gardens, some pretty lips lingered in the rooms

sipping tea; but the mass of the fair visitors, marvellously attired,

were assembled at the scene of action, seated on chairs and in groups,

which assumed something of the form of an amphitheatre. There were many

gentlemen in attendance on them, or independent spectators of the sport.

The field was large, not less than forty competitors, and comprising

many of the best shots in England. The struggle therefore, was long and

ably maintained; but, as the end approached, it was evident that the

contest would be between Bertram, Lothair, and the Duke of Brecon.

Lady St. Aldegonde and Lady Montairy were there and their unmarried

sister. The married sisters were highly excited in favor of their

brother, but Lady Corisande said nothing. At last Bertram missed a

bird, or rather his bird, which he had hit, escaped, and fell beyond the

enclosure. Lothair was more successful, and it seemed that it might be

a tie between him and the duke. His grace, when called, advanced with

confident composure, and apparently killed both his birds, when, at

this moment, a dog rushed forward and chased one of the mortally-struck

pigeons. The blue-rock, which was content to die by the hand of a duke,

would not deign to be worried by a dog, and it frantically moved its

expiring wings, scaled the paling, and died. So Lothair won the prize.

“Well,” said Lady Montairy to Lothair, “as Bertram was not to win, I am

glad it was you.”

“And you will not congratulate me?” said Lothair to Lady Corisande.

She rather shook her head. “A tournament of doves,” she said. “I would

rather see you all in the lists of Ashby.”

Lothair had to dine this day with one of the vanquished. This was Mr.

Brancepeth, celebrated for his dinners, still more for his guests. Mr.

Brancepeth was a grave young man. It was supposed that he was always

meditating over the arrangement of his menus, or the skilful means by

which he could assemble together the right persons to partake of them.

Mr. Brancepeth had attained the highest celebrity in his peculiar

career. To dine with Mr. Brancepeth was a social incident that was

mentioned. Royalty had consecrated his banquets, and a youth of note was

scarcely a graduate of society who had not been his guest. There was one

person, however, who, in this respect, had not taken his degree, and, as

always happens under such circumstances, he was the individual on

whom Mr. Brancepeth was most desirous to confer it; and this was St.

Aldegonde. In vain Mr. Brancepeth had approached him with vast cards of

invitation to hecatombs, and with insinuating little notes to dinners

sans falcon; proposals which the presence of princes might almost

construe into a command, or the presence of some one even more

attractive than princes must invest with irresistible charm. It was all

in vain. “Not that I dislike Brancepeth,” said St. Aldegonde; “I rather

like him: I like a man who can do only one thing, but does that well.

But then I hate dinners.”

But the determined and the persevering need never despair of gaining

their object in this world. And this very day, riding home from the

Castle in the Air, Mr. Brancepeth overtook St. Aldegonde, who was

lounging about on a rough Scandinavian cob, as dishevelled as himself,

listless and groomless. After riding together for twenty minutes, St.

Aldegonde informed Mr. Brancepeth, as was his general custom with his

companions, that he was bored to very extinction, and that he did not

know what he should do with himself for the rest of the day. “If I could

only get Pinto to go with me, I think I would run down to the Star and

Garter, or perhaps to Hampton Court.”

“You will not be able to get Pinto today,” said Mr. Brancepeth, “for he

dines with me.”

“What an unlucky fellow I am!” exclaimed St. Aldegonde, entirely to

himself. “I had made up my mind to dine with Pinto to-day.”

“And why should you not? Why not meet Pinto at my house?”

“Well, that is not my way,” said St. Aldegonde, but not in a decided

tone. “You know I do not like strangers, and crowds of wine-glasses, and

what is called all the delicacies of the season.”

“You will meet no one that you do not know and like. It is a little

dinner I made for—” and he mentioned Lothair.

“I like Lothair,” said St. Aldegonde, dreamily. “He is a nice boy.”

“Well, you will have him and Pinto to yourself.”

The large fish languidly rose and swallowed the bait, and the exulting

Mr. Brancepeth cantered off to Hill Street to give the necessary

instructions.

Mr. Pinto was one of the marvels of English society; the most sought

after of all its members, though no one could tell you exactly why. He

was a little oily Portuguese, middle-aged, corpulent, and somewhat bald,

with dark eyes of sympathy, not unmixed with humor. No one knew who he

was, and in a country the most scrutinizing as to personal details, no

one inquired or cared to know. A quarter of a century ago an English

noble had caught him in his travels, and brought him young to England,

where he had always remained. From the favorite of an individual, he had

become the oracle of a circle, and then the idol of society. All this

time his manner remained unchanged. He was never at any time either

humble or pretentious. Instead of being a parasite, everybody flattered

him; and instead of being a hanger-on of society, society hung on Pinto.

It must have been the combination of many pleasing qualities, rather

than the possession of any commanding one, that created his influence.

He certainly was not a wit yet he was always gay, and always said

things that made other people merry. His conversation was sparkling,

interesting, and fluent, yet it was observed he never gave an opinion

on any subject and never told an anecdote. Indeed, he would sometimes

remark, when a man fell into his anecdotage, it was a sign for him to

retire from the world. And yet Pinto rarely opened his mouth without

everybody being stricken with mirth. He had the art of viewing common

things in a fanciful light, and the rare gift of raillery which

flattered the self-love of those whom it seemed sportively not to spare.

Sometimes those who had passed a fascinating evening with Pinto would

try to remember on the morrow what he had said, and could recall

nothing. He was not an intellectual Croesus, but his pockets were full

of six-pences.

One of the ingredients of his social spell was no doubt his manner,

which was tranquil even when he was droll. He never laughed except with

his eyes, and delivered himself of his most eccentric fancies in an

unctuous style. He had a rare gift of mimicry, which he used with

extreme reserve, and therefore was proportionately effective when

displayed. Add to all this, a sweet voice, a soft hand, and a

disposition both soft and sweet, like his own Azores. It was understood

that Pinto was easy in his circumstances, though no one know where these

circumstances were. His equipage was worthy of his position, and in his

little house in May Fair he sometimes gave a dinner to a fine lady, who

was as proud of the event as the Queen of Sheba of her visit to Solomon

the Great.

When St. Aldegonde arrived in Hill Street, and slouched into the saloon

with as uncouth and graceless a general mien as a handsome and naturally

graceful man could contrive to present, his keen though listless glance

at once revealed to him that he was as he described it at dinner to Hugo

Bohun in a social jungle, in which there was a great herd of animals

that he particularly disliked, namely, what he entitled “swells.” The

scowl on his distressed countenance at first intimated a retreat; but

after a survey, courteous to his host, and speaking kindly to Lothair as

he passed on, he made a rush to Mr. Pinto, and, cordially embracing him,

said, “Mind we sit together.”

The dinner was not a failure, though an exception to the polished

ceremony of the normal Brancepeth banquet. The host headed his table,

with the Duke of Brecon on his right and Lothair on his left hand, and

“swells” of calibre in their vicinity; but St. Aldegonde sat far away,

next to Mr. Pinto, and Hugo Bohun on the other side of that gentleman.

Hugo Bohun loved swells, but he loved St. Aldegonde more. The general

conversation in the neighborhood of Mr. Brancepeth did not flag: they

talked of the sport of the morning, and then, by association of ideas,

of every other sport. And then from the sports of England they ranged

to the sports of every other country. There were several there who had

caught salmon in Norway and killed tigers in Bengal, and visited those

countries only for that purpose. And then they talked of horses, and

then they talked of women.

Lothair was rather silent; for in this society of ancients, the youngest

of whom was perhaps not less than five-and-twenty, and some with nearly

a lustre added to that mature period, he felt the awkward modesty of

a freshman. The Duke of Brecon talked much, but never at length. He

decided every thing, at least to his own satisfaction; and if his

opinion were challenged, remained unshaken, and did not conceal it.

All this time a different scene was enacting at the other end of the

table. St. Aldegonde, with his back turned to his other neighbor, hung

upon the accents of Mr. Pinto, and Hugo Bohun imitated St. Aldegonde.

What Mr. Pinto said or was saying was quite inaudible, for he always

spoke low, and in the present case he was invisible, like an ortolan

smothered in vine-leaves; but every now and then St. Aldegonde broke

into a frightful shout, and Hugo Bohun tittered immensely. Then St.

Aldegonde, throwing himself back in his chair, and talking to himself or

the ceiling, would exclaim, “Best thing I ever heard,” while Hugo nodded

sympathy with a beaming smile.

The swells now and then paused in their conversation and glanced at the

scene of disturbance.

“They seem highly amused there,” said Mr. Brancepeth. “I wish they would

pass it on.”

“I think St. Aldegonde,” said the Duke of Brecon, “is the least

conventional man of my acquaintance.”

Notwithstanding this stern sneer, a practiced general like Mr.

Brancepeth felt he had won the day. All his guests would disperse and

tell the world that they had dined with him and met St. Aldegonde,

and to-morrow there would be a blazoned paragraph in the journals

commemorating the event, and written as if by a herald. What did a

little disturb his hospitable mind was that St. Aldegonde literally

tasted nothing. He did not care so much for his occasionally leaning on

the table with both his elbows, but that he should pass by every dish

was distressing. So Mr. Brancepeth whispered to his own valet—a fine

gentleman, who stood by his master’s chair and attended on no one else,

except, when requisite, his master’s immediate neighbor—and desired him

to suggest to St. Aldegonde whether the side-table might not provide,

under the difficulties, some sustenance. St. Aldegonde seemed quite

gratified by the attention, and said he should like to have some cold

meat. Now, that was the only thing the side-table, bounteous as was its

disposition, could not provide. All the joints of the season were named

in vain, and pies and preparations of many climes. But nothing would

satisfy St. Aldegonde but cold meat.

“Well, now I shall begin my dinner,” he said to Pinto, when he was at

length served. “What surprises me most in you is your English. There is

not a man who speaks such good English as you do.”

“English is an expressive language,” said Mr. Pinto, “but not difficult

to master. Its range is limited. It consists, as far as I can observe,

of four words: ‘nice,’ ‘jolly,’ ‘charming,’ and ‘bore;’ and some

grammarians add ‘fond.’”

When the guests rose and returned to the saloon, St. Aldegonde was in

high spirits, and talked to every one, even to the Duke of Brecon, whom

he considerately reminded of his defeat in the morning, adding that from

what he had seen of his grace’s guns he had no opinion of them, and that

he did not believe that breech-loaders suited pigeon-shooting.

Finally, when he bade farewell to his host, St. Aldegonde assured him

that he “never in his life made so good a dinner, and that Pinto had

never been so rich.”

When the party broke up, the majority of the guests went, sooner or

later, to a ball that was given this evening by Lady St. Jerome. Others,

who never went to balls, looked forward with refined satisfaction to a

night of unbroken tobacco. St. Aldegonde went to play whist at the house

of a lady who lived out of town. “I like the drive home,” he said; “the

morning air is so refreshing when one has lost one’s money.”

A ball at St. Jerome House was a rare event, but one highly appreciated.

It was a grand mansion, with a real suite of state apartments, including

a genuine ballroom in the Venetian style, and lighted with chandeliers

of rock-crystal. Lady St. Jerome was a woman of taste and splendor and

romance, who could do justice to the scene and occasion. Even Lord St.

