arrangements. He has proposed to the parents, who are delighted with
the match, and has received every encouragement from the young lady. He
looks upon it as certain.”
“I wish our kind friend had not gone abroad,” said Apollonia.
“Well, at any rate, he has come back,” said Mr. Giles; “that is
something. I am sure I more than once never expected to see him again.”
“He has every virtue, and every charm,” said Apollonia, “and principles
that are now proved. I shall never forget his kindness at the Towers. I
wish he were settled for life. But who is worthy of him? I hope he will
not fall into the clutches of that popish girl. I have sometimes, from
what I observed at Muriel, and other reasons, a dread misgiving.”
CHAPTER 81 It was the first night that Lothair had slept in his own
house, and, when he awoke in the morning, he was quite bewildered, and
thought for a moment he was in the Palazzo Agostini. He had not reposed
in so spacious and lofty a chamber since he was at Rome. And this
brought all his recollection to his Roman life, and every thing that
had happened there. “And yet, after all,” he said, “had it not been for
Clare Arundel, I should never have seen Muriel House. I owe to her
my life.” His relations with the St. Jerome family were doubtless
embarrassing, even painful; and yet his tender and susceptible nature
could not for a moment tolerate that he should passively submit to an
estrangement from those who had conferred on him so much kindness, and
whose ill-considered and injurious courses, as he now esteemed them,
were perhaps, and probably, influenced and inspired by exalted, even
sacred motives.
He wondered whether they were in London; and, if so, what should he do?
Should he call, or should he write? He wished he could do something
to show to Miss Arundel how much he appreciated her kindness, and how
grateful he was. She was a fine creature, and all her errors were noble
ones; enthusiasm, energy, devotion to a sublime cause. Errors, but are
these errors? Are they not, on the contrary, qualities which should
command admiration in any one? and in a woman—and a beautiful woman—more
than admiration?
There is always something to worry you. It comes as regularly as
sunrise. Here was Lothair under his own roof again, after strange
and trying vicissitudes, with his health restored, his youth little
diminished, with some strange memories and many sweet ones; on the
whole, once more in great prosperity, and yet his mind harped only on
one vexing thought, and that was his painful and perplexed relations
with the St. Jerome family.
His thoughts were a little distracted from this harassing theme by
the novelty of his house, and the pleasure it gave him. He admired the
double staircase and the somewhat heavy, yet richly-carved ceilings; and
the look into the park, shadowy and green, with a rich summer sun, and
the palace in the distance. What an agreeable contrast to his hard,
noisy sojourn in a bran-new, brobdingnagian hotel, as was his coarse
fate when he was launched into London life! This made him think of
many comforts for which he ought to be grateful, and then he remembered
Muriel Towers, and how completely and capitally every thing was there
prepared and appointed, and while he was thinking over all this—and
kindly of the chief author of these satisfactory arrangements, and the
instances in which that individual had shown, not merely professional
dexterity and devotion, but some of the higher qualities that make life
sweet and pleasant—Mr. Putney Giles was announced, and Lothair sprang
forward and gave him his hand with a cordiality which repaid at once
that perfect but large-hearted lawyer for all his exertions, and some
anxieties that he had never expressed even to Apollonia.
Nothing in life is more remarkable than the unnecessary anxiety which
we endure, and generally, occasion ourselves. Between four and five
o’clock, having concluded his long conference with Mr. Putney Giles,
Lothair, as if he were travelling the principal street of a foreign
town, or rather treading on tiptoe like a prince in some enchanted
castle, ventured to walk down St. James Street, and the very first
person he met was Lord St. Jerome!
Nothing could be more unaffectedly hearty than his greeting by that good
man and thorough gentleman. “I saw, by the Post, you had arrived,” said
Lord St. Jerome, “and we were all saying at breakfast how glad we should
be to see you again. And looking so well! Quite yourself! I never saw
you looking better. You have been to Egypt with Lord St. Aldegonde, I
think? It was the wisest thing you could do. I said to Gertrude, when
you went to Sicily, ‘If I were Lothair, I would go a good deal farther
than Sicily.’ You wanted change of scene and air, more than any man I
know.”
“And how are they all?” said Lothair; “my first visit will be to them.”
“And they will be delighted to see you. Lady St. Jerome is a little
indisposed—a cold caught at one of her bazaars. She will hold them, and
they say that no one ever sells so much. But still, as I often say, ‘My
dear Gertrude, would it not be better if I were to give you a check
for the institution; it would be the same to them, and would save you
a great deal of trouble.’ But she fancies her presence inspires others,
and perhaps there is something in it.”
“I doubt not; and Miss Arundel?”
“Clare is quite well, and I am hurrying home now to ride with her. I
shall tell her that you asked after her.”
“And offer her my kindest remembrances.”
“What a relief!” exclaimed Lothair, when once more alone. “I thought I
should have sunk into the earth when he first addressed me, and now I
would not have missed this meeting for any consideration.”
