else I think my heroes would have revisited me. I lost a father more
magnificent than Jove, and two brothers brighter than Apollo, and all of
them passionately loved me—and yet they have not come; but I shall see
them—and perhaps soon. So you see, my dear lord,” speaking more briskly,
and rising rather suddenly from her seat, “that for my part I think it
best to arrange all that concerns one in this world while one inhabits
it, and this reminds me that I have a little business to fulfil in which
you can help me,” and she opened a cabinet and took out a flat antique
case, and then said, resuming her seat at her table: “Some one, and
anonymously, has made me a magnificent present; some strings of costly
pearls. I am greatly embarrassed with them, for I never wear pearls or
anything else, and I never wish to accept presents. To return them to an
unknown is out of my power, but it is not impossible that I may some day
become acquainted with the donor. I wish them to be kept in safety,
and therefore not by myself, for my life is subject to too great
vicissitudes. I have therefore placed them in this case, which I shall
now seal and intrust them to your care, as a friend in whom I have
entire confidence. See,” she said, lighting a match, and opening the
case, “here are the pearls—are they not superb?—and here is a note which
will tell you what to do with them in case of my absence, when you
open the case, which will not be for a year from this day. There, it is
locked. I have directed it to you, and I will seal it with my father’s
seal.”
Lothair was about to speak. “Do not say a word,” she said “this seal is
a religious ceremony with me.” She was some little time fulfilling
it, so that the impression might be deep and clear. She looked at it
earnestly while the wax was cooling, and then she said, “I deliver
the custody of this to a friend whom I entirely trust. Adieu!” and she
disappeared.
The amazed Lothair glanced at the seal. It was a single word, “ROMA,”
and then, utterly mystified, he returned to town with his own present.
CHAPTER 35 Mr. Phoebus had just finished a picture which he had painted
for the Emperor of Russia. It was to depart immediately from England for
its northern home, except that his imperial majesty had consented that
it should be exhibited for a brief space to the people of England. This
was a condition which Mr. Phoebus had made in the interests of art, and
as a due homage alike to his own patriotism and celebrity.
There was to be a private inspection of the picture at the studio of the
artist, and Mr. Phoebus had invited Lothair to attend it. Our friend
had accordingly, on the appointed day, driven down to Belmont and then
walked to the residence of Mr. Phoebus with Colonel Campian and his
wife. It was a short and pretty walk, entirely through the royal park,
which the occupiers of Belmont had the traditionary privilege thus to
use.
The residence of Mr. Phoebus was convenient and agreeable, and in
situation not unlike that of Belmont, being sylvan and sequestered.
He had himself erected a fine studio, and added it to the original
building. The flower-garden was bright and curious, and on the lawn was
a tent of many colors, designed by himself and which might have suited
some splendid field of chivalry. Upon gilt and painted perches, also,
there were paroquets and macaws.
Lothair on his arrival found many guests assembled, chiefly on the
lawn. Mr. Phoebus was highly esteemed, and had distinguished and eminent
friends, whose constant courtesies the present occasion allowed him
elegantly to acknowledge. There was a polished and gray-headed noble who
was the head of the patrons of art in England, whose nod of approbation
sometimes made the fortune of a young artist, and whose purchase of
pictures for the nation even the furious cognoscenti of the House of
Commons dared not question. Some of the finest works of Mr. Phoebus were
to be found in his gallery; but his lordship admired Madame Phoebus even
more than her husband’s works, and Euphrosyne as much as her sister.
It was sometimes thought, among their friends, that this young lady had
only to decide in order to share the widowed coronet; but Euphrosyne
laughed at every thing, even her adorers; and, while her witching
mockery only rendered them more fascinated, it often prevented critical
declarations.
And Lady Beatrice was there, herself an artist, and full of aesthetical
enthusiasm. Her hands were beautiful, and she passed her life in
modelling them. And Cecrops was there, a rich old bachelor, with, it was
supposed, the finest collection of modern pictures extant. His theory
was, that a man could not do a wiser thing than invest the whole of his
fortune in such securities, and it led him to tell his numerous nephews
and nieces that he should, in all probability, leave his collection to
the nation.
Clorinda, whose palace was always open to genius, and who delighted
in the society of men who had discovered planets, excavated primeval
mounds, painted pictures on new principles, or composed immortal poems
which no human being could either scan or construe, but which she
delighted in as “subtle” and full of secret melody, came leaning on the
arms of a celebrated plenipotentiary, and beaming with sympathy on every
subject, and with the consciousness of her universal charms.
And the accomplished Sir Francis was there, and several R. A. s of
eminence, for Phoebus was a true artist, and loved the brotherhood, and
always placed them in the post of honor.
No language can describe the fascinating costume of Madame Phoebus and
her glittering sister. “They are habited as sylvans,” the great artist
deigned to observe, if any of his guests could not refrain from admiring
the dresses; which he had himself devised. As for the venerable patron
of art in Britain, he smiled when he met the lady of the house, and
sighed when he glanced at Euphrosyne; but the first gave him a beautiful
flower, and the other fastened it in his button-hole. He looked like
a victim bedecked by the priestesses of some old fane of Hellenic
loveliness, and proud of his impending fate. What could the Psalmist
mean in the immortal passage? Three-score-and-ten, at the present day,
is the period of romantic passions. As for our enamoured sexagenarians,
they avenge the theories of our cold-hearted youth.
Mr. Phoebus was an eminent host. It delighted him to see people
pleased, and pleased under his influence. He had a belief, not without
foundation, that every thing was done better under his roof than under
that of any other person. The banquet in the air on the present occasion
could only be done justice to by the courtly painters of the reign
of Louis XV. Vanloo, and Watteau, and Lancres, would have caught the
graceful group and the well-arranged colors, and the faces, some pretty,
some a little affected; the ladies on fantastic chairs of wicker-work,
gilt and curiously painted; the gentlemen reclining on the turf, or
bending behind them with watchful care. The little tables all different,
the soups in delicate cups of Sevres, the wines in golden glass of
Venice, the ortolans, the Italian confectionery, the endless bouquets,
were worthy of the soft and invisible music that resounded from the
pavilion, only varied by the coquettish scream of some macaw, jealous,
amid all this novelty and excitement, of not being noticed.
“It is a scene of enchantment,” whispered the chief patron of British
art to Madame Phoebus.
“I always think luncheon in the air rather jolly,” said Madame Phoebus.
“It is perfect romance!” murmured the chief patron of British art to
Euphrosyne.
“With a due admixture of reality,” she said, helping him to an enormous
truffle, which she extracted from its napkin. “You know you must eat it
with butter.”
Lothair was glad to observe that, though in refined society, none
were present with whom he had any previous acquaintance, for he had an
instinctive feeling that if Hugo Bohun had been there, or Bertram,
or the Duke of Brecon, or any ladies with whom he was familiarly
acquainted, he would scarcely have been able to avail himself of the
society of Theodora with the perfect freedom which he now enjoyed. They
would all have been asking who she was, where she came from, how long
Lothair had known her, all those questions, kind and neighborly, which
under such circumstances occur. He was in a distinguished circle, but
one different from that in which he lived. He sat next to Theodora, and
Mr. Phoebus constantly hovered about them, ever doing something very
graceful, or saying something very bright. Then he would whisper a word
to the great Clorinda, who flashed intelligence from her celebrated
eyes, and then he made a suggestion to the aesthetical Lady Beatrice,
who immediately fell into enthusiasm and eloquence, and took the
opportunity of displaying her celebrated hands.
The time had now arrived when they were to repair to the studio and view
the picture. A curtain was over it, and then a silken rope across the
chamber, and then some chairs. The subject of the picture was Hero and
Leander, chosen by the heir of all the Russias himself, during a late
visit to England.
“A fascinating subject,” said old Cecrops to Mr. Phoebus, “but not a
very original one.”
“The originality of a subject is in its treatment,” was the reply.
The theme, in the present instance, was certainly not conventionally
treated. When the curtain was withdrawn, they beheld a figure of
life-like size, exhibiting in undisguised completeness the perfection of
the female form, and yet the painter had so skilfully availed himself
of the shadowy and mystic hour, and of some gauze-like drapery, which
veiled without concealing his design, that the chastest eye might gaze
on his heroine with impunity. The splendor of her upstretched arms held
high the beacon-light, which thew a glare upon the sublime anxiety of
her countenance, while all the tumult of the Hellespont, the waves, the
scudding sky, the opposite shore revealed by a blood-red flash, were
touched by the hand of a master who had never failed.
The applause was a genuine verdict, and the company after a time began
to disperse about the house and gardens. A small circle remained,
and, passing the silken rope, approached and narrowly scrutinized the
picture. Among these were Theodora and Lothair, the chief patron of
British art, an R. A. or two, Clorinda, and Lady Beatrice.
Mr. Phoebus, who left the studio but had now returned, did not disturb
them. After a while he approached the group. His air was elate, and was
redeemed only from arrogance by the intellect of his brow. The circle
started a little as they heard his voice, for they had been unaware of
his presence.
“To-morrow,” he said, “the critics will commence. You know who the
critics are? The men who have failed in literature and art.”
CHAPTER 36 The lodge-gate of Belmont was opening as Lothair one morning
approached it; a Hansom cab came forth, and in it was a person whose
countenance was strongly marked on the memory of Lothair. It was that of
his unknown friend at the Fenian meeting. Lothair instantly recognized
and cordially saluted him, and his greeting, though hurriedly, was not
ungraciously returned; but the vehicle did not stop. Lothair called
to the driver to halt; but the driver, on the contrary, stimulated his
steed, and in the winding lane was soon out of sight.
Theodora was not immediately visible. She was neither in her usual
apartment nor in her garden; but it was only perhaps because Lothair was
so full of his own impressions from his recent encounter at the lodge,
that he did not observe that the demeanor of Mrs. Campian, when she
appeared, was hardly marked by her habitual serenity. She entered the
room hurriedly and spoke with quickness.
“Pray,” exclaimed Lothair, rather eagerly, “do tell me the name of the
gentleman who has just called here.”
Theodora changed color, looked distressed, and was silent; unobserved,
however, by Lothair, who, absorbed by his own highly-excited curiosity,
proceeded to explain why he presumed to press for the information. “I
am under great obligations to that person; I am not sure I may not say I
owe him my life, but certainly an extrication from great dander and very
embarrassing danger too. I never saw him but once, and he would not give
me his name, and scarcely would accept my thanks. I wanted to stop his
cab to-day, but it was impossible. He literally galloped off.”
“He is a foreigner,” said Mrs Campian, who had recovered herself; “he
was a particular friend of my dear father; and when he visits England,
which he does occasionally, he calls to see us.”
“Ah!” said Lothair, “I hope I shall soon have an opportunity of
expressing to him my gratitude.”
“It was so like him not to give his name and to shrink from
thanks,” said Mrs. Campian. “He never enters society, and makes no
acquaintances.”
“I am sorry for that,” said Lothair, “for it is not only that he served
me, but I was much taken with him, and felt that he was a person I
should like to cultivate.”
“Yes, Captain Bruges is a remarkable man,” said Theodora; “he is not one
to be forgotten.”
“Captain Bruges. That, then, is his name?”
“He is known by the name of Captain Bruges,” said Theodora, and she
hesitated; and then speaking more quickly she added: “I cannot sanction,
I cannot bear, any deception between you and this roof. Bruges is not
his real name, nor is the title he assumes his real rank. He is not
to be known, and not to be spoken of. He is one, and one of the most
eminent, of the great family of sufferers in this world, but sufferers
for a divine cause. I myself have been direly stricken in this struggle.