Jerome, quiet as he seemed, in these matters was popular with young men.

It was known that Lord St. Jerome gave, at his ball suppers, the same

champagne that he gave at his dinners, and that was of the highest

class. In short, a patriot. We talk with wondering execration of the

great poisoners of past ages, the Borgias, the inventor of aqua tofana,

and the amiable Marchioness de Brinvilliers; but Pinto was of opinion

that there were more social poisoners about in the present day than in

the darkest, and the most demoralized periods, and then none of them are

punished; which is so strange, he would add, as they are all found out.

Lady St. Jerome received Lothair, as Pinto said, with extreme unction.

She looked in his eyes, she retained his hand, she said that what she

had heard had made her so happy. And then, when he was retiring, she

beckoned him back and said she must have some tea, and, taking his arm,

they walked away together. “I have so much to tell you,” she said,

“and every thing is so interesting. I think we are on the eve of great

events. The monsignore told me your heart was with us. It must be. They

are your own thoughts, your own wishes. We are realizing your own

ideal. I think next Sunday will be remembered as a great day in English

history; the commencement of a movement that may save every thing. The

monsignore, I know, has told you all.”

Not exactly; the Oxford visit had deranged a little the plans of the

monsignore, but he had partially communicated the vast scheme. It

seems there was a new society to be instituted for the restoration of

Christendom. The change of name from Christendom to Europe had proved a

failure and a disastrous one. “And what wonder?” said Lady St. Jerome.

“Europe is not even a quarter of the globe, as the philosophers

pretended it was. There is already a fifth division, and probably there

will be many more, as the philosophers announce it impossible.” The

cardinal was to inaugurate the institution on Sunday next at the

Jesuits’ Church, by one of his celebrated sermons. It was to be a

function of the highest class. All the faithful of consideration were to

attend, but the attendance was not to be limited to the faithful. Every

sincere adherent of church principles who was in a state of prayer and

preparation, was solicited to be present and join in the holy and common

work of restoring to the Divine Master His kingdom upon earth with its

rightful name.

It was a brilliant ball. All the “nice” people in London were there. All

the young men who now will never go to balls were present. This was from

respect to the high character of Lord St. Jerome. Clare Arundel looked

divine, dressed in a wondrous white robe garlanded with violets, just

arrived from Paris, a present from her god-mother, the Duchess of

Lorrain-Sehulenbourg. On her head a violet-wreath, deep and radiant

as her eyes, and which admirably contrasted with her dark golden-brown

hair.

Lothair danced with her, and never admired her more. Her manner toward

him was changed. It was attractive, even alluring. She smiled on him,

she addressed him in tones of sympathy, even of tenderness. She seemed

interested in all he was doing; she flattered him by a mode which is

said to be irresistible to a man, by talking only of himself. When

the dance had finished, he offered to attend her to the tea-room. She

accepted the invitation even with cordiality.

“I think I must have some tea,” she said, “and I like to go with my

kinsman.”

Just before supper was announced, Lady St. Jerome told Lothair, to his

surprise, that he was to attend Miss Arundel to the great ceremony. “It

is Clare’s ball,” said Lady St. Jerome, “given in her honor, and you are

to take care of her.”

“I am more than honored,” said Lothair. “But does Miss Arundel wish it,

for, to tell you the truth, I thought I had rather abused her indulgence

this evening?”

“Of course she wishes it,” said Lady St. Jerome. “Who should lead

her out on such an occasion—her own ball—than the nearest and dearest

relation she has in the world, except ourselves?”

Lothair made no reply to this unanswerable logic, but was as surprised

as he was gratified. He recalled the hour when the kinship was, at the

best, but coldly recognized, the inscrutable haughtiness, even distrust,

with which Miss Arundel listened to the exposition of his views and

feelings, and the contrast which her past mood presented to her present

brilliant sympathy and cordial greeting. But he yielded to the magic of

the flowing hour. Miss Arundel, seemed, indeed, quite a changed being

to-night, full of vivacity, fancy, feeling—almost fun. She was witty,

and humorous, and joyous, and fascinating. As he fed her with cates as

delicate as her lips, and manufactured for her dainty beverages which

would not outrage their purity, Lothair, at last, could not refrain from

intimating his sense of her unusual but charming joyousness.

“No,” she said, turning round with animation, “my natural disposition,

always repressed, because I have felt overwhelmed by the desolation of

the world. But now I have hope; I have more than hope, I have joy. I

feel sure this idea of the restoration of Christendom comes from Heaven.

It has restored me to myself, and has given me a sense of happiness in

this life which I never could contemplate. But what is the climax of my

joy is, that you, after all my own blood, and one in whose career I have

ever felt the deepest interest, should be ordained to lay, as it were,

the first stone of this temple of divine love.”

It was break of day when Lothair jumped into his brougham. “Thank

Heaves,” he exclaimed, “it is at last Friday!”

CHAPTER 29 There is something very pleasant in a summer suburban ride

in the valley of the Thames. London transforms itself into bustling

Knightsbridge, and airy Brompton, brightly and gracefully, lingers

cheerfully in the long, miscellaneous, well-watered King’s-road, and

only says farewell when you come to an abounding river and a picturesque

bridge. The boats were bright upon the waters when Lothair crossed it,

and his dark chestnut barb, proud of its resplendent form, curveted with

joy when it reached a green common, studded occasionally with a group

of pines and well bedecked with gorse. After this he pursued the public

road for a couple of miles until he observed on his left hand a gate

on which was written “private road,” and here he stopped. The gate was

locked, but, when Lothair assured the keeper that he was about to visit

Belmont, he was permitted to enter.

He entered a green and winding lane, fringed with tall elms, and dim

with fragrant shade, and, after proceeding about half a mile, came to a

long, low-built lodge, with a thatched and shelving roof, and surrounded

by a rustic colonnade covered with honeysuckle. Passing through the gate

at hand, he found himself in a road winding through gently-undulating

banks of exquisite turf, studded with rare shrubs, and, occasionally,

rarer trees. Suddenly the confined scene expanded; wide lawns spread

out before him, shadowed with the dark forms of many huge cedars, and

blazing with flower-beds of every hue. The house was also apparent, a

stately mansion of hewn stone, with wings and a portico of Corinthian

columns, and backed by deep woods.

This was Belmont, built by a favorite minister of state, to whom a

grateful and gracious sovereign had granted a slice of a royal park

whereon to raise a palace and a garden, and find occasionally Tusculan

repose.

The lady of the mansion was at home, and, though Lothair was quite

prepared for this, his heart beat. The inner hall was of noble

proportion, and there were ranged in it many Roman busts, and some

ancient slabs and altars of marble. These had been collected some

century ago by the minister; but what immediately struck the eye of

Lothair were two statues by an American artist, and both of fame, the

Sybil and the Cleopatra. He had heard of these, but had never seen

them, and could not refrain from lingering a moment to gaze upon their

mystical and fascinating beauty.

He proceeded through two spacious and lofty chambers, of which it was

evident the furniture was new. It was luxurious and rich, and full of

taste; but there was no attempt to recall the past in the details; no

cabinets and clocks of French kings, or tables of French queens, no

chairs of Venetian senators, no candelabra, that had illumined Doges

of Genoa, no ancient porcelain of rare schools, and ivory carvings and

choice enamels. The walls were hung with master-pieces of modern art,

chiefly of the French school, Ingres and Delaroche and Scheffer.

The last saloon led into a room of smaller dimensions, opening on the

garden, and which Lothair at first thought must be a fernery, it

seemed so full of choice and expanding specimens of that beautiful and

multiform plant; but, when his eye had become a little accustomed to the

scene and to the order of the groups, he perceived they were only the

refreshing and profuse ornaments of a regularly furnished and inhabited

apartment. In its centre was a table covered with writing-materials and

books and some music. There was a chair before the table, so placed as

if some one had only recently quitted it; a book was open, but turned

upon its face, with an ivory cutter by its side. It would seem that the

dweller in the chamber might not be far distant. The servant invited

Lothair to be seated, and, saying that Mrs. Campian must be in the

garden, proceeded to inform his mistress of the arrival of a guest.

The room opened on a terrace adorned with statues and orange-trees, and

descending gently into a garden in the Italian style, in the centre

of which was a marble fountain of many figures. The grounds were not

extensive, but they were only separated from the royal park by a wire

fence, so that the scene seemed alike rich and illimitable. On the

boundary was a summer-house in the shape of a classic temple, one of

those pavilions of pleasure which nobles loved to raise in the last

century.

As Lothair beheld the scene with gratification, the servant reappeared

on the step of the terrace and invited him to descend. Guiding him

through the garden, the servant retired as Lothair recognized Mrs.

Campian approaching them.

She gave her hand to Lothair and welcomed him cordially but with

serenity. They mutually exchanged hopes that their return to town had

been agreeable. Lothair could not refrain from expressing how pleased he

was with Belmont.

“I am glad you approve of our hired home,” said Theodora; “I think we

were fortunate in finding one that suits our tastes and habits. We love

pictures and statues and trees and flowers, and yet we love our friends,

and our friends are people who live in cities.”

“I think I saw two statues to-day of which I have often heard,” said

Lothair.

“The Sibyl and Cleopatra! Yes Colonel Campian is rather proud of

possessing them. He collects only modern art, for which I believe there

is a great future, though some of our friends think it is yet in its

cradle.”

“I am very sorry to say,” said Lothair, “that I know very little about

art, or indeed any thing else, but I admire what is beautiful. I know

something about architecture, at least church architecture.”

“Well, religion has produced some of our finest buildings,” said

Theodora; “there is no question of that; and as long as they are adapted

to what takes place in them they are admirable. The fault I find in

modern churches in this country is, that there is little relation

between the ceremonies and the structure. Nobody seems now conscious

that every true architectural form has a purpose. But I think the climax

of confused ideas is capped when dissenting chapels are built like

cathedrals.”

“Ah! to build a cathedral!” exclaimed Lothair, “that is a great

enterprise. I wish I might show you some day some drawings I have of a

projected cathedral.”

“A projected cathedral!” said Theodora. “Well, I must confess to you I

never could comprehend the idea of a Protestant cathedral.”

“But I am not quite sure,” said Lothair, blushing and agitated, “that it

will be a Protestant cathedral. I have not made up my mind about that.”

Theodora glanced at him, unobserved, with her wonderful gray eyes; a

sort of supernatural light seemed to shoot from beneath their long dark

lashes and read his inmost nature. They were all this time returning, as

she had suggested, to the house. Rather suddenly she said, “By-the-by,

as you are so fond of art, I ought to have asked you whether you would

like to see a work by the sculptor of Cleopatra, which arrived when we

were at Oxford. We have placed it on a pedestal in the temple. It is the

Genius of Freedom. I may say I was assisting at its inauguration when

your name was announced to me.”

Lothair caught at this proposal, and they turned and approached the

temple. Some workmen were leaving the building as they entered, and one

or two lingered.

Upon a pedestal of porphyry rose the statue of a female in marble.

Though veiled with drapery which might have become the Goddess of

Modesty, admirable art permitted the contour of the perfect form to be

traced. The feet were without sandals, and the undulating breadth of

one shoulder, where the drapery was festooned, remained uncovered. One

expected with such a shape some divine visage. That was not wanting;

but humanity was asserted in the transcendent brow, which beamed with

sublime thought and profound enthusiasm.