He had not the courage to go into White’s. He was under a vague
impression that the whole population of the metropolis, and especially
those who reside in the sacred land, bounded on the one side by
Piccadilly, and on the other by Pall Mall, were unceasingly talking
of his scrapes and misadventures; but he met Lord Carisbrooke and Mr.
Brancepeth.
“Ah! Lothair,” said Carisbrooke, “I do not think we have seen you
this season—certainly not since Easter. What have you been doing with
yourself?”
“You have been in Egypt?” said Mr. Brancepeth. “The duke was mentioning
at White’s to-day that you had returned with his son and Lord St.
Aldegonde.”
“And does it pay?” inquired Carisbrooke. “Egypt? What I have found
generally in this sort of thing is, that one hardly knows what to do
with one’s evenings.”
“There is something in that,” said Lothair, “and perhaps it applies to
other countries besides Egypt. However, though it is true I did return
with St. Aldegonde and Bertram, I have myself not been to Egypt.”
“And where did you pick them up?”
“At Jerusalem.”
“Jerusalem! What on earth could they go to Jerusalem for?” said Lord
Carisbrooke. “I am told there is no sort of sport there. They say, in
the Upper Nile, there is good shooting.”
“St. Aldegonde was disappointed. I suppose our countrymen have disturbed
the crocodiles and frightened away the pelicans?”
“We were going to look in at White’s—come with us.”
Lothair was greeted with general kindness; but nobody seemed aware that
he had been long and unusually absent from them. Some had themselves not
come up to town till after Easter, and had therefore less cause to miss
him. The great majority, however, were so engrossed with themselves that
they never missed anybody. The Duke of Brecon appealed to Lothair
about something that had happened at the last Derby, and was under the
impression, until better informed, that Lothair had been one of his
party. There were some exceptions to this general unacquaintance with
events which an hour before Lothair had feared fearfully engrossed
society. Hugo Bohun was doubly charmed to see him, “because we were all
in a fright one day that they were going to make you a cardinal, and it
turned out that, at the very time they said you were about to enter the
conclave, you happened to be at the second cataract. What lies these
newspapers do tell!”
But the climax of relief was reached when the noble and gray-headed
patron of the arts in Great Britain approached him with polished
benignity, and said, “I can give you perhaps even later news than you
can give me of our friends at Jerusalem. I had a letter from Madame
Phoebus this morning, and she mentioned with great regret that you had
just left them. Your first travels, I believe?”
“My first.”
“And wisely planned. You were right in starting out and seeing the
distant parts. One may not always have the energy which such an
expedition requires. You can keep Italy for a later and calmer day.”
Thus, one by one, all the cerulean demons of the morn had vanished,
and Lothair had nothing to worry him. He felt a little dull as the
dinner-hour approached. Bertram was to dine at home, and then go to
the House of Commons; St. Aldegonde, concluding the day with the same
catastrophe, had in the most immoral manner, in the interval, gone to
the play to see “School,” of which he had read an account in Galignani
when he was in quarantine. Lothair was so displeased with this unfeeling
conduct on his part that he declined to accompany him; but Lady St.
Aldegonde, who dined at Crecy House, defended her husband, and thought
it very right and reasonable that one so fond of the drama as he, who
had been so long deprived of gratifying his taste in that respect,
should take the first opportunity of enjoying this innocent amusement.
A solitary dinner at Muriel House, in one of those spacious and lofty
chambers, rather appalled Lothair, and he was getting low again,
remembering nothing but his sorrows, when Mr. Pinto came up to him and
said: “The impromptu is always successful in life; you cannot be engaged
to dinner, for everybody believes you are at Jericho. What say you to
dining with me? Less than the Muses and more than the Graces, certainly,
if you come. Lady Beatrice has invited herself, and she is to pick up
a lady, and I was to look out for a couple of agreeable men. Hugo is
coming, and you will complete the charm.”
“The spell then is complete,” said Lothair; “I suppose a late eight.”
CHAPTER 82 Lothair was breakfasting alone on the morrow, when his
servant announced the arrival of Mr. Ruby, who had been ordered to be in
attendance.
“Show him up,” said Lothair, “and bring me the dispatch-box which is in
my dressing-room.”
Mr. Ruby was deeply gratified to be again in the presence of a nobleman
so eminently distinguished, both for his property and his taste, as
Lothair. He was profuse in his congratulations to his lordship on his
return to his native land, while at the same time he was opening a bag,
from which he extracted a variety of beautiful objects, none of them
for sale, all executed commissions, which were destined to adorn the
fortunate and the fair. “This is lovely, my lord, quite new, for the
Queen of Madagascar; for the empress this, her majesty’s own design, at
least almost. Lady Melton’s bridal necklace, and my lord’s George, the
last given by King James II.; broken up during the revolution, but reset
by us from an old drawing with picked stones.”