When I remember the departed, it is not always easy to bear the thought.
I keep it at the bottom of my heart; but this visit to-day has too
terribly revived every thing. It is well that you only are here to
witness my suffering, but you will not have to witness it again, for we
will never again speak of these matters.”
Lothair was much touched: his good heart and his good taste alike
dissuaded him from attempting commonplace consolation. He ventured to
take her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Dear lady!” he murmured, and
he led her to a seat. “I fear my foolish tattle has added to pain which
I would gladly bear for you.”
They talked about nothings: about a new horse which Colonel Campian had
just purchased, and which he wanted to show to Lothair; an old opera
revived, but which sounded rather flat; something amusing that somebody
had said, and something absurd which somebody had done. And then, when
the ruffled feeling had been quite composed, and all had been brought
back to the tenor of their usual pleasant life, Lothair said suddenly
and rather gayly. “And now, dearest lady, I have a favor to ask. You
know my majority is to be achieved and to be celebrated next month.
I hope that yourself and Colonel Campian will honor me by being my
guests.”
Theodora did not at all look like a lady who had received a social
attention of the most distinguished class. She looked embarrassed, and
began to murmur something about Colonel Campian, and their never going
into society.
“Colonel Campian is going to Scotland, and you are going with him,” said
Lothair. “I know it, for he told me so, and said he could manage the
visit to me, if you approved it, quite well. In fact, it will fit in
with this Scotch visit.”
“There was some talk once about Scotland,” said Theodora, “but that was
a long time ago. Many things have happened since then. I do not think
the Scotch visit is by any means so settled as you think.”
“But, however that may be decided,” said Lothair, “there can be no
reason why you should not come to me.”
“It is presumptuous in me, a foreigner, to speak of such matters,” said
Theodora; “but I fancy that, in such celebrations as you contemplate,
there is, or there should be, some qualification of blood or family
connection for becoming your guests. We should be there quite strangers,
and in everybody’s way, checking the local and domestic abandon which I
should suppose is one of the charms of such meetings.”
“I have few relations and scarcely a connection,” said Lothair rather
moodily. “I can only ask friends to celebrate my majority, and there are
no friends whom I so much regard as those who live at Belmont.”
“It is very kind of you to say that, and to feel it; and I know that you
would not say it if you did not feel it,” replied Theodora. “But still,
I think it would be better that we should come to see you at a time when
you are less engaged; perhaps you will take Colonel Campian down some
day and give him some shooting.”
“All I can say is that, if you do not come, it will be the darkest,
instead of the brightest, week in my life,” said Lothair. “In short, I
feel I could not get through the business; I should be so mortified. I
cannot restrain my feelings or arrange my countenance. Unless you come,
the whole affair will be a complete failure, and worse than a failure.”
“Well, I will speak to Colonel Campian about it,” said Theodora, but
with little animation.
“We will both speak to him about it now,” said Lothair, for the colonel
at that moment entered the room and greeted Lothair, as was his custom,
cordially.
“We are settling the visit to Muriel,” said Lothair; “I want to induce
Mrs. Campian to come down a day or two before the rest, so that we may
have the benefit of her counsel.”
CHAPTER 37 Muriel Tower crowned a wooded steep, part of a wild, and
winding, and sylvan valley, at the bottom of which rushed a foaming
stream. On the other side of the castle the scene, though extensive, was
not less striking, and was essentially romantic. A vast park spread in
all directions beyond the limit of the eye, and with much variety of
character—ornate near the mansion, and choicely timbered; in other
parts glens and spreading dolls, masses of black pines and savage woods;
everywhere, sometimes glittering, and sometimes sullen, glimpses of the
largest natural lake that inland England boasts, Muriel Mere, and in the
extreme distance moors, and the first crest of mountains. The park, too,
was full of life, for there were not only herds of red and fallow
deer, but, in its more secret haunts, wandered a race of wild-cattle,
extremely savage, white and dove-colored, and said to be of the time of
the Romans.
It was not without emotion that Lothair beheld the chief seat of his
race. It was not the first time he had visited it. He had a clear and
painful recollection of a brief, hurried, unkind glimpse caught of it
in his very earliest boyhood. His uncle had taken him there by some
inconvenient cross-railroad, to avail themselves of which they had risen
in the dark on a March morning, and in an east wind. When they arrived
at their station they had hired an open fly drawn by a single horse,
and, when they had thus at last reached the uninhabited Towers, they
entered by the offices, where Lothair was placed in the steward’s room,
by a smoky fire, given something to eat, and told that he might walk
about and amuse himself, provided he did not go out of sight of the
castle, while his uncle and the steward mounted their horses and rode
over the estate; leaving Lothair for hours without companions, and
returning just in time, in a shivering twilight, to clutch him up, as it
were, by the nape of the neck, twist him back again into the one-horse
fly, and regain the railroad; his uncle praising himself the whole time
for the satisfactory and business-like manner in which he had planned
and completed the edition.
What a contrast to present circumstances! Although Lothair had wished,
and thought he had secured, that his arrival at Muriel should be quite
private, and even unknown, and that all ceremonies and celebrations
should be postponed for a few days, during which he hoped to become a
little more familiar with his home, the secret could not be kept, and
the county would not tolerate this reserve. He was met at the station by
five hundred horsemen, all well mounted, and some of them gentlemen
of high degree, who insisted upon accompanying him to his gates. His
carriage passed under triumphal arches, and choirs of enthusiastic
children; waving parochial banners, hymned his auspicious approach.
At the park gates his cavalcade quitted him with that delicacy of
feeling which always distinguishes Englishmen, however rough their
habit. As their attendance was self-invited, they would not intrude upon
his home.
“Your lordship will have enough to do to-day, without being troubled
with us,” said their leader, as he shook hands with Lothair.
But Lothair would not part with them thus. With the inspiring
recollection of his speech at the Fenian meeting, Lothair was not afraid
of rising in his barouche and addressing them. What he said was said
very well and it was addressed to a people who, though the shyest in
the world, have a passion for public speaking, than which no achievement
more tests reserve. It was something to be a great peer and a great
proprietor, and to be young and singularly well-favored; but to be able
to make a speech, and such a good one, such cordial words in so strong
and musical a voice—all felt at once they were in the presence of the
natural leader of the county. The enthusiasm of the hunting-field burst
forth. They gave him three ringing cheers, and jostled their horses
forward, that they might grasp his hand.
The park gates were open, and the postillions dashed along through
scenes of loveliness on which Lothair would fain have lingered, but be
consoled himself with the recollection that he should probably have an
opportunity of seeing them again. Sometimes his carriage seemed in
the heart of an ancient forest; sometimes the deer, startled at his
approach, were scudding over expanding lawns; then his course wound by
the margin of a sinuous lake with green islands and golden gondolas;
and then, after advancing through stately avenues, he arrived at
mighty gates of wondrous workmanship, that once had been the boast of a
celebrated convent on the Danube, but which, in the days of revolutions,
had reached England, and had been obtained by the grandfather of Lothair
to guard the choice demesne that was the vicinage of his castle.
When we remember that Lothair, notwithstanding his rank and vast
wealth, had never, from the nature of things, been the master of an
establishment, it must be admitted that the present occasion was a
little trying for his nerves. The whole household of the Towers were
arrayed and arranged in groups on the steps of the chief entrance. The
steward of the estate, who had been one of the cavalcade, had galloped
on before, and he was, of course, the leading spirit, and extended
his arm to his lord as Lothair descended from his carriage. The
house-steward, the chief butler, the head-gardener, the chief of the
kitchen, the head-keeper, the head-forester, and grooms of the stud and
of the chambers, formed one group behind the housekeeper, a grave and
distinguished-looking female, who courtesied like the old court; half
a dozen powdered gentlemen, glowing, in crimson liveries, indicated
the presence of my lord’s footmen; while the rest of the household,
considerable in numbers, were arranged in two groups, according to their
sex, and at a respectful distance.
What struck Lothair—who was always thinking, and who had no
inconsiderable fund of humor in his sweet and innocent nature—was the
wonderful circumstance that, after so long an interval of neglect
and abeyance, he should find himself the master of so complete and
consummate a household.
“Castles and parks,” he thought, “I had a right to count on, and,
perhaps, even pictures, but how I came to possess such a work of art
as my groom of the chambers, who seems as respectfully haughty, and as
calmly grateful, as if he were at Brentham itself, and whose coat must
have been made in Saville Row, quite bewilders me.”
But Lothair, though he appreciated Putney Giles, had not yet formed a
full conception of the resource and all-accomplished providence of that
wondrous man, acting under the inspiration of the consummate Apollonia.
Passing through the entrance-hall, a lofty chamber, though otherwise of
moderate dimensions, Lothair was ushered into his armory, a gallery two
hundred feet long, with suits of complete mail ranged on each side,
and the walls otherwise covered with rare and curious weapons. It was
impossible, even for the master of this collection, to suppress the
delight and the surprise with which he beheld the scene. We must
remember, in his excuse, that he beheld it for the first time.
The armory led to a large and lofty octagonal chamber, highly decorated,
in the centre of which was the tomb of Lothair’s grandfather. He had
raised it in his lifetime. The tomb was of alabaster surrounded by
a railing of pure gold, and crowned with a recumbent figure of the
deceased in his coronet—a fanciful man, who lived in solitude, building
castles and making gardens.
What charmed Lothair most as he proceeded were the number of courts and
quadrangles in the castle, all of bright and fantastic architecture, and
each of which was a garden, glowing with brilliant colors, and gay with
the voice of fountains or the forms of gorgeous birds. Our young friend
did not soon weary in his progress; even the suggestions of the steward,
that his lordship’s luncheon was at command, did not restrain him.
Ballrooms, and baronial halls, and long libraries with curiously-stained
windows, and suites of dazzling saloons, where he beheld the original
portraits of his parents, of which he had miniatures—he saw them
all, and was pleased, and interested. But what most struck and even
astonished him was the habitable air which pervaded the whole of this
enormous structure; too rare even when families habitually reside in
such dwellings; but almost inconceivable, when it was to be remembered
that more than a generation had passed without a human being living in
these splendid chambers, scarcely a human word being spoken in them.
There was not a refinement of modern furniture that was wanting; even
the tables were covered with the choicest publications of the day.
“Mr. Putney Giles proposes to arrive here to-morrow,” said the steward.
“He thought your lordship would like to be a day or two alone.”
“He is the most sensible man I know,” said Lothair; “he always does the
right thing. I think I will have my luncheon now, Mr. Harvey, and I will
go over the cellars to-morrow.”
CHAPTER 38 Yes; Lothair wished to be alone. He had naturally a love
of solitude, but the events of the last few hours lent an additional
inducement to meditation. He was impressed, in a manner and degree not
before experienced, with the greatness of his inheritance. His worldly
position, until to-day, had been an abstraction. After all, he had only
been one of a crowd, which he resembled. But the sight of this proud and
abounding territory, and the unexpected encounter with his neighbors,
brought to him a sense of power and of responsibility. He shrank from
neither. The world seemed opening to him with all its delights, and
with him duty was one. He was also sensible of the beautiful, and the
surrounding forms of nature and art charmed him. Let us not forget that
extreme youth and perfect health were ingredients not wanting in the
spell any more than power or wealth. Was it, then, complete? Not without
the influence of woman.
To that gentle yet mystical sway the spirit of Lothair had yielded.