Some would have sighed that such beings could only be pictured in a

poet’s or an artist’s dream, but Lothair felt that what he beheld with

rapture was no ideal creation, and that he was in the presence of the

inspiring original.

“It is too like!” he murmured.

“It is the most successful recurrence to the true principles of art in

modern sculpture,” said a gentleman on his right hand.

This person was a young man, though more than ten years older than

Lothair. His appearance was striking. Above the middle height, his form,

athletic though lithe and symmetrical, was crowned by a countenance

aquiline but delicate, and from many circumstances of a remarkable

radiancy. The lustre of his complexion, the fire of his eye, and his

chestnut hair in profuse curls, contributed much to this dazzling

effect. A thick but small mustache did not conceal his curved lip or the

scornful pride of his distended nostril, and his beard, close but not

long, did not veil the singular beauty of his mouth. It was an arrogant

face, daring and vivacious, yet weighted with an expression of deep and

haughty thought.

The costume of this gentleman was rich and picturesque. Such

extravagance of form and color is sometimes encountered in the

adventurous toilet of a country house, but rarely experienced in what

might still be looked upon as a morning visit in the metropolis.

“You know Mr. Phoebus?” asked a low, clear voice, and turning round

Lothair was presented to a person so famous that even Lothair had heard

of him.

Mr. Phoebus was the most successful, not to say the most eminent,

painter of the age. He was the descendant of a noble family of Gascony

that had emigrated to England from France in the reign of Louis XIV.

Unquestionably they had mixed their blood frequently during the interval

and the vicissitudes of their various life; but, in Gaston Phoebus,

Nature, as is sometimes her wont, had chosen to reproduce exactly the

original type. He was the Gascon noble of the sixteenth century, with

all his brilliancy, bravery, and boastfulness, equally vain, arrogant,

and eccentric, accomplished in all the daring or the graceful pursuits

of man, yet nursed in the philosophy of our times.

“It is presumption in my talking about such things,” said Lothair; “but

might I venture to ask what you may consider the true principles of

art?”

“ARYAN principles,” said Mr. Phoebus; “not merely the study of Nature,

but of beautiful Nature; the art of design in a country inhabited by

a first-rate race, and where the laws, the manners, the customs, are

calculated to maintain the health and beauty of a first-rate race. In

a greater or less degree, these conditions obtained from the age of

Pericles to the age of Hadrian in pure Aryan communities, but Semitism

began then to prevail, and ultimately triumphed. Semitism has destroyed

art; it taught man to despise his own body, and the essence of art is to

honor the human frame.”

“I am afraid I ought not to talk about such things,” said Lothair; “but,

if by Semitism you mean religion, surely the Italian painters inspired

by Semitism did something.”

“Great things,” said Mr. Phoebus—“some of the greatest. Semitism gave

them subjects, but the Renaissance gave them Aryan art, and it gave that

art to a purely Aryan race. But Semitism rallied in the shape of the

Reformation, and swept all away. When Leo the Tenth was pope, popery was

pagan; popery is now Christian, and art is extinct.”

“I cannot enter into such controversies,” said Lothair. “Every day I

feel more and more I am extremely ignorant.”

“Do not regret it,” said Mr. Phoebus. “What you call ignorance is your

strength. By ignorance you mean a want of knowledge of books. Books are

fatal; they are the curse of the human race. Nine-tenths of existing

books are nonsense, and the clever books are the refutation of that

nonsense. The greatest misfortune that ever befell man was the invention

of printing. Printing has destroyed education. Art is a great thing, and

Science is a great thing; but all that art and science can reveal can

be taught by man and by his attributes—his voice, his hand, his eye. The

essence of education is the education of the body. Beauty and health

are the chief sources of happiness. Men should live in the air; their

exercises should be regular, varied, scientific. To render his body

strong and supple is the first duty of man. He should develop and

completely master the whole muscular system. What I admire in the order

to which you belong is that they do live in the air; that they excel in

athletic sports; that they can only speak one language; and that they

never read. This is not a complete education, but it is the highest

education since the Greek.”

“What you say I feel encouraging,” said Lothair, repressing a smile,

“for I myself live very much in the air, and am fond of all sports;

but I confess I am often ashamed of being so poor a linguist, and was

seriously thinking that I ought to read.”

“No doubt every man should combine an intellectual with a physical

training,” replied Mr. Phoebus; “but the popular conception of the means

is radically wrong. Youth should attend lectures on art and science by

the most illustrious professors, and should converse together afterward

on what they have heard. They should learn to talk; it is a rare

accomplishment, and extremely healthy. They should have music always at

their meals. The theatre, entirely remodelled and reformed, and, under a

minister of state, should be an important element of education. I should

not object to the recitation of lyric poetry. That is enough. I would

not have a book in the house, or even see a newspaper.”

“These are Aryan principles?” said Lothair.

“They are,” said Mr. Phoebus; “and of such principles, I believe,

a great revival is at hand. We shall both live to see another

Renaissance.”

“And our artist here,” said Lothair, pointing to the statue, “you are of

opinion that he is asserting these principles?”

“Yes; because he has produced the Aryan form by studying the Aryan form.

Phidias never had a finer model, and he has not been unequal to it.”

“I fancied,” said Lothair, in a lower and inquiring tone, though Mrs.

Campian had some time before glided out of the pavilion, and was giving

directions to the workmen—“I fancied I had heard that Mrs. Campian was a

Roman.”

“The Romans were Greeks,” said Mr. Phoebus, “and in this instance the

Phidian type came out. It has not been thrown away. I believe Theodora

has inspired as many painters and sculptors as any Aryan goddess. I look

upon her as such, for I know nothing more divine.”

“I fear the Phidian type is very rare,” said Lothair.

“In nature and in art there must always be surpassing instances,” said

Mr. Phoebus. “It is a law, and a wise one; but, depend upon it, so

strong and perfect a type as the original Aryan must be yet abundant

among the millions, and may be developed. But for this you want great

changes in your laws. It is the first duty of a state to attend to the

frame and health of the subject. The Spartans understood this. They

permitted no marriage the probable consequences of which might be a

feeble progeny; they even took measures to secure a vigorous one. The

Romans doomed the deformed to immediate destruction. The union of the

races concerns the welfare of the commonwealth much too nearly to

be intrusted to individual arrangement. The fate of a nation will

ultimately depend upon the strength and health of the population. Both

France and England should look to this; they have cause. As for our

mighty engines of war in the hands of a puny race, it will be the old

story of the lower empire and the Greek fire. Laws should be passed

to secure all this, and some day they will be. But nothing can be done

until the Aryan races are extricated from Semitism.”

CHAPTER 30 Lothair returned to town in a not altogether satisfactory

state of mind. He was not serene or content. On the contrary, he was

rather agitated and perplexed. He could not say he regretted his visit.

He had seen her, and he had seen her to great advantage. He had seen

much too that was pleasing, and had heard also many things that, if not

pleasing, were certainly full of interest. And yet, when he cantered

back over the common, the world somehow did not seem to him so bright

and exhilarating as in the ambling morn. Was it because she was not

alone? And yet why should he expect she should be alone? She had many

friends, and she was as accessible to them as to himself. And yet a

conversation with her, as in the gardens of Blenheim, would have been

delightful, and he had rather counted on it. Nevertheless, it was a

great thing to know men like Mr. Phoebus, and hear their views on the

nature of things. Lothair was very young, and was more thoughtful than

studious. His education hitherto had been, according to Mr. Phoebus, on

the right principle, and chiefly in the open air; but he was intelligent

and susceptible, and in the atmosphere of Oxford, now stirred with many

thoughts, he had imbibed some particles of knowledge respecting the

primeval races which had permitted him to follow the conversation of Mr.

Phoebus not absolutely in a state of hopeless perplexity. He determined

to confer with Father Coleman on the Aryan race and the genius of

Semitism. As he returned through the park, he observed the duchess, and

Lady Corisande in their barouche, resting for a moment in the shade,

with Lord Carisbrooke on one side and the Duke of Brecon on the other.

As he was dressing for dinner, constantly brooding on one thought, the

cause of his feeling of disappointment occurred to him. He had hoped

in this visit to have established some basis of intimacy, and to have

ascertained his prospect and his means of occasionally seeing her. But

he had done nothing of the kind. He could not well call again at Belmont

under a week, but even then Mr. Phoebus or some one else might be there.

The world seemed dark. He wished he had never gone to Oxford. However

a man may plan his life, he is the creature of circumstances. The

unforeseen happens and upsets every thing. We are mere puppets.

He sat next to an agreeable woman at dinner, who gave him an interesting

account of a new singer she had heard the night before at the opera—a

fair Scandinavian, fresh as a lily and sweet as a nightingale.

“I was resolved to go and hear her,” said the lady; “my sister Feodore,

at Paris, had written to me so much about her. Do you know, I have never

been to the opera for an age! That alone was quite a treat to me. I

never go to the opera, nor to the play, nor to any thing else. Society

has become so large and so exacting, that I have found out one never

gets any amusement.”

“Do you know, I never was at the opera?” said Lothair.

“I am not at all surprised; and when you go—which I suppose you will

some day—what will most strike you is, that you will not see a single

person you ever saw in your life.”

“Strange!”

“Yes; it shows what a mass of wealth and taste and refinement there is

in this wonderful metropolis of ours, quite irrespective of the circles

in which we move, and which we once thought entirely engrossed them.”

After the ladies had retired, Bertram, who dined at the same house,

moved up to him; and Hugo Bohun came over and took the vacant seat on

his other side.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” said Hugo. “We have not seen

you for a week.”

“I went down to Oxford about some horses,” said Lothair.

“Fancy going down to Oxford about some horses in the heart of the

season,” said Hugo. “I believe you are selling us, and that, as the

Scorpion announces, you are going to be married.”

“To whom?” said Lothair.

“Ah! that is the point. It is a dark horse at present, and we want you

to tell us.”

“Why do not you marry, Hugo?” said Bertram.

“I respect the institution,” said Hugo, “which is admitting something in

these days; and I have always thought that every woman should marry, and

no man.”

“It makes a woman and it mars a man, you think?” said Lothair.

“But I do not exactly see how your view would work practically,” said

Bertram.

“Well my view is a social problem,” said Hugo, “and social problems are

the fashion at present. It would be solved through the exceptions,

which prove the principle. In the first place, there are your swells who

cannot avoid the halter—you are booked when you are born; and then there

are moderate men like myself, who have their weak moments. I would

not answer for myself if I could find an affectionate family with good

shooting and first-rate claret.”

“There must be many families with such conditions,” said Lothair.

Hugo shook his head. “You try. Sometimes the wine is good and the

shooting bad; sometimes the reverse; sometimes both are excellent, but

then the tempers and the manners are equally bad.”

“I vote we three do something to-morrow,” said Bertram.

“What shall it be?” said Hugo.

“I vote we row down to Richmond at sunset and dine, and then drive our

teams up by moonlight. What say you, Lothair?”

“I cannot, I am engaged. I am engaged to go to the opera.”