“Very pretty,” said Lothair; “but it is not exactly this sort of thing
that I want. See,” and he opened the dispatch-box, and took from out
of it a crucifix. It was made of some Eastern wood, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl; the figure carved in brass, though not without power,
and at the end of each of the four terminations of the cross was a small
cavity, enclosing something, and covered with glass.
“See,” continued Lothair, “this is the crucifix, given with a carved
shell to each pilgrim who visits the Holy Sepulchre. Within these four
cavities is earth from the four holy places: Calvary, Sion, Bethlehem,
and Gethsemane. Now, what I want is a crucifix, something of this
dimension, but made of the most costly materials; the figure must be of
pure gold; I should like the cross to be of choice emeralds, which I am
told are now more precious even than brilliants, and I wish the earth of
the sacred places to be removed from this crucifix, and introduced in a
similar manner into the one which you are to make; and each cavity must
be covered with a slit diamond. Do you understand?”
“I follow you, my lord,” said Mr. Ruby, with glistening eyes. “It will
be a rare jewel. Is there to be a limit as to the cost?”
“None but such as taste and propriety suggest,” said Lothair. “You will
of course make a drawing and an estimate, and send them to me; but I
desire dispatch.”
When Mr. Ruby had retired, Lothair took from the dispatch-box a sealed
packet, and looked at it for some moments, and then pressed it to his
lips.
In the afternoon, Lothair found himself again in the saddle, and was
riding about London, as if he had never quitted it. He left his cards
at Crecy House, and many other houses, and he called at the St. Jeromes’
late, but asked if they were at home. He had reckoned that they would
not be, and his reckoning was right. It was impossible to conceal from
himself that it was a relief. Mr. Putney Giles dined alone with Lothair
this evening, and they talked over many things; among others the
approaching marriage of Lady Corisande with the Duke of Brecon.
“Everybody marries except myself,” said Lothair, rather peevishly.
“But your lordship is too young to think of that yet,” said Mr. Putney
Giles.
“I feel very old,” said Lothair.
At this moment there arrived a note from Bertram, saying his mother was
quite surprised and disappointed that Lothair had not asked to see
her in the morning. She had expected him, as a matter of course, at
luncheon, and begged that he would come on the morrow.
“I have had many pleasant luncheons in that house,” said Lothair, “but
this will be the last. When all the daughters are married, nobody eats
luncheon.”
“That would hardly apply to this family,” said Mr. Putney Giles, who
always affected to know every thing, and generally did. “They are so
united, that I fancy the famous luncheons at Crecy House will always go
on, and be a popular mode of their all meeting.”
“I half agree with St. Aldegonde,” said Lothair, grumbling to himself,
“that if one is to meet that Duke of Brecon every day at luncheon, for
my part I had rather stay away.”
In the course of the evening there also arrived invitations to all the
impending balls and assemblies, for Lothair; and there seemed little
prospect of his again being forced to dine with his faithful solicitor
as a refuge from melancholy.
On the morrow he went in his brougham to Crecy House, and he had such
a palpitation of the heart when he arrived, that, for a moment, he
absolutely thought he must retire. His mind was full of Jerusalem, the
Mount of Olives, and the Sea of Galilee. He was never nervous there,
never agitated, never harassed, no palpitations of the heart, no dread
suspense. There was repose alike of body and soul. Why did he ever
leave Palestine and Paraclete? He should have remained in Syria forever,
cherishing, in a hallowed scene, a hallowed sorrow, of which even the
bitterness was exalted and ennobling.
He stood for a moment in the great hall at Crecy House, and the groom
of the chambers in vain solicited his attention. It was astonishing
how much passed through his mind while the great clock hardly described
sixty seconds. But in that space he had reviewed his life, arrived at
the conclusion that all was vanity and bitterness, that he had failed
in every thing, was misplaced, had no object and no hope, and that a
distant and unbroken solitude in some scene, where either the majesty of
Nature was overwhelming, or its moral associations were equally sublime,
must be his only refuge. In the meditation of the Cosmos, or in the
divine reverie of sacred lands, the burden of existence might be
endured.
“Her grace is at luncheon, my lord,” at length said the groom of the
chamber—and Lothair was ushered into the gay, and festive, and cordial
scene. The number of the self-invited guests alone saved him. His
confusion was absolute, and the duchess remarked afterward that Lothair
seemed to have regained all his shyness.
When Lothair had rallied and could survey the scene, he found he was
sitting by his hostess; that the duke, not a luncheon man, was present,
and, as it turned out afterward, for the pleasure of meeting Lothair.
Bertram also was present, and several married daughters, and Lord
Montairy, and Captain Mildmay, and one or two others; and next to Lady
Corisande was the Duke of Brecon.
So far as Lothair was concerned, the luncheon was unsuccessful. His
conversational powers deserted him. He answered in monosyllables, and
never originated a remark. He was greatly relieved when they rose and
returned to the gallery, in which they seemed all disposed to linger.