What was the precise character of his feelings to Theodora—what were his
hopes, or views—he had hitherto had neither the time nor the inclination
to make certain. The present was so delightful, and the enjoyment of her
society had been so constant and complete, that he had ever driven
the future from his consideration. Had the conduct of Theodora been
different, had she deigned to practise on his affections, appealed to
his sensibility, stimulated or piqued his vanity, it might have been
otherwise. In the distraction of his heart, or the disturbance of his
temper, he might have arrived at conclusions, and even expressed them,
incompatible with the exquisite and even sublime friendship, which
had so strangely and beautifully arisen, like a palace in a dream, and
absorbed his being. Although their acquaintance could hardly be numbered
by months, there was no living person of whom he had seen so much, or to
whom he had opened his heart and mind with such profuse ingenuousness.
Nor on her part, though apparently shrinking from egotism, had there
ever been any intellectual reserve. On the contrary, although never
authoritative, and, even when touching on her convictions, suggesting
rather than dictating them, Lothair could not but feel that, during
the happy period he had passed in her society, not only his taste had
refined but his mind had considerably opened; his views had become
larger, his sympathies had expanded; he considered with charity things
and even persons from whom a year ago he would have recoiled with alarm
or aversion.
The time during which Theodora had been his companion was the happiest
period of his life. It was more than that; he could conceive no felicity
greater, and all that he desired was that it should endure. Since they
first met, scarcely four-and-twenty hours had passed without his being
in her presence; and now, notwithstanding the novelty and the variety of
the objects around him and the vast, and urgent, and personal interest
which they involve he felt a want which meeting her, or the daily
prospect of meeting her, could alone supply. Her voice lingered in his
ear; he gazed upon a countenance invisible to others; and he scarcely
saw or did any thing without almost unconsciously associating with it
her opinion or approbation.
Well, then, the spell was complete. The fitfulness or melancholy which
so often is the doom of youth, however otherwise favored, who do not
love, was not the condition, capricious or desponding, of Lothair. In
him combined all the accidents and feelings which enchant existence.
He had been rambling in the solitudes of his park, and had thrown
himself on the green shadow of a stately tree, his cheek resting on his
arm, and lost in reverie amid the deep and sultry silence. Wealthy and
young, noble and full of noble thoughts, with the inspiration of health,
surrounded by the beautiful, and his heart softened by feelings as
exquisite, Lothair, nevertheless, could not refrain from pondering over
the mystery of that life which seemed destined to bring to him only
delight.
“Life would be perfect,” he at length exclaimed, “if it would only
last.” But it will not last; and what then? He could not reconcile
interest in this life with the conviction of another, and an eternal
one. It seemed to him that, with such a conviction, man could have only
one thought and one occupation—the future, and preparation for it. With
such a conviction, what they called reality appeared to him more vain
and nebulous than the scones and sights of sleep. And he had that
conviction; at least he had it once. Had he it now? Yes; he had it now,
but modified, perhaps, in detail. He was not so confident as he was a
few months ago, that he could be ushered by a Jesuit from his deathbed
to the society of St. Michael and all the angels. There might be long
processes of initiation—intermediate states of higher probation and
refinement. There might be a horrible and apathetic pause. When millions
of ages appeared to be necessary to mature the crust of a rather
insignificant planet, it might be presumption in man to assume that his
soul, though immortal, was to reach its final destination regardless of
all the influences of space and time.
And the philosophers and distinguished men of science with whom of late
he had frequently enjoyed the opportunity of becoming acquainted, what
were their views? They differed among themselves: did any of them agree
with him? How they accounted for every thing except the only point
on which man requires revelation! Chance, necessity, atomic theories,
nebular hypotheses, development, evolution, the origin of worlds, human
ancestry—here were high topics, on none of which was there lack of
argument; and, in a certain sense, of evidence; and what then? There
must be design. The reasoning and the research of all philosophy could
not be valid against that conviction. If there were no design, why,
it would all be nonsense; and he could not believe in nonsense. And if
there were design, there must be intelligence; and if intelligence,
pure intelligence; and pure intelligence was inconsistent with
any disposition but perfect good. But between the all-wise and the
all-benevolent and man, according to the new philosophers, no relations
were to be any longer acknowledged. They renounce in despair the
possibility of bringing man into connection with that First Cause which
they can neither explain nor deny. But man requires that there shall be
direct relations between the created and the Creator; and that in those
relations he should find a solution of the perplexities of existence.
The brain that teems with illimitable thought, will never recognize
as his creator any power of Nature, however irresistible, that is not
gifted with consciousness. Atheism may be consistent with fine taste,
and fine taste under certain conditions may for a time regulate a
polished society; but ethics with atheism are impossible; and without
ethics no human order can be strong or permanent.
The Church comes forward, and, without equivocation, offers to establish
direct relations between God and man. Philosophy denies its title, and
disputes its power. Why? Because they are founded on the supernatural.
What is the supernatural? Can there be any thing more miraculous
than the existence of man and the world?—any thing more literally
supernatural than the origin of things? The Church explains what no one
else pretends to explain, and which, every one agrees, it is of first
moment should be made clear.
The clouds of a summer eve were glowing in the creative and flickering
blaze of the vanished sun, that had passed like a monarch from the
admiring sight, yet left his pomp behind. The golden and amber vapors
fell into forms that to the eye of the musing Lothair depicted the
objects of his frequent meditation. There seemed to rise in the horizon
the dome and campaniles and lofty aisles of some celestial fane, such as
he had often more than dreamed of raising to the revealed author of life
and death. Altars arose and sacred shrines, and delicate chantries and
fretted spires; now the flashing phantom of heavenly choirs, and then
the dim response of cowled and earthly cenobites:
“These are black Vesper’s pageants!”
CHAPTER 39 Lothair was quite glad to see Mr. Putney Giles. That
gentleman indeed was a universal favorite. He was intelligent,
acquainted with every thing except theology and metaphysics, to oblige,
a little to patronize, never made difficulties, and always overcame
them. His bright blue eyes, open forehead, and sunny face, indicated a
man fall of resources, and with a temper of natural sweetness.
The lawyer and his noble client had a great deal of business to
transact. Lothair was to know his position in detail preparatory to
releasing his guardians from their responsibilities, and assuming the
management of his own affairs. Mr. Putney Giles was a first-rate man
of business. With all his pleasant, easy manner, he was precise and
methodical, and was not content that his client should be less master
of his own affairs than his lawyer. The mornings passed over a table
covered with dispatch boxes and piles of ticketed and banded papers, and
then they looked after the workmen who were preparing for the impending
festivals, or rode over the estate.
“That is our weak point,” said Mr. Putney Giles, pointing to a distant
part of the valley. “We ought to have both sides of the valley. Your
lordship will have to consider whether you can devote the two hundred
thousand pounds of the second and extinct trust to a better purpose than
in obtaining that estate.”
Lothair had always destined that particular sum for the cathedral, the
raising of which was to have been the first achievement of his majority;
but he did not reply.
In a few days the guests began to arrive, but gradually. The duke and
duchess and Lady Corisande came the first, and were one day alone with
Lothair, for Mr. Putney Giles had departed to fetch Apollonia.
Lothair was unaffectedly gratified at not only receiving his friends at
his own castle, but under these circumstances of intimacy. They had
been the first persons who had been kind to him, and he really loved the
whole family. They arrived rather late, but he would show them to their
rooms—and they were choice ones—himself, and then they dined together
in the small green dining-room. Nothing could be more graceful or
more cordial than the whole affair. The duchess seemed to beam with
affectionate pleasure as Lothair fulfilled his duties as their host;
the duke praised the claret, and he seldom praised any thing; while Lady
Corisande only regretted that the impending twilight had prevented her
from seeing the beautiful country, and expressed lively interest in the
morrow’s inspection of the castle and domain. Sometimes her eyes met
those of Lothair, and she was so happy that she unconsciously smiled.
“And-to-morrow,” said Lothair, “I am delighted to say, we shall have to
ourselves; at least all the morning. We will see the castle first, and
then, after luncheon, we will drive about everywhere.”
“Everywhere,” said Corisande.
“It was very nice your asking us first, and alone,” said the duchess.
“It was very nice in your coming, dear duchess,” said Lothair, “and most
kind—as you ever are to me.”
“Duke of Brecon is coming to you on Thursday,” said the duke; “he told
me so at White’s.”
“Perhaps you would like to know, duchess, whom you are going to meet,”
said Lothair.
“I should much like to hear. Pray tell us.”
“It is a rather formidable array,” said Lothair, and he took out a
paper. “First, there are all the notables of the county. I do not know
any of them personally, so I wrote to each of them a letter, as well as
sending them a formal invitation. I thought that was right.”
“Quite right,” said the duchess. “Nothing could be more proper.”
“Well, the first person, of course, is the lord-lieutenant. He is
coming.”
“By-the-by, let me see, who is your lord-lieutenant?” said the duke.
“Lord Agramont.”
“To be sure. I was at college with him; a very good fellow; but I have
never met him since, except once at Boodle’s; and I never saw a man so
red and gray, and I remember him such a good-looking fellow! He must
have lived immensely in the country, and never thought of his person,”
said the duke in a tone of pity, and playing with his mustache.
“Is there a Lady Agramont?” inquired the duchess.
“Oh, yes! and she also honors me with her presence,” said Lothair.
“And who was Lady Agramont?”
“Oh! his cousin,” said the duke. “The Agramonts always marry their
cousins. His father did the same thing. They are so shy. It is a family
that never was in society, and never will be. I was at Agramont Castle
once when I was at college, and I never shall forget it. We used to
sit down forty or fifty every day to dinner, entirely maiden aunts and
clergymen, and that sort of thing. However, I shall be truly glad to see
Agramont again, for, notwithstanding all these disadvantages, he is a
thoroughly good fellow.”
“Then there is the high-sheriff,” continued Lothair; “and both the
county members and their wives; and Mrs. High-Sheriff too. I believe
there is some tremendous question respecting the precedency of this
lady. There is no doubt that, in the county, the high-sheriff takes
precedence of every one, even of the lord-lieutenant; but how about his
wife? Perhaps your grace could aid me? Mr. Putney Giles said he would
write about it to the Heralds’ College.”
“I should give her the benefit of any doubt,” said the duchess.
“And then our bishop is coming;” said Lothair.
“Oh! I am so glad you have asked the bishop,” said Lady Corisande.
“There could be no doubt about it,” said Lothair.
“I do not know how his lordship will get on with one of my guardians,
the cardinal; but his eminence is not here in a priestly character; and,
as for that, there is less chance of his differing with the cardinal
than with my other guardian Lord Culloden, who is a member of the Free
Kirk.”
“Is Lord Culloden coming?” said the duchess.
“Yes, and with two daughters, Flora and Grizell. I remember my cousins,
good-natured little girls; but Mr. Putney Giles tells me that the
shortest is six feet high.”
“I think we shall have a very amusing party,” said the duchess.
“You know all the others,” said Lothair. “No, by-the-by, there is the
dean of my college coming, and Monsignore Catesby, a great friend of the
St. Jeromes.”
Lady Corisande looked grave.
“The St. Jeromes will be here to-morrow,” continued Lothair, “and the
Montairys and the St. Aldegondes. I have half an idea that Bertram
and Carisbrooke and Hugo Bohun will be here to-night—Duke of Brecon
on Thursday; and that, I think, is all, except an American lady and
gentleman, whom, I think, you will like—great friends of mine; I knew
them this year at Oxford, and the were very kind to me. He is a man of
considerable fortune; they have lived at Paris a good deal.”