“Fancy going to the opera in this sweltering weather!” exclaimed

Bertram.

“He must be going to be married,” said Hugo.

And yet on the following evening, though the weather was quite as sultry

and he was not going to be married, to the opera Lothair went. While the

agreeable lady the day before was dilating at dinner on this once famous

entertainment, Lothair remembered that a certain person went there

every Saturday evening, and he resolved that he should at least have the

satisfaction of seeing her.

It was altogether a new scene for Lothair, and, being much affected by

music, he found the general influence so fascinating that some little

time elapsed before he was sufficiently master of himself to recur to

the principal purpose of his presence. His box was on the first tier,

where he could observe very generally and yet himself be sufficiently

screened. As an astronomer surveys the starry heavens until his

searching sight reaches the desired planet, so Lothair’s scrutinizing

vision wandered till his eye at length lighted on the wished-for orb.

In the circle above his own, opposite to him but nearer the stage, he

recognized the Campians. She had a star upon her forehead, as when he

first met her some six months ago; it seemed an age.

Now what should he do? He was quite unlearned in the social habits of

an opera-house. He was not aware that he had the privilege of paying the

lady a visit in her box, and, had he been so, he was really so shy in

little things that he never could have summoned resolution to open the

door of his own box and request an attendant to show him that of Mrs.

Campian. He had contrived to get to the opera for the first time in his

life, and the effort seemed to have exhausted his social enterprise. So

he remained still, with his glass fixed very constantly on Mrs. Campian,

and occasionally giving himself up to the scene. The performance did not

sustain the first impression. There were rival prima-donnas, and they

indulged in competitive screams; the choruses were coarse, and

the orchestra much too noisy. But the audience were absorbed or

enthusiastic. We may be a musical nation, but our taste would seem to

require some refinement.

There was a stir in Mrs. Campian’s box: a gentleman entered and seated

himself. Lothair concluded he was an invited guest, and envied him. In

about a quarter of an hour the gentleman bowed and retired, and another

person came in, and one whom Lothair recognized as a young man who had

been sitting during the first act in a stall beneath him. The system of

paying visits at the opera then flashed upon his intelligence, as some

discovery in science upon a painful observer. Why should he not pay a

visit too? But how to do it? At last he was bold enough to open the door

of his own box and go forth, but he could find no attendant, and some

persons passing his open door, and nearly appropriating his lodge, in a

fit of that nervous embarrassment which attends inexperience in little

things, he secured his rights by returning baffled to his post.

There had been a change in Mrs. Campian’s box in the interval. Colonel

Campian had quitted it, and Mr. Phoebus occupied his place. Whether it

were disappointment at his own failure or some other cause, Lothair

felt annoyed. He was hot and cold by turns; felt awkward and blundering;

fancied people were looking at him; that in some inexplicable sense he

was ridiculous; wished he had never gone to the opera.

As time, and considerable time, elapsed, he became even miserable. Mr.

Phoebus never moved, and Mrs. Campian frequently conversed with him.

More than one visitor had in the interval paid their respects to the

lady, but Mr. Phoebus never moved. They did not stay, perhaps because

Mr. Phoebus never moved.

Lothair never liked that fellow from the first. Sympathy and antipathy

share our being as day and darkness share our lives. Lothair had felt

an antipathy for Mr. Phoebus the moment he saw him. He had arrived at

Belmont yesterday before Lothair, and he had outstayed him. These might

be Arian principles, but they were not the principles of good-breeding.

Lothair determined to go home, and never to come to the opera again. He

opened the door of his box with firmness, and slammed it with courage;

he had quite lost his shyness, was indeed ready to run a muck with

any one who crossed him. The slamming of the door summoned a scudding

attendant from a distant post, who with breathless devotion inquired

whether Lothair wanted any thing.

“Yes, I want you to show me the way to Mrs. Campian’s box.”

“Tier above, No. 22,” said the box-keeper.

“Ay, ay; but conduct me to it,” said Lothair, and he presented the man

with an overpowering honorarium.

“Certainly, my lord,” said the attendant.

“He knows me,” thought Lothair; but it was not so. When the British

nation is at once grateful and enthusiastic, they always call you “my

lord.”

But in his progress, to “No. 22, tier above,” all his valor evaporated,

and when the box-door was opened he felt very much like a convict on the

verge of execution; he changed color, his legs tottered, his heart beat,

and he made his bow with a confused vision. The serenity of Theodora

somewhat reassured him, and he seated himself, and even saluted Mr.

Phoebus.

The conversation was vapid and conventional—remarks about the opera and

its performers—even the heat of the weather was mentioned. Lothair had

come, and he had nothing to say. Mrs. Campian seemed much interested

in the performance; so, if he had had any thing to say, there was no

opportunity of expressing it. She had not appeared to be so engrossed

with the music before his arrival. In the mean time that Phoebus would

not move; a quarter of an hour elapsed, and that Phoebus would not move.

Lothair could not stand it any longer; he rose and bowed.

“Are you going?” said Theodora. “Colonel Campian will be here in a

moment; he will be quite grieved not to see you.”

But Lothair was inflexible. “Perhaps,” she added, “we may see you

to-morrow night?”

“Never,” said Lothair to himself, as he clinched his teeth; “my visit to

Belmont was my first and my last. The dream is over.”

He hurried to a club in which he had been recently initiated, and of

which the chief purpose is to prove to mankind that night to a wise man

has its resources as well as gaudy day. Here striplings mature their

minds in the mysteries of whist, and stimulate their intelligence by

playing at stakes which would make their seniors look pale; here matches

are made; and odds are settled, and the cares or enterprises of life

are soothed or stimulated by fragrant cheroots or beakers of Badminton.

Here, in the society of the listless and freakish St. Aldegonde, and

Hugo Bohun, and Bertram, and other congenial spirits, Lothair consigned

to oblivion the rival churches of Christendom, the Aryan race, and the

genius of Semitism.

It was an hour past dawn when he strolled home. London is often

beautiful in summer at that hour, the architectural lines clear and

defined in the smokeless atmosphere, and ever and anon a fragrant gale

from gardened balconies wafted in the blue air. Nothing is stirring

except wagons of strawberries and asparagus, and no one visible except

a policeman or a member of Parliament returning from a late division,

where they have settled some great question that need never have been

asked. Eve has its spell of calmness and consolation, but dawn brings

hope and joy.

But not to Lothair. Young, sanguine, and susceptible, he had, for a

moment, yielded to the excitement of the recent scene, but with his

senses stilled by the morning air, and free from the influence of

Bertram’s ready sympathy, and Hugo Bohun’s gay comments on human life,

and all the wild and amusing caprice, and daring wilfulness, and grand

affectation, that distinguish and inspire a circle of patrician youth,

there came over him the consciousness that to him something dark had

occurred, something bitter and disappointing and humiliating, and that

the breaking morn would not bring to him a day so bright and hopeful as

his former ones.

At first he fell into profound slumber: it was the inevitable result of

the Badminton and the late hour. There was a certain degree of physical

exhaustion which commanded repose. But the slumber was not long, and his

first feeling, for it could not be called thought, was that some great

misfortune had occurred to him; and then the thought following the

feeling brought up the form of the hated Phoebus. After that he had no

real sleep, but a sort of occasional and feverish doze with intervals

of infinite distress, waking always to a consciousness of inexpressible

mortification and despair.

About one o’clock, relinquishing all hope of real and refreshing

slumber, he rang his bell, and his valet appearing informed him that

Father Coleman had called, and the monsignore had called, and that now

the cardinal’s secretary had just called, but the valet had announced

that his lord was indisposed. There was also a letter from Lady St.

Jerome. This news brought a new train of feeling. Lothair remembered

that this was the day of the great ecclesiastical function, under the

personal auspices of the cardinal, at which indeed Lothair hid never

positively promised to assist, his presence at which he had sometimes

thought they pressed unreasonably, not to say even indelicately, but

at which he had perhaps led them, not without cause, to believe that he

would be present. Of late the monsignore had assumed that Lothair had

promised to attend it.

Why should he not? The world was all vanity. Never did he feel more

convinced than at this moment of the truth of his conclusion, that if

religion were a real thing, man should live for it alone; but then came

the question of the Churches. He could not bring himself without a

pang to contemplate a secession from the Church of his fathers. He took

refuge in the wild but beautiful thought of a reconciliation between

Rome and England. If the consecration of the whole of his fortune to

that end could assist in effecting the purpose, he would cheerfully make

the sacrifice. He would then go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre,

and probably conclude his days in a hermitage on Mount Athos.

In the mean time he rose, and, invigorated by his bath, his thoughts

became in a slight degree more mundane. They recurred to the events of

the last few days of his life, but in a spirit of self-reproach and of

conscious vanity and weakness. Why, he had not known her a week! This

was Sunday morning, and last Sunday he had attended St. Mary’s and

offered up his earnest supplications for the unity of Christendom.

That was then his sovereign hope and thought. Singular that a casual

acquaintance with a stranger, a look, a glance, a word, a nothing,

should have so disturbed his spirit and distracted his mind.

And yet—

And then he fell into an easy-chair, with a hair-brush in either hand,

and conjured up in reverie all that had passed since that wondrous morn

when he addressed her by the road-side, until the last dark hour when

they parted—and forever. There was not a word she had uttered to him, or

to any one else, that he did not recall; not a glance, not a gesture—her

dress, her countenance, her voice, her hair. And what scenes had all

this passed in! What refined and stately loveliness! Blenheim, and

Oxford, and Belmont! They became her. Ah! why could not life consist

of the perpetual society of such delightful people in such delightful

places?

His valet entered and informed him that the monsignore had returned, and

would not be denied. Lothair roused himself from his delicious reverie,

and his countenance became anxious and disquieted. He would have

struggled against the intrusion, and was murmuring resistance to his

hopeless attendant, who shook his head, when the monsignore glided into

the room without permission, as the valet disappeared.

It was a wonderful performance: the monsignore had at the same time to

make a reconnoissance and to take up a position—to find out what Lothair

intended to do, and yet to act and speak as if he was acquainted with

those intentions, and was not only aware of, but approved them. He

seemed hurried and yet tranquil, almost breathless with solicitude and

yet conscious of some satisfactory consummation. His tones were at all

times hushed, but to-day he spoke in a whisper, though a whisper of

emphasis, and the dark eyes of his delicate aristocratic visage peered

into Lothair, even when he was making a remark which seemed to require

no scrutiny.

“It is one of the most important days for England that have happened in

our time,” said the monsignore. “Lady St. Jerome thinks of nothing else.

All our nobility will be there—the best blood in England—and some others

who sympathize with the unity of the Church, the real question. Nothing

has ever gratified the cardinal more than your intended presence. He

sent to you this morning. He would have called himself, bat he has much

to go through today. His eminence said to me: ‘It is exactly what I

want. Whatever way be our differences, and they are really slight, what

I want is to show to the world that the sons of the Church will unite

for the cause of Divine truth. It is the only course that can save

society.’ When Lady St. Jerome told him that you were coming this

evening, his eminence was so affected that—”

“But I never said I was coming this evening,” said Lothair, rather

dryly, and resolved to struggle, “either to Lady St. Jerome or to any

one else. I said I would think of it.”