The duke approached him, and, in his mood, he found it easier to talk to
men than to women. Male conversation is of a coarser grain, and does not
require so much play of thought and manner; discourse about Suez Canal,
and Arab horses, and pipes, and pachas, can be carried on without any
psychological effort, and, by degrees, banishes all sensibility. And yet
he was rather dreamy, talked better than he listened, did not look his
companion in the face, as the duke spoke, which was his custom, and his
eye was wandering. Suddenly, Bertram having joined them, and speaking to
his father, Lothair darted away and approached Lady Corisande, whom Lady
Montairy had just quitted.
“As I may never have the opportunity again,” said Lothair, “let me thank
you, Lady Corisande, for some kind thoughts which you deigned to bestow
on me in my absence.”
His look was serious; his tone almost sad. Neither were in keeping with
the scene and the apparent occasion; and Lady Corisande, not displeased,
but troubled, murmured: “Since I last met you, I heard you had seen much
and suffered much.”
“And that makes the kind thoughts of friends more precious,” said
Lothair. “I have few; your brother is the chief, but even he never did
me any kindness so great as when he told me that you had spoken of me
with sympathy.”
“Bertram’s friends are mine,” said Lady Corisande; “but, otherwise, it
would be impossible for us all not to feel an interest in—, one of whom
we had seen so much,” she added, with some hesitation.
“Ah, Brentham!” said Lothair; “dear Brentham! Do you remember once
saying to me that you hoped you should never leave Brentham?”
“Did I say so?” said Lady Corisande.
“I wish I had never left Brentham,” said Lothair; “it was the happiest
time of my life. I had not then a sorrow or a care.”
“But everybody has sorrows and cares,” said Lady Corisande; “you have,
however, a great many things which ought to make you happy.”
“I do not deserve to be happy,” said Lothair, “for I have made so many
mistakes. My only consolation is that one great error, which you most
deprecated, I have escaped.”
“Take a brighter and a nobler view of your life,” said Lady Corisande;
“feel rather you have been tried and not found wanting.”
At this moment the duchess approached them, and interrupted their
conversation; and, soon after this, Lothair left Crecy House, still
moody, but less despondent.
There was a ball at Lady Clanmorne’s in the evening, and Lothair was
present. He was astonished at the number of new faces he saw, the new
phrases he heard, the new fashions alike in dress and manner. He could
not believe it was the same world that he had quitted only a year ago.
He was glad to take refuge with Hugo Bohun as with an old friend, and
could not refrain from expressing to that eminent person his surprise at
the novelty of all around him.
“It is you, my dear Lothair,” replied Hugo, “that is surprising, not the
world—that has only developed in your absence. What could have induced
a man like you to be away for a whole season from the scene? Our
forefathers might afford to travel—the world was then stereotyped. It
will not do to be out of sight now. It is very well for St. Aldegonde to
do these things, for the great object of St. Aldegonde is not to be in
society, and he has never succeeded in his object. But here is the new
beauty.”
There was a stir and a sensation. Men made way, and even women
retreated—and, leaning on the arm of Lord Carisbrooke, in an exquisite
costume that happily displayed her splendid figure, and, radiant
with many charms, swept by a lady of commanding mien and stature,
self-possessed, and even grave, when, suddenly turning her head, her
pretty face broke into enchanting dimples, as she exclaimed: “Oh, cousin
Lothair!”
Yes, the beautiful giantesses of Muriel Towers had become the beauties
of the season. Their success had been as sudden and immediate as it was
complete and sustained. “Well, this is stranger than all!” said Lothair
to Hugo Bohun when Lady Flora had passed on.
“The only persons talked of,” said Hugo. “I am proud of my previous
acquaintance with them. I think Carisbrooke has serious thoughts; but
there are some who prefer Lady Grizell.”
“Lady Corisande was your idol last season,” said Lothair.
“Oh, she is out of the running,” said Hugo; “she is finished. But I have
not heard yet of any day being fixed. I wonder, when he marries, whether
Brecon will keep on his theatre?”
“His theatre!”
“Yes; the high mode now for a real swell is to have a theatre. Brecon
has the Frolic; Kate Simmons is his manager, who calls herself Athalie
de Montfort. You ought to have a theatre, Lothair; and, if there is
not one to hire, you should build one. It would show that you are alive
again and had the spirit of an English noble, and atone for some of your
eccentricities.”
“But I have no Kate Simmons who calls herself Athalie de Montfort,” said
Lothair. “I am not so favored, Hugo. However, I might succeed Brecon,
as I hardly suppose he will maintain such an establishment when he is
married.”
“I beg your pardon,” rejoined Hugo. “It is the thing. Several of our
greatest swells have theatres and are married. In fact, a first-rate man
should have every thing, and therefore he ought to have both a theatre
and a wife.”
“Well, I do not think your manners have improved since last year, or
your words,” said Lothair. “I have half a mind to go down to Muriel, and
shut myself up there.”