“I have known Americans who lived at Paris,” said the duke; “very good
sort of people, and no end of money some of them.”
“I believe Colonel Campian has large estates in the South,” said
Lothair; “but, though really I have no right to speak of his affairs, he
must have suffered very much.”
“Well, he has the consolation of suffering in a good cause,” said
the duke. “I shall be happy to make his acquaintance. I look upon an
American gentleman with large estates in the South as a real aristocrat;
and; whether he gets his rents, or whatever his returns may be, or not,
I should always treat him with respect.”
“I have heard the American women are very pretty,” said Lady Corisande.
“Mrs. Campian is very distinguished,” said Lothair; “but I think she was
an Italian.”
“They promise to be an interesting addition to our party,” said the
duchess, and she rose.
CHAPTER 40 There never was any thing so successful as the arrangements
of the next day. After breakfast they inspected the castle, and in the
easiest manner, without form and without hurry, resting occasionally in
a gallery or a saloon, never examining a cabinet, and only looking at a
picture now and then. Generally speaking, nothing is more fatiguing than
the survey of a great house; but this enterprise was conducted with
so much tact and consideration, and much which they had to see was so
beautiful and novel, that every one was interested, and remained quite
fresh for their subsequent exertions. “And then the duke is so much
amused,” said the duchess to her daughter, delighted at the unusual
excitement of the handsome, but somewhat too serene, partner of her
life.
After luncheon they visited the gardens, which had been formed in a
sylvan valley, enclosed with gilded gates. The creator of this paradise
had been favored by Nature, and had availed himself of this opportunity.
The contrast between the parterres, blazing with color, and the sylvan
background, the undulating paths over romantic heights, the fanes and
the fountains, the glittering statues, and the Babylonian terraces,
formed a whole, much of which was beautiful, and all of which was
striking and singular.
“Perhaps too many temples,” said Lothair; “but this ancestor of mine had
some imagination.”
A carriage met them on the other side of the valley, and then they soon
entered the park.
“I am almost as much a stranger here as yourself, dear duchess,” said
Lothair; “but I have seen some parts which, I think, will please you.”
And they commenced a drive of varying, but unceasing, beauty.
“I hope I see the wild-cattle,” said Lady Corisande.
Lady Corisande saw the wild-cattle, and many other things, which
gratified and charmed her. It was a long drive, even of hours, and yet
no one was, for a moment, wearied.
“What a delightful day!” Lady Corisande exclaimed in her mother’s
dressing-room. “I have never seen any place so beautiful.”
“I agree with you,” said the duchess; “but what pleases me most are his
manners. They were always kind and natural; but they are so polished—so
exactly what they ought to be; and he always says the right thing. I
never knew any one who had so matured.”
“Yes; it is very little more than a year since he came to us at
Brentham,” said Lady Corisande, thoughtfully. “Certainly he has greatly
changed. I remember he could hardly open his lips; and now I think him
very agreeable.”
“He is more than that,” said the duchess; “he is interesting.”
“Yes,” said Lady Corisande; “he is interesting.”
“What delights me,” said the duchess, “is to see his enjoyment of his
position. He seems to take such an interest in every thing. It makes me
happy to see him so happy.”
“Well, I hardly know,” said Lady Corisande, “about that. There is
something occasionally about his expression which I should hardly
describe as indicative of happiness or content. It would be ungrateful
to describe one as distrait, who seems to watch all one wants, and hangs
on every word; and yet—especially as we returned, and when we were all
of us a little silent—there was a remarkable abstraction about him; I
caught it once or twice before, earlier in the day; his mind seemed in
another place, and anxiously.”
“He has a great deal to think of,” said the duchess.
“I fear it is that dreadful Monsignore Catesby,” said Lady Corisande,
with a sigh.
CHAPTER 41 The arrival of the guests was arranged with judgment. The
personal friends came first; the formal visitors were invited only for
the day before the public ceremonies commenced. No more dinners in small
green dining-rooms. While the duchess was dressing, Bertha St. Aldegonde
and Victoria Montairy, who had just arrived, came in to give her a rapid
embrace while their own toilets were unpacking.
“Granville, has come, mamma; I did not think that he would till the last
moment. He said he was so afraid of being bored. There is a large party
by this train; the St. Jeromes, Bertram, Mr. Bohun, Lord Carisbrooke,
and some others we do not know.”
The cardinal had been expected to-day, but he had telegraphed that his
arrival must be postponed in consequence: of business until the morrow,
which day had been previously fixed for the arrival of his fellow
guardian and trustee, the Earl of Culloden, and his daughters, the
Ladies Flora and Grizell Falkirk. Monsignore Catesby had, however,
arrived by this train, and the persons “whom they did not know,” the
Campians.
Lothair waited on Colonel Campian immediately and welcomed him, but he
did not see Theodora. Still he had inquired after her, and left her
a message, and hoped that she would take some tea; and thus, as he
flattered himself, broken a little the strangeness of their meeting
under his roof; but, notwithstanding all this, when she really entered
the drawing-room he was seized with such a palpitation of the heart that
for a moment he thought he should be unequal to the situation. But the
serenity of Theodora reassured him. The Campians came in late, and all
eyes were upon them. Lothair presented Theodora to the duchess, who,
being prepared for the occasion, said exactly the right thing in the
best manner, and invited Mrs. Campian to sit by her, and then, Theodora
being launched, Lothair whispered something to the duke, who nodded,
and the colonel was introduced to his grace. The duke, always polite
but generally cold, was more than courteous—he was cordial; he seemed
to enjoy the opportunity of expressing his high consideration for a
gentleman of the Southern States.
So the first step was over; Lothair recovered himself; the palpitation
subsided; and the world still went on. The Campians had made a good
start, and the favorable impression hourly increased. At dinner
Theodora sat between Lord St. Jerome and Bertram, and talked more to the
middle-aged peer than to the distinguished youth, who would willingly
have engrossed her attention. All mothers admire such discretion,
especially in a young and beautiful married woman, so the verdict of the
evening among the great ladies was, that Theodora was distinguished, and
that all she said or did was in good taste. On the plea of her being
a foreigner, she was at once admitted into a certain degree of social
intimacy. Had she had the misfortune of being native-born and had
flirted with Bertram, she would probably, particularly with so much
beauty, have been looked upon as “a horrid woman,” and have been
relegated for amusement, during her visit, to the attentions of the dark
sex. But, strange to say, the social success of Colonel Campian was not
less eminent than that of his distinguished wife. The character which
the duke gave of him commanded universal sympathy. “You know he is a
gentleman,” said the duke; “he is not a Yankee. People make the greatest
mistakes about these things. He is a gentleman of the South; they have
no property, but land; and I am told his territory was immense. He
always lived at Paris, and in the highest style—disgusted, of course,
with his own country. It is not unlikely he may have lost his estates
now; but that makes no difference to me. I shall treat him, and all
Southern gentlemen, as our fathers treated the emigrant nobility of
France.”
“Hugo,” said St. Aldegonde to Mr. Bohun, “I wish you would tell Bertha
to come to me. I want her. She is talking to a lot of women at the other
end of the room, and, if I go to her, I am afraid they will get hold of
me.”
The future duchess, who lived only to humor her lord, was at his side in
an instant. “You wanted me, Granville?”
“Yes; you know I was afraid, Bertha, I should be bored here. I am not
bored. I like this American fellow. He understands the only two subjects
which interest me; horses and tobacco.”
“I am charmed, Granville, that you are not bored; I told mamma that you
were very much afraid you would be.”
“Yes; but I tell you what, Bertha, I cannot stand any of the ceremonies.
I shall go before they begin. Why cannot Lothair be content with
receiving his friends in a quiet way? It is all humbug about the county.
If he wants to do something for the county, he can build a wing to the
infirmary, or something of that sort, and not bore us with speeches and
fireworks. It is a sort of thing I cannot stand.”
“And you shall not, dear Granville. The moment you are bored, you shall
go. Only you are not bored at present.”
“Not at present; but I expected to be.”
“Yes; so I told mamma; but that makes the present more delightful.”
The St. Jeromes were going to Italy and immediately. Their departure had
only been postponed in order that they might be present at the majority
of Lothair. Miss Arundel had at length succeeded in her great object.
They were to pass the winter at Rome. Lord St. Jerome was quite pleased
at having made the acquaintance at dinner of a Roman lady, who spoke
English so perfectly; and Lady St. Jerome, who in consequence fastened
upon Theodora, was getting into ecstasies, which would have been
embarrassing had not her new acquaintance skilfully checked her.
“We must be satisfied that we both admire Rome,” said Mrs. Campian,
“though we admire it for different reasons. Although a Roman, I am not a
Roman Catholic; and Colonel Campian’s views on Italian affairs generally
would, I fear, not entirely agree with Lord St. Jerome’s.”
“Naturally,” said Lady St. Jerome, gracefully dropping the subject, and
remembering that Colonel Campian was a citizen of the United States,
which accounted in her apprehension for his peculiar opinions.
Lothair, who had been watching his opportunity the whole evening,
approached Theodora. He meant to have expressed his hope that she was
not wearied by her journey, but instead of that he said, “Your presence
here makes me inexpressibly happy.”
“I think everybody seems happy to be your guest,” she replied,
parrying, as was her custom, with a slight kind smile, and a low, sweet,
unembarrassed voice, any personal allusion from Lothair of unusual
energy or ardor.
“I wanted to meet you at the station to-day,” he continued, “but there
were so many people coming, that—” and he hesitated.
“It would really have been more embarrassing to us than to yourself,”
she said. “Nothing could be better than all the arrangements.”
“I sent my own brougham to you,” said Lothair. “I hope there was no
mistake about it.”
“None: your servant gave us your kind message; and as for the carriage,
it was too delightful. Colonel Campian was so; pleased with it, that he
has promised to give me one, with your permission, exactly the same.”
“I wish you would accept the one you used to-day.”
“You are too magnificent; you really must try to forget, with us,
that you are the lord of Muriel Towers. But I will willingly use your
carriages as much as you please, for I caught glimpses of beauty to-day
in our progress from the station that made me anxious to explore your
delightful domain.”
There was a slight burst of merriment from a distant part of the room,
and everybody looked around. Colonel Campian had been telling a story to
a group formed of the duke, St. Aldegonde, and Mr. Bohun.
“Best story I ever heard In my life,” exclaimed St. Aldegonde, who
prided himself, when he did laugh, which was rare, on laughing loud. But
even the duke tittered, and Hugo Bohun smiled.
“I am glad to see the colonel get on so well with every one,” said
Lothair; “I was afraid he might have been bored.”
“He does not know what that means,” said Theodora; “and he is so natural
and so sweet-tempered, and so intelligent, that it seems to me he always
is popular.”
“Do you think that will be a match?” said Monsignore Catesby to Miss
Arundel.
“Well, I rather believe in the Duke of Brecon,” she replied. They
were referring to Lord Carisbrooke, who appeared to be devoted to Lady
Corisande. “Do you admire the American lady?”
“Who is an Italian, they tell me, though she does not look like one.
What do you think of her?” said the monsignore, evading, as was his
custom, a direct reply.
“Well, I think she is very distinguished: unusual. I wonder where our
host became acquainted with them? Do you know?”
“Not yet: but I dare say Mr. Bohun can tell us;” and he addressed that
gentleman accordingly as he was passing by.
“Not the most remote idea,” said Mr. Bohun. “You know the colonel is not
a Yankee; he is a tremendous swell. The duke says, with more land than
he has.”
“He seems an agreeable person,” said Miss Arundel.