“But for a Christian to think of duty is to perform it,” said the

monsignore. “To be ignorant of a duty is a sin, but to be aware of duty,

and not to fulfil it, is heinous.”

“But is it a duty?” said Lothair, rather doggedly.

“What! to serve God and save society? Do you doubt it? Have you read the

‘Declaration of Geneva?’ They have declared war against the Church,

the state, and the domestic principle. All the great truths and laws

on which the family reposes are denounced. Have you seen Garibaldi’s

letter? When it was read, and spoke of the religion of God being

propagated throughout the world, there was a universal cry of ‘No, no!

no religion!’ But the religion of God was soon so explained as to allay

all their fears. It is the religion of science. Instead of Adam, our

ancestry is traced to the most grotesque of creatures, thought is

phosphorus, the soul complex nerves, and our moral sense a secretion of

sugar. Do you want these views in England? Rest assured they are coming.

And how are we to contend against them? Only by Divine truth. And where

is Divine truth? In the Church of Christ—in the gospel of order, peace,

and purity.”

Lothair rose, and paced the room with his eyes on the ground.

“I wish I had been born in the middle ages,” he exclaimed, “or on the

shores of the Sea of Galilee, or in some other planet: anywhere, or at

any time, but in this country and in this age!”

“That thought is not worthy of you, my lord,” said Catesby. “It is a

great privilege to live in this country and in this age. It is a

great privilege, in the mighty contest between the good and the evil

principle, to combat for the righteous. They stand face to face now, as

they have stood before. There is Christianity, which, by revealing the

truth, has limited the license of human reason; there is that human

reason which resists revelation as a bondage—which insists upon being

atheistical, or polytheistical, or pantheistical—which looks upon the

requirements of obedience, justice, truth, and purity, as limitations

of human freedom. It is to the Church that God has committed the custody

and execution of His truth and law. The Church, as witness, teacher, and

judge, contradicts and offends the spirit of license to the quick. This

is why it is hated; this is why it is to be destroyed, and why they

are preparing a future of rebellion, tyranny, falsehood, and degrading

debauchery. The Church alone can save us, and you are asked to

supplicate the Almighty to-night, under circumstances of deep hope, to

favor the union of churchmen, and save the human race from the impending

deluge.”

Lothair threw himself again into his seat and sighed. “I am rather

indisposed today, my dear monsignore, which is unusual with me, and

scarcely equal to such a theme, doubtless of the deepest interest to

me and to all. I myself wish, as you well know, that all mankind were

praying under the same roof. I shall continue in seclusion this morning.

Perhaps you will permit me to think over what you have said with so much

beauty and force.”

“I had forgotten that I had a letter to deliver to you,” said Catesby;

and he drew from his breast-pocket a note which he handed to Lothair,

who opened it quite unconscious of the piercing and even excited

observation of his companion.

Lothair read the letter with a changing countenance, and then he read

it again and blushed deeply. The letter was from Miss Arundel. After a

slight pause, without looking up, he said, “Nine o’clock is the hour, I

believe.”

“Yes,” said the monsignore rather eagerly, “but, were I you, I would be

earlier than that. I would order my carnage at eight. If you will permit

me, I will order it for you. You are not quite well. It will save you

some little trouble, people coming into the room and all that, and the

cardinal will be there by eight o’clock.”

“Thank you,” said Lothair; “have the kindness then, my dear monsignore,

to order my brougham for me at half-past eight and just say that I can

see no one. Adieu!”

And the priest glided away.

Lothair remained the whole morning in a most troubled state, pacing his

rooms, leaning sometimes with his arm upon the mantel-piece, and his

face buried in his arm, and often he sighed. About half-past five he

rang for his valet and dressed, and in another hour he broke his fast—a

little soup, a cutlet, and a glass or two of claret. And then he looked

at his watch; and he looked at his watch every five minutes for the next

hour.

He was in deep reverie, when the servant announced that his carriage was

ready. He started as from a dream, then pressed his hand to his eyes,

and kept it there for some moments, and then, exclaiming, “Jacta est

alea,” he descended the stairs.

“Where to, my lord?” inquired the servant when he had entered the

carriage.

Lothair seemed to hesitate, and then he said, “To Belmont.”

CHAPTER 31 “Belmont is the only house I know that is properly lighted,”

said Mr. Phoebus, and he looked with complacent criticism round the

brilliant saloons. “I would not visit any one who had gas in his house;

but even in palaces I find lamps—it is too dreadful. When they came here

first, there was an immense chandelier suspended in each of these rooms,

pulling down the ceilings, dwarfing the apartments, leaving the guests

all in darkness, and throwing all the light on the roof. The chandelier

is the great abomination of furniture; it makes a noble apartment look

small. And then they say you cannot light rooms without chandeliers!

Look at these—need any thing be more brilliant? And all the light in the

right place—on those who are in the chamber. All light should come from

the side of a room, and if you choose to have candelabra like these you

can always secure sufficient.”

Theodora was seated on a sofa, in conversation with a lady of

distinguished mien and with the countenance of a Roman empress. There

were various groups in the room, standing or seated. Colonel Campian was

attending a lady to the piano where a celebrity presided, a gentleman

with cropped head and a long black beard. The lady was of extraordinary

beauty—one of those faces one encounters in Asia Minor, rich, glowing,

with dark fringed eyes of tremulous lustre; a figure scarcely less

striking, of voluptuous symmetry. Her toilet was exquisite—perhaps a

little too splendid for the occasion, but abstractedly of fine taste—and

she held, as she sang, a vast bouquet entirely of white stove-flowers.

The voice was as sweet as the stephanopolis, and the execution

faultless. It seemed the perfection of chamber-singing—no shrieks and no

screams, none of those agonizing experiments which result from the fatal

competition of rival prima-donnas.

She was singing when Lothair was ushered in. Theodora rose and greeted

him with friendliness. Her glance was that of gratification at his

arrival, but the performance prevented any conversation save a few

kind remarks interchanged in a hashed tone. Colonel Campian came up: he

seemed quite delighted at renewing his acquaintance with Lothair, and

began to talk rather too loudly, which made some of the gentlemen

near the piano turn round with glances of wondering reproach. This

embarrassed his newly-arrived guest, who in his distress caught the bow

of a lady who recognized him, and whom he instantly remembered as Mrs.

Putney Giles. There was a vacant chair by her side, and he was glad to

occupy it.

“Who is that lady?” inquired Lothair of his companion, when the singing

ceased.

“That is Madame Phoebus,” said Mrs. Giles.

“Madame Phoebus!” exclaimed Lothair, with an unconscious feeling of some

relief. “She is a very beautiful woman. Who was she?”

“She is a Cantacuzene, a daughter of the famous Greek merchant. The

Cantcuzenes, you know, are great people, descendants of the Greek

emperors. Her uncle is prince of Samos. Mr. Cantacuzene was very much

opposed to the match, but I think quite wrong. Mr. Phoebus is a most

distinguished man, and the alliance is of the happiest. Never was such

mutual devotion.”

“I am not surprised,” said Lothair, wonderfully relieved.

“Her sister Euphrosyne is in the room,” continued Mrs. Giles, “the most

extraordinary resemblance to her. There is just the difference between

the matron and the maiden; that is all. They are nearly of the same age,

and before the marriage might have been mistaken for each other.

The most charming thing in the world is to hear the two sisters sing

together. I hope they may to-night. I know the family very well. It was

Mrs. Cantacuzene who introduced me to Theodora. You know it is quite en

règle to call her Theodora. All the men call her Theodora; ‘the divine

Theodora’ is, I believe, the right thing.”

“And do you call her Theodora?” asked Lothair, rather dryly.

“Why, no,” said Mrs. Giles, a little confused. “We are not intimate, at

least not very, Ms. Campian has been at my house, and I have been here

two et three times; not so often as I could wish, for Mr. Giles, you

see, does not like servants and horses to be used on Sundays—and no more

do I—and on weekdays he is too much engaged or too tired to come out

this distance; so you see—”

The singing had ceased, and Theodora approached them. Addressing

Lothair, she said: “The Princess of Tivoli wishes that you should be

presented to her.”

The Princess of Tivoli was a Roman dame of one of the most illustrious

houses, but who now lived at Paris. She had in her time taken an active

part in Italian politics, and had sacrificed to the cause to which she

was devoted the larger part of a large fortune. What had been spared,

however, permitted her to live in the French capital with elegance, if

not with splendor; and her saloon was the gathering roof, in Paris,

of almost every one who was celebrated for genius or accomplishments.

Though reputed to be haughty and capricious, she entertained for

Theodora an even passionate friendship, and now visited England only to

see her.

“Madame Campian has been telling me of all the kind things you did for

her at Oxford,” said the princess. “Some day you must show me Oxford,

but it must be next year. I very much admire the free university life.

Tell me now, at Oxford you still have the Protestant religion?”

Lothair ventured to bow assent.

“Ah! that is well,” continued the princess. “I advise you to keep it. If

we had only had the Protestant religion in Italy, things would have

been very different. You are fortunate in this country in having

the Protestant religion and a real nobility. Tell me now, in your

constitution, if the father sits in the Upper Chamber, the son sits in

the Lower House—that I know; but is there any majorat at attached to his

seat?”

“Not at present.”

“You sit in the Lower House, of course?”

“I am not old enough to sit in either House,” said Lothair, “but when I

am of age, which I shall be when I have the honor of showing Oxford

to your highness, I must sit in the Upper House, for I have not the

blessing of a living father.”

“Ah! that is a great thing in your country,” exclaimed the princess, “a

man being his own master at so early an age.”

“I thought it was a ‘heritage of woe,’” said Lothair.

“No, no,” said the princess; “the only tolerable thing in life is

action, and action is feeble without youth. What if you do not obtain

your immediate object?—you always think you will, and the detail of the

adventure is full of rapture. And thus it is the blunders of youth are

preferable to the triumphs of manhood, or the successes of old age.”

“Well, it will be a consolation for me to remember this when I am in a

scrape,” said Lothair.

“Oh! you have many, many scrapes awaiting you,” said the princess.

“You may look forward to at least ten years of blunders—that is,

illusions—that is, happiness. Fortunate young man!”

Theodora had, without appearing to intend it, relinquished her seat

to Lothair, who continued his conversation with the princess, whom he

liked, but who, he was sorry to hear, was about to leave England, and

immediately—that very night. “Yes,” she said, “it is my last act of

devotion. You know, in my country we have saints and shrines. All

Italians, they say, are fond, are superstitious; my pilgrimage is to

Theodora. I must come and worship her once a year.”

A gentleman bowed lowly to the princess, who returned his salute with

pleased alacrity. “Do you know who that is?” said the princess to

Lothair. “That is Baron Gozelius, one of our great reputations. He must

have just arrived. I will present you to him; it is always agreeable to

know a great man,” she added—“at least Goethe says so!”

The philosopher, at her invitation, took a chair opposite the sofa.

Though a profound man, he had all the vivacity and passion which are

generally supposed to be peculiar to the superficial. He had remarkable

conversational power, which he never spared. Lothair was captivated by

his eloquence, his striking observations, his warmth, and the flashing

of his southern eye.

“Baron Gozelius agrees with your celebrated pastor, Dr. Cumming,” said

Theodora, with a tinge of demure sarcasm, “and believes that the end of

the world is at hand.”