He walked away and sauntered into the ballroom. The first forms he
recognized were Lady Corisande waltzing with the Duke of Brecon, who was
renowned for this accomplishment. The heart of Lothair felt bitter. He
remembered his stroll to the dairy with the Duchess at Brentham, and
their conversation. Had his views then been acceded to, how different
would have been his lot! And it was not his fault that they had been
rejected. And yet, had they been accomplished, would they have been
happy? The character of Corisande, according to her mother, was not then
formed, nor easily scrutable. Was it formed now? and what were its bent
and genius? And his own character? It could not be denied that his mind
was somewhat crude then, and his general conclusions on life and duty
hardly sufficiently matured and developed to offer a basis for domestic
happiness on which one might confidently depend.
And Theodora? Had he married then, he should never have known Theodora.
In this bright saloon, amid the gayety of festive music, and surrounded
by gliding forms of elegance and brilliancy, his heart was full of
anguish when he thought of Theodora. To have known such a woman and to
have lost her! Why should a man live after this? Yes; he would retire to
Muriel, once hallowed by her presence, and he would raise to her memory
some monumental fane, beyond the dreams ever of Artemisia, and which
should commemorate alike her wondrous life and wondrous mind.
A beautiful hand was extended to him, and a fair face, animated with
intelligence, welcomed him without a word. It was Lady St. Jerome.
Lothair bowed lowly and touched her hand with his lip.
“I was sorry to have missed you yesterday. We had gone down to Vauxe for
the day, but I heard of you from my lord with great pleasure. We are all
of us so happy that you have entirely recovered your health.”
“I owe that to you, dearest lady,” said Lothair, “and to those under
your roof. I can never forget your goodness to me. Had it not been for
you, I should not have been here or anywhere else.”
“No, no; we did our best for the moment. But I quite agree with my lord,
now, that you stayed too long at Rome under the circumstances. It was a
good move—that going to Sicily, and so wise of you to travel in Egypt.
Men should travel.”
“I have not been to Egypt,” said Lothair; “I have been to the Holy Land,
and am a pilgrim. I wish you would tell Miss Arundel that I shall ask
her permission to present her with my crucifix, which contains the earth
of the holy places. I should have told her this myself, if I had seen
her yesterday. Is she here?”
“She is at Vauxe; she could not tear herself away from the roses.”
“But she might have brought them with her as companions,” said Lothair,
“as you have, I apprehend, yourself.”
“I will give you this in Clare’s name,” said Lady St. Jerome, as she
selected a beautiful flower and presented it to Lothair. “It is in
return for your crucifix, which I am sure she will highly esteem. I only
wish it were a rose of Jericho.”
Lothair started. The name brought up strange and disturbing
associations: the procession in the Jesuits’ church, the lighted tapers,
the consecrated children, one of whom had been supernaturally presented
with the flower in question. There was an awkward silence, until
Lothair, almost without intending it, expressed a hope that the cardinal
was well.
“Immersed in affairs, but I hope well,” replied Lady St. Jerome. “You
know what has happened? But you will see him. He will speak to you of
these matters himself.”
“But I should like also to hear from you.”
“Well, they are scarcely yet to be spoken of,” said Lady St. Jerome. “I
ought not perhaps even to have alluded to the subject; but I know how
deeply devoted you are to religion. We are on the eve of the greatest
event of this century. When I wake in the morning, I always fancy that I
have heard of it only in dreams. And many—all this room—will not believe
in the possibility of its happening. They smile when the contingency
is alluded to, and if I were not present they would mock. But it will
happen—I am assured it will happen,” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome, speaking
with earnestness, though in a hushed voice. “And no human imagination
can calculate or conceive what may be its effect on the destiny of the
human race.”
“You excite my utmost curiosity,” said Lothair.
“Hush! there are listeners. But we shall soon meet again. You will come
and see us, and soon. Come down to Vauxe on Saturday; the cardinal
will be there. And the place is so lovely now. I always say Vauxe at
Whitsuntide, or a little later, is a scene for Shakespeare. You know you
always liked Vauxe.”
“More than liked it,” said Lothair; “I have passed at Vauxe some of the
happiest hours of my life.”
CHAPTER 83 On the morning of the very Saturday on which Lothair was
to pay his visit to Vauxe, riding in the park, he was joined by that
polished and venerable nobleman who presides over the destinies of art
in Great Britain. This distinguished person had taken rather a fancy to
Lothair, and liked to talk to him about the Phoebus family; about the
great artist himself, and all his theories and styles; but especially
about the fascinating Madame Phoebus and the captivating Euphrosyne.
“You have not found time, I dare say,” said the nobleman, “to visit the
exhibition of the Royal Academy?”
“Well, I have only been here a week,” said Lothair, “and have had so
many things to think of, and so many persons to see.”