“Well, he tell anecdotes; he has just been telling one; Granville likes
anecdotes; they amuse him, and he likes to be amused: that is all he
cares about. I hate anecdotes, and I always get away when conversation
falls into, what Pinto calls, its anecdotage.”
“You do not like to be amused?”
“Not too much; I like to be interested.”
“Well,” said Miss Arundel, “so long as a person can talk agreeably, I am
satisfied. I think to talk well a rare gift; quite as rare as singing;
and yet you expect every one to be able to talk, and very few to be able
to sing.”
“There are amusing people who do not interest,” said the monsignore,
“and interesting people who do not amuse. What I like is an agreeable
person.”
“My idea of an agreeable person,” said Hugo Bohun, “is a person who
agrees with me.”
“Talking of singing, something is going to happen,” said Miss Arundel.
A note was heard; a celebrated professor had entered the room and was
seated at the piano, which he had just touched. There was a general
and unconscious hush, and the countenance of Lord St. Aldegonde wore
a rueful expression. But affairs turned out better than could be
anticipated. A young and pretty girl, dressed in white, with a gigantic
sash of dazzling beauty, played upon the violin with a grace, and
sentimental and marvellous skill, and passionate expression, worthy of
St. Cecilia. She was a Hungarian lady, and this was her English
debut. Everybody praised her, and every body was pleased; and Lord
St. Aldegonde, instead of being bored, took a wondrous rose out of his
button-hole and presented it to her.
The performance only lasted half an hour, and then the ladies began to
think of their bowers. Lady St. Aldegonde, before she quit the room, was
in earnest conversation with her lord.
“I have arranged all that you wished, Granville,” she said, speaking
rapidly and holding a candlestick. “We are to see the castle to-morrow,
and the gardens and the parks and every thing else, but you are not to
be bored at all, and not to lose your shooting. The moors are sixteen
miles off, but our host says, with an omnibus and a good team—and he
will give you a first-rate one—you can do it in an hour and ten minutes,
certainly an hour and a quarter; and you are to make your own party in
the smoking-room to-night, and take a capital luncheon with you.”
“All right: I shall ask the Yankee; and I should like to take that
Hungarian girl too, if she would only fiddle to us at luncheon.”
CHAPTER 42 Next day the cardinal, with his secretary and his chaplain,
arrived. Monsignore Catesby received his eminence at the station
and knelt and kissed his hand as he stepped from the carriage. The
monsignore had wonderfully manoeuvred that the whole of the household
should have been marshalled to receive this prince of the Church, and
perhaps have performed the same ceremony: no religious recognition, he
assured them, in the least degree involved, only an act of not unusual
respect to a foreign prince; but considering that the bishop of the
diocese and his suite were that day expected, to say nothing of the
Presbyterian guardian, probably arriving by the same train, Lothair
would not be persuaded to sanction any ceremony whatever. Lady St.
Jerome and Miss Arundel, however, did their best to compensate for this
omission with reverences which a posture-master might have envied, and
certainly would not have surpassed. They seemed to sink into the earth,
and then slowly and supernaturally to emerge. The bishop had been at
college with the cardinal and intimate with him, though they now met for
the first time since his secession—a not uninteresting rencounter. The
bishop was high-church, and would not himself have made a bad cardinal,
being polished and plausible, well-lettered, yet quite a man of the
world. He was fond of society, and justified his taste in this respect
by the flattering belief that by his presence he was extending the
power of the Church; certainly favoring an ambition which could not
be described as being moderate. The bishop had no abstract prejudice
against gentlemen who wore red hats, and under ordinary circumstances
would have welcomed his brother churchman with unaffected cordiality,
not to say sympathy; but in the present instance, however gracious his
mien and honeyed his expressions, he only looked upon the cardinal as a
dangerous rival, intent upon clutching from his fold the most precious
of his flock, and he had long looked to this occasion as the one which
might decide the spiritual welfare and career of Lothair. The odds were
not to be despised. There were two monsignores in the room besides the
cardinal, but the bishop was a man of contrivance and resolution, not
easily disheartened or defeated. Nor was he without allies. He did not
count much on the university don, who was to arrive on the morrow in the
shape of the head of an Oxford house, though he was a don of magnitude.
This eminent personage had already let Lothair slip from his influence.
But the bishop had a subtle counsellor in his chaplain, who wore as
good a cassock as any monsignore, and he brought with him also a trusty
archdeacon in a purple coat, whose countenance was quite entitled to a
place in the Acta Sanctorum.
It was amusing to observe the elaborate courtesy and more than Christian
kindness which the rival prelates and their official followers extended
to each other. But under all this unction on both sides were unceasing
observation, and a vigilance that never flagged; and on both sides there
was an uneasy but irresistible conviction that they were on the eve of
one of the decisive battles of the social world. Lord Culloden also at
length appeared with his daughters, Ladies Flora and Grizell. They were
quite as tall as Mr. Putney Giles had reported, but very pretty, with
radiant complexions, sunny blue eyes, and flaxen looks. Their dimples
and white shoulders and small feet and hands were much admired. Mr.
Giles also returned with Apollonia, and, at length, also appeared the
rival of Lord Carisbrooke, his grace of Brecon.
Lothair had passed a happy morning, for he had contrived, without
difficulty, to be the companion of Theodora during the greater part of
it. As the duchess and Lady Corisande had already inspected the castle,
they disappeared after breakfast to write letters; and, when the
after-luncheon expedition took place, Lothair allotted them to the care
of Lord Carisbrooke, and himself became the companion of Lady St. Jerome
and Theodora.
Notwithstanding all his efforts in the smoking-room, St. Aldegonde had
only been able to induce Colonel Campian to be his companion in the
shooting expedition, and the colonel fell into the lure only through
his carelessness and good-nature. He much doubted the discretion of
his decision as he listened to Lord St. Aldegonde’s reasons for the
expedition, in their rapid journey to the moors.
“I do not suppose,” he said, “we shall have any good sport; but when
you are in Scotland, and come to me, as I hope you will, I will give you
something you will like. But it is a great thing to get off seeing the
Towers, and the gardens, and all that sort of thing. Nothing bores me so
much as going over a man’s house. Besides, we get rid of the women.”
The meeting between the two guardians did not promise to be as pleasant
as that between the bishop and the cardinal, but the crusty Lord
Culloden was scarcely a match for the social dexterity of his eminence.
The cardinal, crossing the room, with winning ceremony approached and
addressed his colleague.
“We can have no more controversies, my lord, for our reign is over;”
and he extended a delicate hand, which the surprised peer touched with a
huge finger.
“Yes; it all depends on himself now,” replied Lord Culloden, with a grim
smile; “and I hope he will not make a fool of himself.”
“What have you got for us to-night?” inquired Lothair of Mr. Giles, as
the gentlemen rose from the dining-table.
Mr. Giles said he would consult his wife, but Lothair observing he would
himself undertake that office, when he entered the saloon, addressed
Apollonia. Nothing could be more skilful than the manner in which Mrs.
Giles, in this party, assumed precisely the position which equally
became her and suited her own views; at the same time the somewhat
humble friend, but the trusted counsellor, of the Towers, she disarmed
envy and conciliated consideration. Never obtrusive, yet always prompt
and prepared with unfailing resource, and gifted apparently, with
universal talents, she soon became the recognized medium by which every
thing was suggested or arranged; and before eight-and-forty hours had
passed she was described by duchesses and their daughters as that “dear
Mrs. Giles.”
“Monsieur Raphael and his sister came down in the train with us,” said
Mrs. Giles to Lothair; “the rest of the troupe will not be here until
to-morrow; but they told me they could give you a perfect proverbe if
your lordship would like it; and the Spanish conjuror is here; but I
rather think, from what I gather, that the young ladies would like a
dance.”
“I do not much fancy acting the moment these great churchmen have
arrived, and with cardinals and bishops I would rather not have dances
the first-night. I almost wish we had kept the Hungarian lady for this
evening.”
“Shall I send for her? She is ready.”
“The repetition would be too soon, and would show a great poverty of
resources,” said Lothair, smiling; “what we want is some singing.”
“Mardoni ought to have been here to-day,” said Mrs. Giles; “but he never
keeps his engagements.”
“I think our amateur materials are rather rich,” said Lothair.
“There is Mrs. Campian,” said Apollonia in a low voice; but Lothair
shook his head.
“But, perhaps, if others set her the example,” he added, after a pause;
“Lady Corisande is first rate, and all her sisters sing; I will go and
consult the duchess.”
There was soon a stir in the room. Lady St. Aldegonde and her sisters
approached the piano, at which was seated the eminent professor. A note
was heard, and there was silence. The execution was exquisite; and,
indeed, there are few things more dainty than the blended voices of
three women. No one seemed to appreciate the performance more than
Mrs. Campian, who, greatly attracted by what was taking place, turned a
careless ear, even to the honeyed sentences of no less a personage than
the lord-bishop.
After an interval Lady Corisande was handed to the piano by Lothair.
She was in fine voice, and sang with wonderful effect. Mrs. Campian, who
seemed much interested, softly rose, and stole to the outward circle of
the group which had gathered round the instrument. When the sounds had
ceased, amid the general applause her voice of admiration was heard.
The duchess approached her, evidently prompted by the general wish, and
expressed her hope that Mrs. Campian would now favor them. It was not
becoming to refuse when others had contributed so freely to the
general entertainment, but Theodora was anxious not to place herself in
competition with those who had preceded her. Looking over a volume
of music, she suggested to Lady Corisande a duet, in which the
peculiarities of their two voices, which in character were quite
different, one being a soprano and the other a contralto, might be
displayed. And very seldom, in a private chamber, had any thing of so
high a class been heard. Not a lip moved except those of the singers,
so complete was the fascination, till the conclusion elicited a burst of
irresistible applause.
“In imagination I am throwing endless bouquets,” said Hugo Bohun.
“I wish we could induce her to give us a recitation from Alfieri,” said
Mrs. Putney Giles in a whisper to Lady St. Aldegonde. “I heard it once:
it was the finest thing I ever listened to.”
“But cannot we?” said Lady St. Aldegonde.
Apollonia shook her head. “She is extremely reserved. I am quite
surprised that she sang; but she could not well refuse after your
ladyship and your sisters had been so kind.”
“But if the Lord of the Towers asks her,” suggested Lady St. Aldegonde.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Giles, “that would not do; nor would he. He knows
she dislikes it. A word from Colonel Campian, and the thing would be
settled; but it is rather absurd to invoke the authority of a husband
for so light a matter.”
“I should like so much to hear her,” said Lady St. Aldegonde. “I think I
will ask her myself. I will go and speak to mamma.”
There was much whispering and consulting in the room, but unnoticed, as
general conversation had now been resumed. The duchess sent for Lothair,
and conferred with him; but Lothair seemed to shake his head. Then
her grace rose and approached Colonel Campian, who was talking to Lord
Culloden, and then the duchess and Lady St. Aldegonde went to Mrs.
Campian. Then, after a short time, Lady St. Aldegonde rose and fetched
Lothair.
“Her grace tells me,” said Theodora, “that Colonel Campian wishes me to
give a recitation. I cannot believe that such a performance can ever be
generally interesting, especially in a foreign language, and I confess
that I would rather not exhibit. But I do not like to be churlish when
all are so amiable and compliant, and her grace tells me that it cannot
well be postponed, for this is the last quiet night we shall have. What
I want is a screen, and I must be a moment alone, before I venture on
these enterprises. I require it to create the ideal presence.”
Lothair and Bertram arranged the screen, the duchess and Lady St.