“And for the same reasons?” inquired Lothair.

“Not exactly,” said Theodora, “but in this instance science and

revelation have arrived at the same result, and that is what all

desire.”

“All that I said was,” said Gozelius, “that the action of the sun had

become so irregular that I thought the chances were in favor of the

destruction of our planet. At least, if I were a public office, I would

not insure it.”

“Yet the risk would not be very great under those circumstances,” said

Theodora.

“The destruction of this worlds foretold,” said Lothair; “the stars

are to fall from the sky; but while I credit, I cannot bring my mind to

comprehend, such a catastrophe.”

“I have seen a world created and a world destroyed,” said Gozelius. “The

last was flickering ten years, and it went out as I was watching it.”

“And the first?” inquired Lothair, anxiously.

“Disturbed space for half a century—a great pregnancy. William Herschel

told me it would come when I was a boy, and I cruised for it through

two-thirds of my life. It came at last, and it repaid me.”

There was a stir. Euphrosyne was going to sing with her sister. They

swept by Lothair in their progress to the instrument, like the passage

of sultanas to some kiosk on the Bosporus. It seemed to him that he had

never beheld any thing so resplendent. The air was perfumed by their

movement and the rustling of their wondrous robes. “They must be of the

Aryan race,” thought Lothair, “though not of the Phidian type.” They

sang a Greek air, and their sweet and touching voices blended with

exquisite harmony. Every one was silent in the room, because every one

was entranced. Then they gave their friends some patriotic lay which

required chorus, the sisters, in turn, singing a stanza. Mr. Phoebus

arranged the chorus in a moment, and there clustered round the piano

al number of gentlemen almost as good-looking and as picturesque as

himself. Then, while Madame Phoebus was singing, Euphrosyne suddenly,

and with quickness, moved away and approached Theodora, and whispered

something to her, but Theodora slightly shook her head, and seemed to

decline.

Euphrosyne regained the piano, whispered something to Colonel Campian,

who was one of the chorus, and then commenced her own part. Colonel

Campian crossed the room and spoke to Theodora, who instantly, without

the slightest demur, joined her friends. Lothair felt agitated, as

he could not doubt Theodora was going to sing. And so it was; when

Euphrosyne had finished, and the chorus she had inspired had died away,

there rose a deep contralto sound, which, though without effort, seemed

to Lothair the most thrilling tone he had ever listened to. Deeper and

richer, and richer and deeper, it seemed to become, as it wound with

exquisite facility through a symphony of delicious sound, until it ended

in a passionate burst, which made Lothair’s heart beat so tumultuously

that for a moment he thought he should be overpowered.

“I never heard any thing so fine in my life,” said Lothair to the French

philosopher.

“Ah! if you had heard that woman sing the Marseillaise, as I did once,

to three thousand people, then you would know what was fine. Not one of

us who would not have died on the spot for her!”

The concert was over. The Princess of Tivoli had risen to say farewell.

She stood apart with Theodora, holding both her hands, and speaking with

earnestness. Then she pressed her lips to Theodora’s forehead, and said,

“Adieu, my best beloved; the spring will return.”

The princess had disappeared, and Madame Phoebus came up to say

good-night to her hostess.

“It is such a delicious night,” said Theodora, “that I have ordered our

strawberries-and-cream on the terrace. You must not go.”

And so she invited them all to the terrace. There was not a breath

of air, the garden was flooded with moonlight, in which the fountain

glittered, and the atmosphere was as sweet as it was warm.

“I think the moon will melt the ice to-night,” said Theodora, as she led

Madame Phoebus to a table covered with that innocent refreshment in many

forms, and pyramids of strawberries, and gentle drinks which the fancy

of America could alone devise.

“I wonder we did not pass the whole evening on the terrace,” said

Lothair.

“One must sing in a room,” said Euphrosyne, “or the nightingales would

eclipse us.”

Lothair looked quickly at the speaker, and caught the glance of a

peculiar countenance—mockery blended with Ionian splendor.

“I think strawberries-and-cream the most popular of all food,” said

Madame Phoebus, as some touched her beautiful lips.

“Yes; and one is not ashamed of eating it,” said Theodora.

Soon there was that stir which precedes the breaking up of an assembly.

Mrs. Giles and some others had to return to town. Madame Phoebus and

Euphrosyne were near neighbors at Roehampton, but their carriage had

been for some time waiting. Mr. Phoebus did not accompany them. He chose

to walk home on such a night, and descended into the garden with his

remaining friends.

“They are going to smoke,” said Theodora. “Is it your habit?”

“Not yet.”

“I do not dislike it in the air and at a distance; but I banish them the

terrace. I think smoking must be a great consolation to a soldier;” and,

as she spoke, she moved, and, without formally inviting him, he found

himself walking by her side.

Rather abruptly he said, “You wore last night at the opera the same

ornament as on the first time I had the pleasure meeting you.”

She looked at him with a smile, and a little surprised. “My solitary

trinket; I fear you will never see any other.”

“But you do not despise trinkets?” said Lothair.

“Oh no; they are very well. Once I was decked with jewels and ropes of

pearls, like Titian’s Queen of Cyprus. I sometimes regret my pearls.

There is a reserve about pearls which I like—something soft and dim. But

they are all gone, and I ought not to regret them, for they went in a

good cause. I kept the star, because it was given to me by a hero; and

once we flattered ourselves it was a symbol.”

“I wish I were a hero!” said Lothair.

“You may yet prove one.”

“And if I do, may I give you a star?”

“If it be symbolical.”

“But of what?”

“Of an heroic purpose.”

“But what is an heroic purpose?” exclaimed Lothair. “Instead of being

here to-night, I ought, perhaps, to have been present at a religious

function of the highest and deepest import, which might have influenced

my destiny, and led to something heroic. But my mind is uncertain and

unsettled. I speak to you without reserve, for my heart always entirely

opens to you, and I have a sort of unlimited confidence in your

judgment. Besides, I have never forgotten what you said at Oxford about

religion—that you could not conceive society without religion. It is

what I feel myself, and most strongly; and yet there never was a period

when religion was so assailed. There is no doubt the atheists are

bolder, are more completely organized, both as to intellectual and even

physical force, than ever was known. I have heard that from the highest

authority. For my own part, I think I am prepared to die for Divine

truth. I have examined myself severely, but I do not think I should

falter. Indeed, can there be for man a nobler duty than to be the

champion of God? But then the question of the churches interferes. If

there were only one church, I could see my way. Without a church, there

can be no true religion, because otherwise you have no security for the

truth. I am a member of the Church of England, and when I was at Oxford

I thought the Anglican view might be sustained. But, of late, I have

given ray mind deeply to these matters, for, after all, they are the

only matters a man should think of; and, I confess to you, the claim of

Rome to orthodoxy seems to me irresistible.”

“You make no distinction, then, between religion and orthodoxy?” said

Theodora.

“Certainly I make no difference.”

“And yet, what is orthodox at Dover is not orthodox at Calais or Ostend.

I should be sorry to think that, because there was no orthodoxy in

Belgium or France, there was no religion.”

“Yes,” said Lothair, “I think I see what you mean.”

“Then again, if we go further,” continued Theodora, “there is the whole

of the East; that certainly is not orthodox, according to your views.

You may not agree with all or any of their opinions, but you could

scarcely maintain that, as communities, they are irreligious.”

“Well, you could not, certainly,” said Lothair.

“So you see,” said Theodora, “what is called orthodoxy has very little

to do with religion; and a person may be very religious without holding

the same dogmas as yourself, or, as some think, without holding any.”

“According to you, then,” said Lothair, “the Anglican view might be

maintained.”

“I do not know what the Anglican view is,” said Theodora. “I do not

belong to the Roman or to the Anglican Church.”

“And yet, you are very religious,” said Lothair.

“I hope so; I try to be so; and, when I fail in any duty, it is not the

fault of my religion. I never deceive myself into that; I know it is my

own fault.”

There was a pause; but they walked on. The soft splendor of the scene

and all its accessories, the moonlight, and the fragrance, and the

falling waters, wonderfully bewitched the spirit of the young Lothair.

“There is nothing I would not tell you,” he suddenly exclaimed, turning

to Theodora, “and sometimes I think there is nothing you would not tell

me. Tell me, then, I entreat you, what is your religion?”

“The true religion, I think,” said Theodora. “I worship in a church

where I believe God dwells, and dwells for my guidance and my good—my

conscience.”

“Your conscience may be divine,” said Lothair, “and I believe it is; but

the consciences of other persons are not divine, and what is to

guide them, and what is to prevent or to mitigate the evil they would

perpetrate?”

“I have never heard from priests,” said Theodora, “any truth which my

conscience had not revealed to me. They use different language from what

I use, but I find, after a time, that we mean the thing. What I call

time they call eternity; when they describe heaven, they give a picture

of earth; and beings whom they style divine, they invest with all the

attributes of humanity.”

“And yet is it not true,” said Lothair, “that—”

But, at this moment, there were the sounds of merriment and of

approaching footsteps; the form of Mr. Phoebus appeared ascending the

steps of the terrace, followed by others. The smokers had fulfilled

their task. There were farewells, and bows, and good-nights. Lothair had

to retire with the others, and, as he threw himself into his brougham,

he exclaimed: “I perceive that life is not so simple an affair as I once

supposed.”

CHAPTER 32 When the stranger, who had proved so opportune an ally

to Lothair at the Fenian meeting, separated from his companion, he

proceeded in the direction of Pentonville, and, after pursuing his way

through a number of obscure streets, but quiet, decent, and monotonous,

he stopped at a small house in a row of many residences, yet all of

them, in, form, size, color, and general character, so identical, that

the number on the door could alone assure the visitor that he was not in

error when he sounded the knocker.

“Ah! is it you, Captain Bruges?” said the smiling and blushing maiden

who answered to his summons. “We have not seen you for a long time.”

“Well, you look as kind and as pretty as ever, Jenny,” said the captain,

“and how is my friend?”

“Well,” said the damsel, and she shrugged her shoulders, “he mopes. I’m

very glad you have come back, captain, for he sees very few now, and is

always writing. I cannot bear that writing; if he would only go and take

a good walk, I am sure he would be better.”

“There is something in that,” said Captain Bruges. “And is he at home,

and will he see me?”

“Oh! he is always at home to you, captain; but I will just run up and

tell him you are here. You know it is long since we have seen you,

captain—coming on half a year, I think.”

“Time flies, Jenny. Go, my good girl, and I will wait below.”

“In the parlor, if you please, Captain Bruges. It is to let now. It is

more than a mouth since the doctor left us. That was a loss, for, as

long as the doctor was here, he always had some one to speak with.”

So Captain Bruges entered the little dining-room with its mahogany

table, and half a dozen chairs, and cellaret, and over the fireplace a

portrait of Garibaldi, which had been left as a legacy to the landlady

by her late lodger, Dr. Tresorio.

The captain threw a quick glance at the print, and then, falling into

reverie, with his hands crossed behind him, paced the little chamber,

and was soon lost in thoughts which made him unconscious how long had

elapsed when the maiden summoned him.