“Naturally,” said the nobleman; “but I recommend you to go. I am now
about to make my fifth visit there; but it is only to a single picture,
and I envy its owner.”
“Indeed!” said Lothair. “Pray tell me its subject, that I may not fail
to see it.”
“It is a portrait,” said the nobleman, “only a portrait, some would
say, as if the finest pictures in the world were not only portraits. The
masterpieces of the English school are portraits, and some day when you
have leisure and inclination, and visit Italy, you will see portraits
by Titian and Raffaelle and others, which are the masterpieces of art.
Well, the picture in question is a portrait by a young English painter
at Rome and of an English lady. I doubt not the subject was equal to
the genius of the artist, but I do not think that the modern pencil
has produced any thing equal to it, both, in design and color and
expression. You should see it, by all means, and I have that opinion of
your taste that I do not think you will be content by seeing it once.
The real taste for fine art in this country is proved by the crowd that
always surrounds that picture; and yet only a portrait of an English
lady, a Miss Arundel.”
“A Miss Arundel?” said Lothair.
“Yes, of a Roman Catholic family; I believe a relative of the St.
Jeromes. They were at Rome last year, when this portrait was executed.”
“If you will permit me,” said Lothair, “I should like to accompany you
to the Academy. I am going out of town this afternoon, but not far, and
could manage it.”
So they went together. It was the last exhibition of the Academy in
Trafalgar Square. The portrait in question was in the large room, and
hung on the eye line; so, as the throng about it was great, it was not
easy immediately to inspect it. But one or two R. A’s who were gliding
about, and who looked upon the noble patron of art as a sort of
divinity, insensibly controlled the crowd, and secured for their friend
and his companion the opportunity which they desired.
“It is the finest thing since the portrait of the Cenci,” said the noble
patron.
The painter had represented Miss Arundel in her robe of a sister of
mercy, but with uncovered head. A wallet was at her side, and she held a
crucifix. Her beautiful eyes, full of mystic devotions met those of the
spectator with a fascinating power that kept many spell-bound. In the
background of the picture was a masterly glimpse of the papal gardens
and the wondrous dome.
“That must be a great woman,” said the noble patron of art.
Lothair nodded assent in silence.
The crowd about the picture seemed breathless and awe-struck. There were
many women, and in some eyes there were tears.
“I shall go home,” said one of the spectators; “I do not wish to see any
thing else.”
“That is religion,” murmured her companion. “They may say what they
like, but it would be well for us if we were all like her.”
It was a short half-hour by the railroad to Vauxe, and the station
was close to the park gates. The sun was in its last hour when Lothair
arrived, but he was captivated by the beauty of the scene, which he had
never witnessed in its summer splendor. The rich foliage of the great
avenues, the immense oaks that stood alone, the deer glancing in the
golden light, and the quaint and stately edifice itself, so finished and
so fair, with its freestone pinnacles and its gilded vanes glistening
and sparkling in the warm and lucid sky, contrasted with the chilly
hours when the cardinal and himself had first strolled together in that
park, and when they tried to flatter themselves that the morning mist
clinging to the skeleton trees was perhaps the burst of spring.
Lothair found himself again in his old rooms, and, as his valet unpacked
his toilet, he fell into one of his reveries.
“What,” he thought to himself, “if life after all be only a dream? I can
scarcely realize what is going on. It seems to me; I have passed through
a year of visions. That I should be at Vauxe again! A roof I once
thought rife with my destiny. And perhaps it may prove so. And, were it
not for the memory of one event, I should be a ship without a rudder.”
There were several guests in the house, and, when Lothair entered the
drawing-room, he was glad to find that it was rather full. The cardinal
was by the side of Lady St. Jerome when Lothair entered, and immediately
after saluting his hostess it was his duty to address his late guardian.
Lothair had looked forward to this meeting with apprehension. It seemed
impossible that it should not to a certain degree be annoying. Nothing
of the kind. It was impossible to greet him more cordially, more
affectionately than did Cardinal Grandison.
“You have seen a great deal since we parted,” said the cardinal.
“Nothing could be wiser than your travelling. You remember that at
Muriel I recommended you to go to Egypt, but I thought it better that
you should see Rome first. And it answered: you made the acquaintance of
its eminent men, men whose names will be soon in everybody’s mouth,
for before another year elapses Rome will be the cynosure of the world.
Then, when the great questions come on which will decide the fate of
the human race for centuries, you will feel the inestimable advantage
of being master of the situation, and that you are familiar with every
place and every individual. I think you were not very well at Rome; but
next time you must choose your season. However, I may congratulate you
on your present looks. The air of the Levant seems to have agreed with
you.”
Dinner was announced almost at this moment, and Lothair, who had to take
out Lady Clanmorne, had no opportunity before dinner of addressing
any one else except his hostess and the cardinal. The dinner-party was
large, and it took some time to reconnoitre all the guests. Lothair
observed Miss Arundel, who was distant from him and on the same side of
the table, but neither Monsignore Capel nor Father Coleman were present.