Aldegonde glided about, and tranquilly intimated what was going to
occur, so that, without effort, there was in a moment complete silence
and general expectation. Almost unnoticed Mrs. Campian had disappeared,
whispering a word as she passed to the eminent conductor, who was
still seated at the piano. The company had almost unconsciously grouped
themselves in the form of a theatre, the gentlemen generally standing
behind the ladies who were seated. There were some bars of solemn music,
and then, to an audience not less nervous than herself, Theodora came
forward as Electra in that beautiful appeal to Clytemnestra, where she
veils her mother’s guilt even while she intimates her more than terrible
suspicion of its existence, and makes one last desperate appeal of
pathetic duty in order to save her parent and her fated house:
“O amata madre,
Che fai? Non credo io, no, che ardente fiamma
Il cor ti avvampi.”
The ineffable grace of her action, simple without redundancy, her
exquisite elocution, her deep yet controlled passion, and the magic of
a voice thrilling even in a whisper—this form of Phidias with the genius
of Sophocles—entirely enraptured a fastidious audience. When she ceased,
there was an outburst of profound and unaffected appreciation; and Lord
St. Aldegonde, who had listened in a sort of ecstasy, rushed forward,
with a countenance as serious as the theme, to offer his thanks and
express his admiration.
And then they gathered round her—all these charming women and some of
these admiring men—as she would have resumed her seat, and entreated her
once more—only once more—to favor them. She caught the adoring glance of
the lord of the Towers, and her eyes seemed to inquire what she should
do. “There will be many strangers here to-morrow,” said Lothair, “and
next week all the world. This is a delight only for the initiated,” and
he entreated her to gratify them.
“It shall be Alfieri’s ode to America, then,” said Theodora, “if you
please.”
“She is a Roman, I believe,” said Lady St. Jerome to his eminence, “but
not, alas! a child of the Church. Indeed, I fear her views generally are
advanced,” and she shook her head.
“At present,” said the cardinal, “this roof and this visit may influence
her. I should like to see such powers engaged in the cause of God.”
The cardinal was an entire believer in female influence, and a
considerable believer in his influence over females; and he had good
cause for his convictions. The catalogue of his proselytes was numerous
and distinguished. He had not only converted a duchess and several
countesses, but he had gathered into his fold a real Mary Magdalen. In
the height of her beauty and her fame, the most distinguished member
of the demi-monde had suddenly thrown up her golden whip and jingling
reins, and cast herself at the feet of the cardinal. He had a right,
therefore, to be confident; and, while his exquisite taste and
consummate cultivation rendered it impossible that he should not have
been deeply gratified by the performance of Theodora, he was really the
whole time considering the best means by which such charms and powers
could be enlisted in the cause of the Church.
After the ladies had retired, the gentlemen talked for a few minutes
over the interesting occurrence of the evening.
“Do you know,” said the bishop to the duke and some surrounding
auditors, “fine as was the Electra, I preferred the ode to the tragedy?
There was a tumult of her brow, especially in the address to Liberty,
that was sublime—quite a Moenad look.”
“What do you think of it, Carry?” said St. Aldegonde to Lord
Carisbrooke.
“Brecon says she puts him in mind of Ristori.”
“She is not in the least like Ristori, or any one else,” said St.
Aldegonde. “I never heard, I never saw any one like her. I’ll tell you
what—you must take care what you say about her in the smoking-room, for
her husband will be there, and an excellent fellow too. We went together
to the moors this morning, and he did not bore me in the least. Only, if
I had known as much about his wife as I do now, I would have stayed at
home, and passed my morning with the women.”
CHAPTER 43 St. Aldegonde loved to preside over the mysteries of the
smoking-room. There, enveloped in his Egyptian robe, occasionally
blurting out some careless or headstrong paradox to provoke discussion
among others, which would amuse himself, rioting in a Rabelaisan
anecdote, and listening with critical delight to endless memoirs of
horses and prima-donnas, St. Aldegonde was never bored. Sometimes,
too, when he could get hold of an eminent traveller, or some individual
distinguished for special knowledge, St. Aldegonde would draw him out
with skill; himself displaying an acquaintance with the particular
topic which often surprised his habitual companions, for St. Aldegonde
professed never to read; but he had no ordinary abilities, and an
original turn of mind and habit of life, which threw him in the way of
unusual persons of all classes; from whom he imbibed or extracted a
vast variety of queer, always amusing, and not altogether useless
information.
“Lothair has only one weakness,” he said to Colonel Campian as the
ladies disappeared; “he does not smoke. Carry, you will come?”
“Well, I do not think I shall to-night,” said Lord Carisbrooke. Lady
Corisande, it appears, particularly disapproved of smoking.
“Hum!” said St. Aldegonde; “Duke of Brecon, I know, will come, and Hugo
and Bertram. My brother Montairy would give his ears to come, but is
afraid of his wife; and then there is the monsignore, a most capital
fellow, who knows every thing.”
There were other gatherings, before the midnight bell struck at the
Towers, which discussed important affairs, though they might not sit
so late as the smoking-party. Lady St. Aldegonde had a reception in her
room as well as her lord. There the silent observation of the evening
found avenging expression in sparkling criticism, and the summer
lightning, though it generally blazed with harmless brilliancy,
occasionally assumed a more arrowy character. The gentlemen of the
smoking-room have it not all their own way quite as much as they think.
If, indeed, a new school of Athens were to be pictured, the sages and
the students might be represented in exquisite dressing-gowns, with
slippers rarer than the lost one of Cinderella, and brandishing
beautiful brushes over tresses still more fair. Then is the time when
characters are never more finely drawn, or difficult social questions
more accurately solved; knowledge without reasoning and truth without
logic—the triumph of intuition! But we must not profane the mysteries of
Bona Dea.
The archdeacon and the chaplain had also been in council with the bishop
in his dressing-room, who, while he dismissed them with his benison,
repeated his apparently satisfactory assurance that something would
happen “the first thing after breakfast.”
Lothair did not smoke, but he did not sleep. He was absorbed by the
thought of Theodora. He could not but be conscious, and so far he was
pleased by the consciousness, that she was as fascinating to others as
to himself. What then? Even with the splendid novelty of his majestic
home, and all the excitement of such an incident in his life, and
the immediate prospect of their again meeting, he had felt, and even
acutely, their separation. Whether it were the admiration of her by
others which proved his own just appreciation, or whether it were the
unobtrusive display of exquisite accomplishments, which, with all their
intimacy, she had never forced on his notice—whatever the cause,
her hold upon his heart and life, powerful as it was before, had
strengthened. Lothair could not conceive existence tolerable without
her constant presence; and with her constant presence existence would
be rapture. It had come to that. All his musings, all his profound
investigation and high resolve, all his sublime speculations on God and
man, and life, and immortality, and the origin of things, and religious
truth, ended in an engrossing state of feeling, which could be denoted
in that form and in no other.
What, then, was his future? It seemed dark and distressing. Her constant
presence his only happiness; her constant presence impossible. He seemed
on an abyss.
In eight-and-forty hours or so one of the chief provinces of England
would be blazing with the celebration of his legal accession to his high
estate. If any one in the queen’s dominions had to be fixed upon as the
most fortunate and happiest of her subjects, it might well be Lothair.
If happiness depend on lofty station, his ancient and hereditary rank
was of the highest; if, as there seems no doubt, the chief source of
felicity in this country is wealth, his vast possessions and accumulated
treasure could not easily be rivalled, while he had a matchless
advantage over those who pass, or waste, their gray and withered lives
in acquiring millions, in his consummate and healthy youth. He had
bright abilities, and a brighter heart. And yet the unknown truth was,
that this favored being, on the eve of this critical event, was pacing
his chamber agitated and infinitely disquieted, and struggling with
circumstances and feelings over which alike he seemed to have no
control, and which seemed to have been evoked without the exercise of
his own will, or that of any other person.
“I do not think I can blame myself,” he said; “and I am sure I cannot
blame her. And yet—”
He opened his window and looked upon the moonlit garden, which filled
the fanciful quadrangle. The light of the fountain seemed to fascinate
his eye, and the music of its fall soothed him into reverie. The
distressful images that had gathered round his heart gradually vanished,
and all that remained to him was the reality of his happiness. Her
beauty and her grace, the sweet stillness of her searching intellect,
and the refined pathos of her disposition, only occurred to him, and he
dwelt on them with spell-bound joy.
The great clock of the Towers sounded two.
“Ah!” said Lothair, “I must try to sleep. I have got to see the bishop
to-morrow morning. I wonder what he wants?”
CHAPTER 44 The bishop was particularly playful on the morrow at
breakfast. Though his face beamed with Christian kindness, there was
a twinkle in his eye which seemed not entirely superior to mundane
self-complacency, even to a sense of earthly merriment. His seraphic
raillery elicited sympathetic applause from the ladies, especially from
the daughters of the house of Brentham, who laughed occasionally,
even before his angelic jokes were well launched. His lambent flashes
sometimes even played over the cardinal, whose cerulean armor,
nevertheless, remained always unscathed. Monsignore Chidioch, however,
who would once unnecessarily rush to the aid of his chief, was tumbled
over by the bishop with relentless gayety, to the infinite delight of
Lady Corisande, who only wished it had been that dreadful Monsignore
Catesby. But, though less demonstrative, apparently not the least
devout, of his lordship’s votaries, were the Lady Flora and the
Lady Grizell. These young gentlewomen, though apparently gifted with
appetites becoming their ample, but far from graceless, forms, contrived
to satisfy all the wants of nature without taking their charmed vision
for a moment off the prelate, or losing a word which escaped his
consecrated lips. Sometimes even they ventured to smile, and then they
looked at their father and sighed. It was evident, notwithstanding their
appetites and their splendid complexions, which would have become the
Aurora of Guido, that these young ladies had some secret sorrow
which required a confidante. Their visit to Muriel Towers was their
introduction to society, for the eldest had only just attained sweet
seventeen. Young ladies under these circumstances always fall in love,
but with their own sex. Lady Flora and Lady Grizell both fell in love
with Lady Corisande, and before the morning had passed away she had
become their friend and counsellor, and the object of their devoted
adoration. It seems that their secret sorrow had its origin in that
mysterious religious sentiment which agitates or affects every class
and condition of man, and which creates or destroys states, though
philosophers are daily assuring us “that there is nothing in it.” The
daughters of the Earl of Culloden could not stand any longer the Free
Kirk, of which their austere parent was a fiery votary. It seems that
they had been secretly converted to the Episcopal Church of Scotland by
a governess, who pretended to be a daughter of the Covenant, but who was
really a niece of the primus, and, as Lord Culloden accurately observed,
when he ignominiously dismissed her, “a Jesuit in disguise.” From that
moment there had been no peace in his house. His handsome and gigantic
daughters, who had hitherto been all meekness, and who had obeyed him as
they would a tyrant father of the feudal ages, were resolute, and would
not compromise their souls. They humbly expressed their desire to enter
a convent, or to become at least sisters of mercy. Lord Culloden raged
and raved, and delivered himself of cynical taunts, but to no purpose.
The principle that forms Free Kirks is a strong principle, and takes
many forms, which the social Polyphemes, who have only one eye, cannot
perceive. In his desperate confusion, he thought that change of scene
might be a diversion when things were at the worst, and this was the
reason that he had, contrary to his original intention, accepted the
invitation of his ward.