Following her, and ascending the stair-case, he was ushered into the

front room of the first floor, and there came forward to meet him a man

rather below the middle height, but of a symmetrical and imposing mien.

His face was grave, not to say sad; thought, not time, had partially

silvered the clustering of his raven hair; but intellectual power

reigned in his wide brow, while determination was the character of the

rest of his countenance, under great control, yet apparently, from the

dark flashing of his eye, not incompatible with fanaticism.

“General,” he exclaimed, “your presence always reanimates me. I shall at

least have some news on which I rely. Your visit is sudden—sudden things

are often happy ones. Is there any thing stirring in the promised land?

Speak, speak! You have a thousand things to say, and I have a thousand

ears.”

“My dear Mirandola,” replied the visitor, “I will take leave to call

into council a friend whose presence is always profitable.”

So saying, he took out a cigar-case, and offered it to his companion.

“We have smoked together in palaces,” said Mirandola, accepting the

proffer with a delicate white hand.

“But not these cigars,” replied the general. “They are superb, my only

reward for all my transatlantic work, and sometimes I think a sufficient

one.”

“And Jenny shall give us a capital cup of coffee,” said Mirandola; “it

is the only hospitality that I can offer my friends. Give me a light, my

general; and now, how are things?”

“Well, at the first glance, very bad; the French have left Rome, and we

are not in it.”

“Well, that is an infamy not of today or yesterday,” replied Mirandola,

“though not less an infamy. We talked over this six months ago, when

you were over here about something else, and from that moment unto the

present I have with unceasing effort labored to erase this stigma from

the human consciousness, but with no success. Men are changed; public

spirit is extinct; the deeds of ‘48 are to the present generations as

incomprehensible as the Punic wars, or the feats of Marius against the

Cimbri. What we want are the most natural things in the world, and easy

of attainment because they are natural. We want our metropolis,

our native frontiers, and true liberty. Instead of these, we have

compromises, conventions, provincial jealousies, and French prefects.

It is disgusting, heart-rending; sometimes I fear my own energies are

waning. My health is wretched; writing and speaking are decidedly bad

for me, and I pass my life in writing and speaking. Toward evening I

feel utterly exhausted, and am sometimes, which I thought I never could

be, the victim of despondency. The loss of the doctor was a severe blow,

but they hurried him out of the place. The man of Paris would never rest

till he was gone. I was myself thinking of once more trying Switzerland,

but the obstacles are great; and, in truth, I was at the darkest moment

when Jenny brought me the light of your name.”

The general, who had bivouacked on a group of small chairs, his leg on

one, his elbow on another, took his cigar from his mouth and delivered

himself of a volume of smoke, and then said dryly: “Things may not be so

bad as they seem, comrade. Your efforts have not been without fruit.

I have traced them in many quarters, and, indeed, it is about their

possible consequences that I have come over to consult with you.”

“Idle words, I know, never escape those lips,” said Mirandola; “speak

on.”

“Well,” said the general, “you see that people are a little exhausted

by the efforts of last year; and it must be confessed that no slight

results were accomplished. The freedom of Venice—”

“A French intrigue,” exclaimed Mirandola. “The freedom of Venice is the

price of the slavery of Rome. I heard of it with disgust.”

“Well, we do not differ much on that head,” said the general. “I am not

a Roman as you are, but I view Rome, with reference to the object of

my life, with feelings not less ardent and absorbing than yourself, who

would wish to see it again the empress of the world. I am a soldier, and

love war, and, left to myself, would care little perhaps for what form

of government I combated, provided the army was constituted on the

principles of fraternity and equality; but the passion of my life, to

which I have sacrificed military position, and perhaps,” he added in

a lower tone, “perhaps even military fame, has been to destroy

priestcraft, and, so long as the pope rules in Rome, it will be

supreme.”

“We have struck him down once,” said Mirandola.

“And I hope we shall again, and forever,” said the general, “and it

is about that I would speak. You are in error in supposing that your

friends do not sympathize with you, or that their answers are dilatory

or evasive. There is much astir; the old spirit is not extinct, but

the difficulties are greater than in former days when we had only the

Austrians to encounter, and we cannot afford to make another failure.”

“There could be no failure if we were clear and determined. There must

be a hundred thousand men who would die for our metropolis, our natural

frontiers, and true liberty. The mass of the pseudo-Italian army must

be with us. As for foreign interference, its repetition seems to me

impossible. The brotherhood in the different countries, if well guided,

could alone prevent it. There should be at once a manifesto addressed to

the peoples. They have become absorbed in money-grubbing and what they

call industry. The external life of a nation is its most important one.

A nation, as an individual, has duties to fulfil appointed by God and

His moral law; the individual toward his family, his town, his country;

the nation toward the country of countries, humanity—the outward world.

I firmly believe that we fail and renounce the religious and divine

element of our life whenever we betray or neglect those duties. The

internal activity of a nation is important and sacred because it

prepares the instrument for its appointed task. It is mere egotism if

it converges toward itself, degrading and doomed to expiation—as will

be the fate of this country in which we now dwell,” added Mirandola in

a hushed voice. “England had a mission; it had belief, and it had power.

It announced itself the representative of religious, commercial, and

political freedom, and yet, when it came to action, it allowed Denmark

to be crushed by Austria and Prussia, and, in the most nefarious

transaction of modern times, uttered the approving shriek of ‘Perish

Savoy!’”

“My dear Mirandola,” said the general, trimming his cigar, “there is no

living man who appreciates your genius and your worth more than

myself; perhaps I might say there is no living man who has had equal

opportunities of estimating them. You formed the mind of our country;

you kindled and kept alive the sacred flame when all was gloom, and

all were without heart. Such prodigious devotion, so much resource

and pertinacity and patience, such unbroken spirit, were never before

exhibited by man; and, whatever may be said by your enemies, I know that

in the greatest hour of action you proved equal to it; and yet at this

moment, when your friends are again stirring, and there is a hope of

spring, I am bound to tell you that there are only two persons in the

world who can effect the revolution, and you are not one of them.”

“I am ardent, my general, perhaps too sanguine, but I have no self-love,

at least none when the interests of the great cause are at stake. Tell

me, then, their names, and count, if required, on my cooperation.”

“Garibaldi and Mary-Anne.”

“A Polchinello and a Bayadere!” exclaimed Mirandola, and, springing from

his seat, he impatiently paced the room.

“And yet,” continued the general calmly, “there is no manner of doubt

that Garibaldi is the only name that could collect ten thousand men

at any given point in Italy; while in France, though her influence

is mythical, the name of Mary-Anne is a name of magic. Though never

mentioned, it is never forgotten. And the slightest allusion to it among

the initiated will open every heart. There are more secret societies

in France at this moment than at any period since ‘85, though you hear

nothing of them; and they believe in Mary-Anne, and in nothing else.”

“You have been at Caprera?” said Mirandola.

“I have been at Caprera.”

“And what did he say?”

“He will do nothing without the sanction of the Savoyard.”

“He wants to get wounded in his other foot,” said Mirandola, with savage

sarcasm. “Will he never weary of being betrayed?”

“I found him calm and sanguine,” said the general.

“What of the woman?”

“Garibaldi will not move without the Savoyard, and Mary-Anne will not

move without Garibaldi; that is the situation.”

“Have you seen her?”

“Not yet; I have been to Caprera, and I have come over to see her and

you. Italy is ready for the move, and is only waiting for the great man.

He will not act without the Savoyard; he believes in him. I will not be

skeptical. There are difficulties enough without imagining any. We have

no money, and all our sources of supply are drained; but we have the

inspiration of a sacred cause, we have you—we may gain others—and, at

any rate, the French are no longer at Rome.”

CHAPTER 33 “The Goodwood Cup, my lord—the Doncaster. This pair

of flagons for his highness the Khedive—something quite new—yes,

parcel-gilt, the only style now—it gives relief to design—yes, by Monti,

a great man, hardly inferior to Flaxman, if at all. Flaxman worked for

Rundell and Bridge in the old days—one of the principal causes of

their success. Your lordship’s gold service was supplied by Rundell and

Bridge. Very fine service indeed, much by Flaxman—nothing of that kind

seen now.”

“I never did see it,” said Lothair. He was replying to Mr. Ruby, a

celebrated jeweller and goldsmith, in a celebrated street, who had

saluted him when he had entered the shop, and called the attention of

Lothair to a group of treasures of art.

“Strange,” said Mr. Ruby smiling. “It is in the next room, if your

lordship would like to see it. I think your lordship should see your

gold service. Mr. Putney Giles ordered it here to be examined and put in

order.”

“I should like to see it very much,” said Lothair, “though I came to

speak to you about something else.”

And so Lothair, following Mr. Ruby into an inner apartment, had the

gratification, for the first time, of seeing his own service of gold

plate laid out in completeness, and which had been for some time

exhibited to the daily admiration of that favored portion of the English

people who frequent the brilliant and glowing counters of Mr. Ruby.

Not that Lothair was embarrassed by their presence at this moment. The

hour of their arrival had not yet come. Business had not long commenced

when Lothair entered the shop, somewhat to the surprise of its master.

Those who know Bond Street only in the blaze of fashionable hours can

form but an imperfect conception of its matutinal charm when it is

still shady and fresh—when there are no carriages, rarely a cart,

and passers-by gliding about on real business. One feels as in some

Continental city. Then there are time and opportunity to look at the

shops; and there is no street in the world that can furnish such a

collection, filled with so many objects of beauty, curiosity, and

interest. The jewellers and goldsmiths and dealers in rare furniture,

porcelain, and cabinets, and French pictures, have long fixed upon Bond

Street as their favorite quarter, and are not chary of displaying their

treasures; though it may be a question whether some of the magazines

of fancy food—delicacies culled from all the climes and regions of the

globe—particularly at the matin hour, may not, in their picturesque

variety, be the most attractive. The palm, perhaps, would be given to

the fish-mongers, with their exuberant exhibitions, grouped with skill,

startling often with strange forms, dazzling with prismatic tints, and

breathing the invigorating redolence of the sea.

“Well, I like the service,” said Lothair, “and am glad, as you tell

me, that its fashion has come round again, because there will now be no

necessity for ordering a new one. I do not myself much care for plate.

I like flowers and porcelain on a table, and I like to see the guests.

However, I suppose it is all right, and I must use it. It was not about

plate that I called; I wanted to speak to you about pearls.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Ruby, and his face brightened; and, ushering Lothair to

some glass cases, he at the same time provided his customer with a seat.

“Something like that?” said Mr. Ruby, who by this time had slid into

his proper side of the counter, and was unlocking the glass cases;

“something like that?” and he placed before Lothair a string of pretty

pearls with a diamond clasp. “With the earrings, twenty-five hundred,”

he added; and then, observing that Lothair did not seem enchanted, he

said, “This is something quite new,” and he carelessly pushed toward

Lothair a magnificent necklace of turquoises and brilliants.

It was impossible not to admire it—the arrangement was so novel and yet

of such good taste; but, though its price was double that of the pearl

necklace, Mr. Ruby did not seem to wish to force attention to it, for he

put in Lothair’s hands almost immediately the finest emerald necklace in

the world, and set in a style that was perfectly ravishing.