Lady Clanmorne chatted agreeably. She was content to talk, and did not
insist on conversational reciprocity. She was a pure free-trader in
gossip. This rather suited Lothair. It pleased Lady Clanmorne to-day to
dilate upon marriage and the married state, but especially on all her
acquaintances, male and female, who were meditating the surrender of
their liberty and about to secure the happiness of their lives.
“I suppose the wedding of the season—the wedding of weddings—will be the
Duke of Brecon’s,” she said. “But I do not hear of any day being fixed.”
“Ah!” said Lothair, “I have been abroad and am very deficient in these
matters. But I was travelling with the lady’s brother, and he has never
yet told me that his sister was going to be married.”
“There is no doubt about that,” said Lady Clanmorne. “The duchess said
to a friend of mine the other day, who congratulated her, that there was
no person in whom she should have more confidence as a son-in-law than
the duke.”
“But most marriages turn out unhappy,” said Lothair, rather morosely.
“Oh! my dear lord, what can you mean?”
“Well I think so,” he said doggedly. “Among the lower orders, if we may
judge from the newspapers, they are always killing their wives, and in
our class we get rid of them in a more polished way, or they get rid of
us.”
“You quite astonish me with such sentiments,” said Lady Clanmorne. “What
would Lady St. Jerome think if she heard you, who told me the other day
that she believed you to be a faultless character? And the duchess too,
your friend’s mamma, who thinks you so good, and that it is so fortunate
for her son to have such a companion?”
“As for Lady St. Jerome, she believes in every thing,” said Lothair;
“and it is no compliment that she believes in me. As for my friend’s
mamma, her ideal character, according to you, is the Duke of Brecon, and
I cannot pretend to compete with him. He may please the duchess, but I
cannot say the Duke of Brecon is a sort of man I admire.”
“Well, he is no great favorite of mine,” said Lady Clanmorne; “I think
him overbearing and selfish, and I should not like at all to be his
wife.”
“What do you think of Lady Corisande?” said Lothair.
“I admire her more than any girl in society, and I think she will be
thrown away on the Duke of Brecon. She is clever and she has strong
character, and, I am told, is capable of great affections. Her manners
are good, finished, and natural; and she is beloved by her young
friends, which I always think a test.”
“Do you think her handsome?”
“There can be no question about that: she is beautiful, and her beauty
is of a high class. I admire her much more than all her sisters. She has
a grander mien.”
“Have you seen Miss Arundel’s picture at the Academy?”
“Everybody has seen that: it has made a fury.”
“I heard an eminent judge say to-day, that it was the portrait of one
who must be a great woman.”
“Well, Miss Arundel is a remarkable person.”
“Do you admire her?”
“I have heard first-rate critics say that there was no person to be
compared to Miss Arundel. And unquestionably it is a most striking
countenance: that profound brow and those large deep eyes—and then her
figure is so fine; but, to tell you the truth, Miss Arundel is a person
I never could make out.”
“I wonder she does not marry,” said Lothair.
“She is very difficult,” said Lady Clanmorne. “Perhaps, too, she is of
your opinion about marriage.”
“I have a good mind to ask her after dinner whether she is,” said
Lothair. “I fancy she would not marry a Protestant?”
“I am no judge of such matters,” said Lady Clanmorne; “only I cannot
help thinking that there would be more chance of a happy marriage when
both were of the same religion.”
“I wish we were all of the same religion. Do not you?”
“Well, that depends a little on what the religion might be.”
“Ah!” sighed Lothair, “what between religion and marriage and some other
things, it appears to me one never has a tranquil moment. I wonder what
religious school the Duke of Brecon belongs to? Very high and dry, I
should think.”
The moment the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, Lothair singled
out Miss Arundel, and attached himself to her.
“I have been to see your portrait today,” he said. She changed color.
“I think it,” he continued, “the triumph of modern art, and I could not
easily fix on any production of the old masters that excels it.”
“It was painted at Rome,” she said, in a low voice.
“So I understood. I regret that, when I was at Rome, I saw so little of
its art. But my health, you know, was wretched. Indeed, if it had not
been for some friends—I might say for one friend—I should not have been
here or in this world. I can never express to that person my gratitude,
and it increases every day. All that I have dreamed of angels was then
realized.”
“You think too kindly of us.”
“Did Lady St. Jerome give you my message about the earth from the holy
places which I had placed in a crucifix, and which I hope you will
accept from me, in remembrance of the past and your Christian kindness
to me? I should have left it at St. James’s Square before this, but it
required some little arrangement after its travels.”
“I shall prize it most dearly, both on account of its consecrated
character and for the donor’s sake, whom I have ever wished to see the
champion of our Master.”
“You never had a wish, I am sure,” said Lothair, “that was not sublime
and pure.”