Lady Corisande was exactly the guide the girls required. They sat on
each side of her, each holding her hand, which they frequently pressed
to their lips. As her form was slight, though of perfect grace and
symmetry, the contrast between herself and her worshippers was rather
startling; but her noble brow, full of thought and purpose, the firmness
of her chiselled lip, and the rich fire of her glance vindicated her
post as the leading spirit.
They breakfasted in a room which opened on a gallery, and at the other
end of the gallery was an apartment similar to the breakfast-room,
which was the male morning-room, and where the world could find
the newspapers, or join in half an hour’s talk over the intended
arrangements of the day. When the breakfast-party broke up, the bishop
approached Lothair, and looked at him earnestly.
“I am at your lordship’s service,” said Lothair, and they quitted the
breakfast-room together. Half-way down the gallery they met Monsignore
Catesby, who had in his hand a number, just arrived, of a newspaper
which was esteemed an Ultramontane organ. He bowed as he passed them,
with an air of some exultation, and the bishop and himself exchanged
significant smiles, which, however, meant different things. Quitting the
gallery, Lothair led the way to his private apartments; and, opening the
door, ushered in the bishop.
Now, what was contained in the Ultramontane organ which apparently
occasioned so much satisfaction to Monsignore Catesby? A deftly drawn-up
announcement of some important arrangements which had been deeply
planned. The announcement would be repeated In all the daily papers,
which were hourly expected. The world was informed that his eminence,
Cardinal Grandison, now on a visit at Muriel Towers to his ward,
Lothair, would celebrate high mass on the ensuing Sunday in the city
which was the episcopal capital of the bishop’s see, and afterward
preach on the present state of the Church of Christ. As the bishop must
be absent from his cathedral that day, and had promised to preach in
the chapel at Muriel, there was something dexterous in thus turning his
lordship’s flank, and desolating his diocese when he was not present to
guard it from the fiery dragon. It was also remarked that there would be
an unusual gathering of the Catholic aristocracy for the occasion. The
rate of lodgings in the city had risen in consequence. At the end of the
paragraph it was distinctly contradicted that Lothair had entered the
Catholic Church. Such a statement was declared to be “premature,” as
his guardian, the cardinal, would never sanction his taking such a step
until he was the master of his own actions; the general impression left
by the whole paragraph being, that the world was not to be astonished if
the first stop of Lothair, on accomplishing his majority, was to pursue
the very course which was now daintily described as premature.
At luncheon the whole party were again assembled. The newspapers had
arrived in the interval, and had been digested. Every one was aware of
the popish plot, as Hugo Bohun called it. The bishop, however, looked
serene, and, if not as elate as in the morning, calm and content. He sat
by the duchess, and spoke to her in a low voice, and with seriousness.
The monsignore watched every expression.
When the duchess rose, the bishop accompanied her into the recess of a
window, and she said: “You may depend upon me; I cannot answer for the
duke. It is not the early rising; he always rises early in the country,
but he likes to read his letters before he dresses, and that sort of
thing. I think you had better speak to Lady Corisande yourself.”
What had taken place at the interview of the bishop with Lothair, and
what had elicited from the duchess an assurance that the prelate
might depend upon her, generally transpired, in consequence of some
confidential communications, in the course of the afternoon. It appeared
that the right reverend lord had impressed, and successfully, on
Lothair, the paramount duty of commencing the day of his majority by
assisting in an early celebration of the most sacred rite of the Church.
This, in the estimation of the bishop, though he had not directly
alluded to the subject in the interview, but had urged the act on higher
grounds, would be a triumphant answer to the insidious and calumnious
paragraphs which had circulated during the last six months, and an
authentic testimony that Lothair was not going to quit the Church of his
fathers.
This announcement, however, produced consternation in the opposite
camp. It seemed to more than neutralize the anticipated effect of the
programme, and the deftly-conceived paragraph. Monsignore Catesby went
about whispering that he feared Lothair was going to overdo it; and
considering what he had to go through on Monday, if it were only for
considerations of health, an early celebration was inexpedient. He
tried the duchess—about whom he was beginning to hover a good deal—as he
fancied she was of an impressible disposition, and gave some promise of
results; but here the ground had been too forcibly preoccupied: then he
flew to Lady St. Aldegonde, but he had the mortification of learning,
from her lips, that she herself contemplated being a communicant at the
same time. Lady Corisande had been before him. All the energies of that
young lady were put forth in order that Lothair should be countenanced
on this solemn occasion. She conveyed to the bishop before dinner the
results of her exertions.
“You may count on Alberta St. Aldegonde and Victoria Montairy, and, I
think, Lord Montairy also, if she presses him, which she has promised
to do. Bertram must kneel by his friend at such a time. I think Lord
Carisbrooke may: Duke of Brecon, I can say nothing about at present.”
“Lord St. Aldegonde?” said the bishop.
Lady Corisande shook her head.
There had been a conclave in the bishop’s room before dinner, in which
the interview of the morning was discussed.
“It was successful; scarcely satisfactory,” said the bishop. “He is a
very clever fellow, and knows a great deal. They have got hold of him,
and he has all the arguments at his fingers’ ends. When I came to the
point, he began to demur; I saw what was passing through his mind, and
I said at once: ‘Your views are high: so are mine: so are those of the
Church. It is a sacrifice, undoubtedly, in a certain sense. No sound
theologian would maintain the simplicity of the elements; but that does
not involve the coarse interpretation of the dark ages.’”
“Good, good,” said the archdeacon; “and what is it your lordship did not
exactly like?”
“He fenced too much; and he said more than once, and in a manner I did
not like, that, whatever were his views as to the Church, he thought he
could on the whole conscientiously partake of this rite as administered
by the Church of England.”
“Every thing depends on this celebration,” said the chaplain; “after
that his doubts and difficulties will dispel.”
“We must do our best that he is well supported,” said the archdeacon.
“No fear of that,” said the bishop. “I have spoken to some of our
friends. We may depend on the duchess and her daughters—all admirable
women; and they will do what they can with others. It will be a busy
day, but I have expressed my hope that the heads of the household may be
able to attend. But the county notables arrive to-day, and I shall make
it a point with them, especially the lord-lieutenant.”
“It should be known,” said the chaplain. “I will send a memorandum to
the Guardian.”
“And John Bull,” said the bishop.
The lord-lieutenant and Lady Agramont, and their daughter, Lady Ida
Alice, arrived to-day; and the high-sheriff, a manufacturer, a great
liberal who delighted in peers, but whose otherwise perfect felicity
to-day was a little marred and lessened by the haunting and restless
fear that Lothair was not duly aware that he took precedence of the
lord-lieutenant. Then there were Sir Hamlet Clotworthy, the master
of the hounds, and a capital man of business; and the Honorable Lady
Clotworthy, a haughty dame who ruled her circle with tremendous airs and
graces, but who was a little subdued in the empyrean of Muriel Towers.
The other county member, Mr. Ardenne, was a refined gentleman, and loved
the arts. He had an ancient pedigree, and knew everybody else’s, which
was not always pleasant. What he most prided himself on was being the
hereditary owner of a real deer-park, the only one, he asserted, in the
county. Other persons had parks which had deer in them, but that was
quite a different thing. His wife was a pretty woman, and the inspiring
genius of archeological societies, who loved their annual luncheon
in her Tudor Halls, and illustrated by their researches the deeds and
dwellings of her husband’s ancient race.
The clergy of the various parishes on the estate all dined at the Towers
to-day, in order to pay their respects to their bishop. “Lothair’s
oecumenical council,” said Hugo Bohun, as he entered the crowded room,
and looked around him with an air of not ungraceful impertinence. Among
the clergy was Mr. Smylie, the brother of Apollonia.
A few years ago, Mr. Putney Giles had not unreasonably availed himself
of the position which he so usefully and so honorably filled, to
recommend this gentleman to the guardians of Lothair to fill a vacant
benefice. The Reverend Dionysius Smylie had distinguished himself at
Trinity College, Dublin, and had gained a Hebrew scholarship there;
after that he had written a work on the Revelations, which clearly
settled the long-controverted point whether Rome in the great apocalypse
was signified by Babylon. The bishop shrugged his shoulders when he
received Mr. Smylie’s papers, the examining chaplain sighed, and the
archdeacon groaned. But man is proverbially short-sighted. The doctrine
of evolution affords no instances so striking as those of sacerdotal
development. Placed under the favoring conditions of clime and soil,
the real character of the Reverend Dionysius Smylie gradually, but
powerfully, developed itself. Where he now ministered, he was attended
by acolytes, and incensed by thurifers. The shoulders of a fellow
countryman were alone equal to the burden of the enormous cross which
preceded him; while his ecclesiastical wardrobe furnished him with many
colored garments, suited to every season of the year, and every festival
of the Church.
At first there was indignation, and rumors or prophecies that we should
soon have another case of perversion, and that Mr. Smylie was going over
to Rome; but these superficial commentators misapprehended the vigorous
vanity of the man. “Rome may come to me,” said Mr. Smylie, “and it is
perhaps the best thing it could do. This is the real Church without
Romish error.”
The bishop and his reverend stuff, who were at first so much annoyed
at the preferment of Mr. Smylie, had now, with respect to him, only
one duty, and that was to restrain his exuberant priestliness; but they
fulfilled that duty in a kindly and charitable spirit; and, when the
Reverend Dionysius Smylie was appointed chaplain to Lothair, the
bishop did not shrug his shoulders, the chaplain did not sigh, nor the
archdeacon groan.
The party was so considerable to-day that they dined in the great hall.
When it was announced to Lothair that his lordship’s dinner was served,
and he offered his arm to his destined companion, he looked around,
and, then in an audible voice, and with a stateliness becoming such an
incident, called upon the high-sheriff to lead the duchess to the table.
Although that eminent personage had been thinking of nothing else for
days, and during the last half-hour had felt as a man feels, and can
only feel, who knows that some public function is momentarily about to
fall to his perilous discharge, he was taken quite aback, changed color,
and lost his head. But the band of Lothair, who were waiting at the door
of the apartment to precede the procession to the hall, striking up at
this moment “The Roast Beef of Old England,” reanimated his heart; and,
following Lothair, and preceding all the other guests down the gallery,
and through many chambers, he experienced the proudest moment of a life
of struggle, ingenuity, vicissitude, and success.
CHAPTER 45 Under all this flowing festivity there was already a current
of struggle and party passion. Serious thoughts and some anxiety
occupied the minds of several of the guests, amid the variety of
proffered dishes and sparkling wines, and the subdued strains of
delicate music. This disquietude did not touch Lothair. He was happy
to find himself in his ancestral hall, surrounded by many whom he
respected, and by some whom he loved. He was an excellent host, which no
one can be who does not combine a good heart with high breeding.
Theodora was rather far from him, but he could catch her grave, sweet
countenance at an angle of the table, as she bowed her head to Mr.
Ardenne, the county member, who was evidently initiating her in all the
mysteries of deer-parks. The cardinal sat near him, winning over, though
without apparent effort, the somewhat prejudiced Lady Agramont. His
eminence could converse with more facility than others, for he dined off
biscuits and drank only water.
Lord Culloden had taken out Lady St. Jerome, who expended on him all the
resources of her impassioned tittle-tattle, extracting only grim smiles;
and Lady Corisande had fallen to the happy lot of the Duke of Brecon;
according to the fine perception of Clare Arundel—and women are very
quick in these discoveries—the winning horse. St. Aldegonde had managed
to tumble in between Lady Flora and Lady Grizell, and seemed immensely
amused.
The duke inquired of Lothair how many he could dine in his hall.
“We must dine more than two hundred on Monday,” he replied.
“And now, I should think, we have only a third of that number,” said his
grace. “It will be a tight fit.”