“The setting is from the Campana collection,” said Mr. Ruby. “They

certainly understood things in those days, but I can say that, so far as

mere workmanship is concerned, this quite equals them. I have made one

for the empress. Here is a black pearl, very rare, pear-shape, and set

in Golconda diamonds—two thousand guineas—it might be suspended to

a necklace, or worn as a locket. This is pretty,” and he offered to

Lothair a gigantic sapphire in brilliants and in the form of a bracelet.

“The finest sapphire I know is in this ring,” added Mr. Ruby, and he

introduced his visitor to a tray of precious rings. “I have a pearl

bracelet here that your lordship might like to see,” and he placed

before Lothair a case of fifty bracelets, vying with each other in

splendor.

“But what I want,” said Lothair, “are pearls.”

“I understand,” said Mr. Ruby. “This is a curious thing,” and he took

out a paper packet. “There!” he said, opening it and throwing it

before Lothair so carelessly that some of the stones ran over the glass

covering of the counter. “There, that is a thing, not to be seen every

day—packet of diamonds, bought of an Indian prince, and sent by us to

be cut and polished at Amsterdam—nothing can be done in that way except

there—and just returned—nothing very remarkable as to size, but all of

high quality—some fine stones—that for example,” and he touched one

with the long nail of his little finger; “that is worth seven hundred

guineas, the whole packet worth perhaps ten thousand pounds.”

“Very interesting,” said Lothair, “but what I want are pearls. That

necklace which you have shown me is like the necklace of a doll. I

want pearls, such as you see them in Italian pictures—Titians and

Giorgiones—such as a Queen of Cyprus would wear. I want ropes of

pearls.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Ruby, “I know what your lordship means. Lady Bideford

had something of that kind. She very much deceived us—always told us

her necklace must be sold at her death, and she had very bad health. We

waited, but when she went, poor lady, it was claimed by the heir, and

is in chancery at this very moment. The Justinianis have ropes of

pearls—Madame Justiniani of Paris, I have been told, gives a rope to

every one of her children when they marry—but there is no expectation of

a Justiniani parting with any thing. Pearls are troublesome property,

my lord. They require great care; they want both air and exercise; they

must be worn frequently; you cannot lock them up. The Duchess of Havant

has the finest pearls in this country, and I told her grace, ‘Wear them

whenever you can; wear them at breakfast,’ and her grace follows my

advice—she does wear them at breakfast. I go down to Havant Castle every

year to see her grace’s pearls, and I wipe every one of them myself,

and let them lie on a sunny bank in the garden, in a westerly wind, for

hours and days together. Their complexion would have been ruined had it

not been for this treatment. Pearls are like girls, my lord—they require

quite as much attention.”

“Then you cannot give me what I want?” said Lothair.

“Well, I can, and I cannot,” said Mr. Ruby. “I am in a difficulty.

I have in this house exactly what your lordship requires, but I have

offered them to Lord Topaz, and I have not received his answer. We have

instructions to inform his lordship of every very precious jewel that we

obtain, and give him the preference as a purchaser. Nevertheless, there

is no one I could more desire to oblige than your lordship—your lordship

has every claim upon us, and I should be truly glad to find these pearls

in your lordship’s possession if I could only see my way. Perhaps your

lordship would like to look at them?”

“Certainly, but pray do not leave me here alone with all these

treasures,” said Lothair, as Mr. Ruby was quitting the apartment.

“Oh! my lord, with you!”

“Yes, that is all very well; but, if any thing is missed hereafter, it

will always be remembered that these jewels were in my possession, and

I was alone. I highly object to it.” But Mr. Ruby had vanished, and did

not immediately reappear. In the mean time it was impossible for Lothair

to move: he was alone, and surrounded with precious necklaces, and

glittering rings, and gorgeous bracelets, with loose diamonds running

over the counter. It was not a kind or an amount of property that

Lothair, relinquishing the trust, could satisfactorily deliver to a

shopman. The shopman, however honest, might be suddenly tempted by

Satan, and take the next train to Liverpool. He felt therefore relieved

when Mr. Ruby reentered the room, breathless, with a velvet casket. “I

beg pardon, my lord, a thousand pardons, but I thought I would just

run over to Lord Topaz, only in the square close by. His lordship is

at Madrid, the only city one cannot depend on communications with by

telegraph. Spaniards strange people, very prejudiced, take all sorts of

fancies in their head. Besides, Lord Topaz has more pearls than he can

know what to do with, and I should like your lordship to see these,” and

he opened the casket.

“Exactly what I want,” exclaimed Lothair; “these must be the very pearls

the Queen of Cyprus wore. What is their price?”

“They are from Genoa, and belonged to a doge,” said Mr. Ruby; “your

lordship shall have them for the sum we gave for them. There shall be no

profit on the transaction, and we shall be proud of it. We gave for them

four thousand guineas.”

“I will take them with me,” said Lothair, who was afraid, if he left

them behind, Lord Topaz might arrive in the interval.

CHAPTER 34 Lothair had returned home from his last visit to Belmont

agitated by many thoughts, but, generally speaking, deeply musing over

its mistress. Considerable speculation on religion, the churches, the

solar system, the cosmical order, the purpose of creation, and the

destiny of man, was maintained in his too rapid progress from Roehampton

to his Belgravian hotel; but the association of ideas always terminated

the consideration of every topic by a wondering and deeply interesting

inquiry when he should see her again. And here, in order to simplify

this narrative, we will at once chronicle the solution of this grave

question. On the afternoon of the next day, Lothair mounted his horse

with the intention of calling on Lady St. Jerome, and perhaps some other

persons, but it is curious to observe that he soon found himself on the

road to Roehampton, where he was in due time paying a visit to Theodora.

But what is more remarkable is that the same result occurred every day

afterward. Regularly every day he paid a visit to Belmont. Nor was

this all; very often he paid two visits, for he remembered that in the

evening Theodora was always at home. Lothair used to hurry to town from

his morning visit, dine at some great house, which satisfied the demands

of society, and then drive down to Roehampton. The guests of the evening

saloon, when they witnessed the high ceremony of Lothair’s manner, which

was natural to him, when he entered, and the welcome of Theodora, could

hardly believe that a few hours only had elapsed since their separation.

And what was the manner of Theodora to him when they were alone?

Precisely as before. She never seemed in the least surprised that he

called on her every day, or even twice a day. Sometimes she was alone,

frequently she had companions, but she was always the same, always

appeared gratified at his arrival, and always extended to him the same

welcome, graceful and genial, but without a spark of coquetry. Yet

she did not affect to conceal that she took a certain interest in him,

because she was careful to introduce him to distinguished men, and would

say, “You should know him, he is master of such a subject. You will

hear things that you ought to know.” But all this in a sincere and

straightforward manner. Theodora had not the slightest affectation; she

was always natural, though a little reserved. But this reserve appeared

to be the result of modesty, rather than of any desire of concealment.

When they were alone, though always calm, she would talk with freedom

and vivacity; but in the presence of others she rather led to their

display, and encouraged them, often with a certain degree of adroit

simplicity, to descant on topics which interested them or of which they

were competent to treat. Alone with Lothair, and they were often alone,

though she herself never obtruded the serious subjects round which he

was always fluttering, she never avoided them, and without involving

herself in elaborate arguments, or degenerating into conversational

controversy, she had a habit of asking a question, or expressing

a sentiment, which greatly affected his feelings or perplexed his

opinions.

Had not the season been long waning, this change in the life of Lothair

must have been noticed, and its cause ultimately discovered. But the

social critics cease to be observant toward the end of July. All the

world then are thinking of themselves, and have no time to speculate on

the fate and fortunes of their neighbors. The campaign is too near its

close; the balance of the season must soon be struck, the great book of

society made. In a few weeks, even in a few days, what long and subtle

plans shattered or triumphant!—what prizes gained or missed!—what

baffled hopes, and what broken hearts! The baffled hopes must go to

Cowes, and the broken hearts to Baden. There were some great ladies who

did remark that Lothair was seldom seen at balls; and Hugo Bohun, who

had been staying at his aunt Lady Gertrude’s villa for change of air,

did say to Bertram that he had met Lothair twice on Barnes Common, and

asked Bertram if he knew the reason why. But the fact that Lothair was

cruising in waters which their craft never entered combined with the

lateness of the season to baffle all the ingenuity of Hugo Bohun, though

he generally found out every thing.

The great difficulty which Lothair had to apprehend was with his Roman

Catholic friends. The system of the monsignori was never to let him be

out of sight, and his absence from the critical function had not only

disappointed but alarmed them. But the Jesuits are wise men; they never

lose their temper. They know when to avoid scenes as well as when to

make them. Monsignore Catesby called on Lothair as frequently as before,

and never made the slightest allusion to the miscarriage of their

expectations. Strange to say, the innocent Lothair, naturally so

straightforward and so honorable, found himself instinctively, almost it

might be said unconsciously, defending himself against his invaders with

some of their own weapons. He still talked about building his cathedral,

of which, not contented with more plans, he even gave orders that a

model should be made, and he still received statements on points of

faith from Father Coleman, on which he made marginal notes and queries.

Monsignore Catesby was not altogether satisfied. He was suspicious

of some disturbing cause, but at present it baffled him. Their hopes,

however, were high; and they had cause to be sanguine. In a month’s time

or so, Lothair would be in the country to celebrate his majority; his

guardian the cardinal was to be his guest; the St. Jeromes were invited,

Monsignore Catesby himself. Here would be opportunity and actors to

avail themselves of it.

It was a very few days after the first evening visit of Lothair to

Belmont that he found himself one morning alone with Theodora. She was

in her bowery boudoir, copying some music for Madame Phoebus, at

least in the intervals of conversation. That had not been of a grave

character, but the contrary when Lothair rather abruptly said, “Do you

agree, Mrs. Campian, with what Mr. Phoebus said the other night, that

the greatest pain must be the sense of death?”

“Then mankind is generally spared the greatest pain,” she replied, “for

I apprehend few people are sensible of death—unless indeed,” she added,

“it be on the field of battle; and there, I am sure, it cannot be

painful.”

“Not on the field of battle?” asked Lothair, inducing her to proceed.

“Well, I should think for all, on the field of battle, there must be a

degree of excitement, and of sympathetic excitement, scarcely compatible

with overwhelming suffering; but, if death were encountered there for a

great cause, I should rather associate it with rapture than pain.”

“But still a good number of persons must die in their beds and be

conscious,” said Lothair.

“It may be, though I should doubt it. The witnesses of such a demise are

never impartial. All I have loved and lost have died upon the field of

battle; and those who have suffered pain have been those whom they have

left behind; and that pain,” she added with some emotion, “may perhaps

deserve the description of Mr. Phoebus.”

Lothair would not pursue the subject, and there was rather an awkward

pause. Theodora herself broke it, and in a lighter vein, though

recurring to the same theme, she said with a slight smile: “I am

scarcely a competent person to consult upon this subject, for, to be

candid with you, I do not myself believe in death. There is a change,

and doubtless a great one, painful it may be, certainly very perplexing,

but I have a profound conviction of my immortality, and I do not

believe that I shall rest in my grave in saecula saeculorum, only to be

convinced of it by the last trump.”

“I hope you will not leave this world before I do,” said Lothair, “but,

if that sorrow be reserved for me, promise that to me, if only once, you

will reappear.”