“Mr. Putney Giles has had a drawing made, and every seat apportioned. We
shall just do it.”
“I fear you will have too busy a day on Monday,” said the cardinal, who
had caught up the conversation.
“Well, you know, sir, I do not sit up smoking with Lord St. Aldegonde.”
After dinner, Lady Corisande seated herself by Mrs. Campian. “You must
have thought me very rude,” she said, “to have left you so suddenly at
tea, when the bishop looked into the room; but he wanted me on a matter
of the greatest importance. I must, therefore, ask your pardon. You
naturally would not feel on this matter as we all do, or most of us do,”
she added with some hesitation; “being—pardon me—a foreigner, and the
question involving national as well as religious feelings;” and then,
somewhat hurriedly, but with emotion, she detailed to Theodora all
that had occurred respecting the early celebration on Monday, and the
opposition it was receiving from the cardinal and his friends. It was a
relief to Lady Corisande thus to express all her feelings on a subject
on which she had been brooding the whole day.
“You mistake,” said Theodora, quietly, when Lady Corisande had finished.
“I am much interested in what you tell me. I should deplore our friend
falling under the influence of the Romish priesthood.”
“And yet there is danger of it,” said Lady Corisande, “more than
danger,” she added in a low but earnest voice. “You do not know what a
conspiracy is going on, and has been going on for months, to effect this
end. I tremble.”
“That is the last thing I ever do,” said Theodora, with a faint, sweet
smile. “I hope, but I never tremble.”
“You have seen the announcement in the newspapers to-day!” said Lady
Corisande.
“I think, if they were certain of their prey, they would be more
reserved,” said Theodora.
“There is something in that,” said Lady Corisande, musingly. “You know
not what a relief it is to me to speak to you on this matter. Mamma
agrees with me, and so do my sisters; but still they may agree with me
because they are my mamma and my sisters; but I look upon our nobility
joining the Church of Rome as the greatest calamity that has ever
happened to England. Irrespective of all religious considerations, on
which I will not presume to touch, it is an abnegation of patriotism;
and in this age, when all things are questioned, a love of our country
seems to me the one sentiment to cling to.”
“I know no higher sentiment,” said Theodora in a low voice, and yet
which sounded like the breathing of some divine shrine, and her Athenian
eye met the fiery glance of Lady Corisande with an expression of noble
sympathy.
“I am so glad that I spoke to you on this matter,” said Lady Corisande,
“for there is something in you which encourages me. As you say, if they
were certain, they would be silent; and yet, from what I hear, their
hopes are high. You know,” she added in a whisper, “that he has
absolutely engaged to raise a popish cathedral. My brother, Bertram, has
seen the model in his rooms.”
“I have known models that were never realized,” said Theodora.
“Ah! you are hopeful; you said you were hopeful. It is a beautiful
disposition. It is not mine,” she added, with a sigh.
“It should be,” said Theodora; “you were not born to sigh. Sighs should
be for those who have no country, like myself; not for the daughters of
England—the beautiful daughters of proud England.”
“But you have your husband’s country, and that is proud and great.”
“I have only one country, and it is not my husband’s; and I have only
one thought, and it is to set it free.”
“It is a noble one,” said Lady Corisande, “as I am sure are all your
thoughts. There are the gentlemen; I am sorry they have come. There,”
she added, as Monsignore Catesby entered the room, “there is his evil
genius.”
“But you have baffled him,” said Theodora.
“Ah,” said Lady Corisande, with a long-drawn sigh. “Their manoeuvres
never cease. However, I think Monday must be safe. Would you come?” she
said, with a serious, searching glance, and in a kind of coaxing murmur.
“I should be an intruder, my dear lady,” said Theodora, declining the
suggestion; “but, so far as hoping that our friend will never join the
Church of Rome, you will have ever my ardent wishes.”
Theodora might have added her belief, for Lothair had never concealed
from her a single thought or act of his life in this respect. She
knew all and had weighed every thing, and flattered herself that their
frequent and unreserved conversations had not confirmed his belief
in the infallibility of the Church of Rome, and perhaps of some other
things.
It had been settled that there should be dancing this evening—all the
young ladies had wished it. Lothair danced with Lady Flora Falkirk, and
her sister, Lady Grizell, was in the same quadrille. They moved about
like young giraffes in an African forest, but looked bright and happy.
Lothair liked his cousins; their inexperience and innocence, and the
simplicity with which they exhibited and expressed their feelings, had
in them something bewitching. Then the rough remembrance of his old life
at Falkirk and its contrast with the present scene had in it something
stimulating. They were his juniors by several years, but they were
always gentle and kind to him; and sometimes it seemed he was the only
person whom they, too, had found kind and gentle. He called his
cousin, too, by her Christian name, and he was amused, standing by this
beautiful giantess, and calling her Flora. There were other amusing
circumstances in the quadrille; not the least, Lord St. Aldegonde
dancing with Mrs. Campian. The wonder of Lady St. Aldegonde was only
equalled by her delight.
The lord-lieutenant was standing by the duke, in a comer of the saloon,
observing, not with dissatisfaction, his daughter, Lady Ida Alice,
dancing with Lothair.
“Do you know this is the first time I ever had the honor of meeting a
cardinal?” he said.
“And we never expected that it would happen to either of us in this
country when we were at Christchurch together,” replied the duke.
“Well, I hope every thing is for the best,” said Lord Agramont. “We
are to have all these gentlemen in our good city of Grandchester,
to-morrow.”
“So I understand.”
“You read that paragraph in the newspapers? Do you think there is any
thing in it?”
“About our friend? It would be a great misfortune.”
“The bishop says there is nothing in it,” said the lord-lieutenant.
“Well, he ought to know. I understand he has had some serious
conversation recently with our friend?”
“Yes; he has spoken to me about it. Are you going to attend the early
celebration tomorrow? It is not much to my taste; a little new-fangled,
I think; but I shall go, as they say it will do good.”
“I am glad of that; it is well that he should be impressed at this
moment with the importance and opinion of his county.”
“Do you know I never saw him before?” said the lord-lieutenant. “He is
winning.”
“I know no youth,” said the duke, “I would not except my own son, and
Bertram has never given me an uneasy moment, of whom I have a better
opinion, both as to heart and head. I should deeply deplore his being
smashed by a Jesuit.”
The dancing had ceased for a moment; there was a stir; Lord Carisbrooke
was enlarging, with unusual animation, to an interested group, about
a new dance at Paris—the new dance. Could they not have it here?
Unfortunately, he did not know its name, and could not describe its
figure; but it was something new; quite new; they got it at Paris.
Princess Metternich dances it. He danced it with her, and she taught it
him; only he never could explain any thing, and indeed never did exactly
make it out. “But you danced it with a shawl, and then two ladies hold
the shawl, and the cavaliers pass under it. In fact, it is the only
thing; it is the new dance at Paris.”
What a pity that any thing so delightful should be so indefinite
and perplexing, and indeed impossible, which rendered it still more
desirable! If Lord Carisbrooke only could have remembered its name, or a
single step in its figure—it was so tantalizing!
“Do not you think so?” said Hugo Bohun to Mrs. Campian, who was sitting
apart, listening to Lord St. Aldegonde’s account of his travels in the
United States, which he was very sorry he ever quitted. And then they
inquired to what Mr. Bohun referred, and then he told them all that had
been said.
“I know what he means,” said Mrs. Campian. “It is not a French dance; it
is a Moorish dance.”
“That woman knows everything, Hugo,” said Lord St. Aldegonde in a solemn
whisper. And then he called to his wife. “Bertha, Mrs. Campian will tell
you all about this dance that Carisbrooke is making such a mull of. Now,
look here, Bertha; you must get the Campians to come to us as soon as
possible. They are going to Scotland from this place, and there is no
reason, if you manage it well, why they should not come on to us at
once. Now, exert yourself.”
“I will do all I can, Granville.”
“It is not French, it is Moorish; it is called the Tangerine,” said
Theodora to her surrounding votaries. “You begin with a circle.”
“But how are we to dance without the music?” said Lady Montairy.
“Ah! I wish I had known this,” said Theodora, “before dinner, and I
think I could have dotted down something that would have helped us. But
let me see,” and she went up to the eminent professor, with whom she was
well acquainted, and said, “Signor Ricci, it begins so,” and she
hummed divinely a fantastic air, which, after a few moments’ musing,
he reproduced; “and then it goes off into what they call in Spain a
saraband. Is there a shawl in the room?”
“My mother has always a shawl in reserve,” said Bertram, “particularly
when she pays visits to houses where there are galleries;” and he
brought back a mantle of Cashmere.
“Now, Signor Ricci,” said Mrs. Campian, and she again hummed an air, and
moved forward at the same time with brilliant grace, waving at the end
the shawl.
The expression of her countenance, looking round to Signor Ricci, as she
was moving on to see whether he had caught her idea, fascinated Lothair.
“It is exactly what I told you,” said Lord Carisbrooke, “and, I can
assure you, it is the only dance now. I am very glad I remembered it.”
“I see it all,” said Signor Ricci, as Theodora rapidly detailed to him
the rest of the figure. “And at any rate it will be the Tangerine with
variations.”
“Let me have the honor of being your partner in this great enterprise,”
said Lothair; “you are the inspiration of Muriel.”
“Oh! I am very glad I can do any thing, however slight, to please you
and your friends. I like them all; but particularly Lady Corisande.”
A new dance in a country-house is a festival of frolic grace. The
incomplete knowledge, and the imperfect execution, are themselves causes
of merry excitement, in their contrast with the unimpassioned routine
and almost unconscious practice of traditionary performances. And gay
and frequent were the bursts of laughter from the bright and airy band
who were proud to be the scholars of Theodora. The least successful
among them was perhaps Lord Carisbrooke.
“Princess Metternich must have taught you wrong, Carisbrooke,” said Hugo
Bohun.
They ended with a waltz, Lothair dancing with Miss Arundel. She accepted
his offer to take some tea on its conclusion. While they were standing
at the table, a little withdrawn from the others, and he holding a
sugar-basin, she said in a low voice, looking on her cup and not at him,
“the cardinal is vexed about the early celebration; he says it should
have been at midnight.”
“I am sorry he is vexed,” said Lothair.
“He was going to speak to you himself,” continued Miss Arundel; “but
he felt a delicacy about it. He had thought that your common feelings
respecting the Church might have induced you if not to consult, at least
to converse, with him on the subject; I mean as your guardian.”
“It might have been perhaps as well,” said Lothair; “but I also feel a
delicacy on these matters.”
“There ought to be none on such matters,” continued Miss Arundel, “when
every thing is at stake.”
“I do not see that I could have taken any other course than I have
done,” said.Lothair. “It can hardly be wrong. The bishop’s church views
are sound.”
“Sound!” said Miss Arundel; “moonshine instead of sunshine.”
“Moonshine would rather suit a midnight than a morning celebration,”
said Lothair; “would it not?”
“A fair repartee, but we are dealing with a question that cannot be
settled by jests. See,” she said with great seriousness, putting down
her cup and taking again his offered arm, “you think you are only
complying with a form befitting your position and the occasion. You
deceive yourself. You are hampering your future freedom by this step,
and they know it. That is why it was planned. It was not necessary;
nothing can be necessary so pregnant with evil. You might have made, you
might yet make, a thousand excuses. It is a rite which hardly suits the
levity of the hour, even with their feelings; but, with your view of its
real character, it is sacrilege. What is occurring tonight might furnish
you with scruples?” And she looked up in his face.