CHAPTER 84 They breakfasted at Vauxe, in the long gallery. It was always
a merry meal, and it was the fashion of the house that all should be
present. The cardinal was seldom absent. He used to say: “I feel more on
equal terms with my friends at breakfast, and rather look forward to my
banquet of dry toast.” Lord St. Jerome was quite proud of receiving
his letters and newspapers at Vauxe earlier by far than he did at
St. James’s Square; and, as all were supplied with their letters
and journals, there was a great demand, for news, and a proportional
circulation of it. Lady Clanmorne indulged this passion for gossip
amusingly one morning, and read a letter from her correspondent, written
with the grace of a Sevigne, but which contained details of marriages,
elopements, and a murder among their intimate acquaintance, which made
all the real intelligence quite insipid, and was credited for at least
half an hour.
The gallery at Vauxe was of great length, and the breakfast-table was
laid at one end of it. The gallery was of panelled oak, with windows of
stained glass in the upper panes, and the ceiling, richly and heavily
carved, was entirely gilt, but with deadened gold. Though stately, the
general effect was not free from a certain character of gloom. Lit,
as it was, by sconces, this was at night much softened; but, on a rich
summer morn, the gravity and repose of this noble chamber were grateful
to the senses.
The breakfast was over; the ladies had retired, stealing off with the
Morning Post, the gentlemen gradually disappearing for the solace of
their cigars. The cardinal, who was conversing with Lothair, continued
their conversation while walking up and down the gallery, far from the
hearing of the servants, who were disembarrassing the breakfast-table,
and preparing it for luncheon. A visit to a country-house, as Pinto
says, is a series of meals mitigated by the new dresses of the ladies.
“The more I reflect on your travels,” said the cardinal, “the more I am
satisfied with what has happened. I recognize the hand of Providence in
your preliminary visit to Rome and your subsequent one to Jerusalem. In
the vast events which are impending, that man is in a strong position
who has made a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. Yo remember our walk in
the park here,” continued the cardinal; “I felt then that we were on
the eve of some mighty change, but it was then indefinite, though to me
inevitable. You were destined, I was persuaded, to witness it, even, as
I hoped, to take no inconsiderable share in its fulfilment. But I hardly
believed that I should have been spared for this transcendent day, and,
when it is consummated, I will gratefully exclaim, ‘Nunc me dimittis!’”
“You, allude, sir, to some important matter which Lady St. Jerome a few
days ago intimated to me, but it was only an intimation, and purposely
very vague.”
“There is no doubt,” said the cardinal, speaking with solemnity, “of
what I now communicate to you. The Holy Father, Pius IX., has resolved
to summon an Oecumenical Council.”
“An Oecumenical Council!” said Lothair.
“It is a weak phrase,” resumed the cardinal, “to say it will be the
greatest event of this century. I believe it will be the greatest event
since the Episcopate of St. Peter; greater, in its consequences to the
human race, than the fall of the Roman Empire, the pseudo-Reformation,
or the Revolution of France. It is much more than three hundred years
since the last Oecumenical Council, the Council of Trent, and the world
still vibrates with its decisions. But the Council of Trent, compared
with the impending Council of the Vatican, will be as the mediaeval
world of Europe compared with the vast and complete globe which man has
since discovered and mastered.”
“Indeed!” said Lothair.
“Why, the very assembly of the Fathers of the Church will astound the
Freemasons, and the secret societies, and the atheists. That alone will
be a demonstration of power on the part of the Holy Father which no
conqueror from Sesostris to Napoleon has ever equalled. It was only the
bishops of Europe that assembled at Trent, and, inspired by the Holy
Spirit, their decisions have governed man for more than three hundred
years. But now the bishops of the whole world will assemble round the
chair of St. Peter, and prove by their presence the catholic character
of the Church. Asia will send its patriarchs and pontiffs, and America
and Australia its prelates; and at home, my dear young friend, the
Council of the Vatican will offer a striking contrast to the Council
of Trent; Great Britain will be powerfully represented. The bishops of
Ireland might have been counted on, but it is England also that will
send her prelates now, and some of them will take no ordinary share in
transactions that will give a new form and color to human existence.”
“Is it true, sir, that the object of the council is to declare the
infallibility of the pope?”
“In matters of faith and morals,” said the cardinal quickly. “There is
no other infallibility. That is a secret with God. All that we can know
of the decision of the council on this awful head is, that its decision,
inspired by the Holy Spirit, must infallibly be right. We must await
that decision, and, when made known, we must embrace it, not only with
obedience, but with the interior assent of mind and will. But there are
other results of the council on which we may speculate; and which, I
believe, it will certainly accomplish: first, it will show in a manner
that cannot be mistaken that there is only one alternative for the human
intellect: Rationalism or Faith; and, secondly, it will exhibit to
the Christian powers the inevitable future they are now preparing for
themselves.”
“I am among the faithful,” said Lothair.
“Then you must be a member of the Church Catholic,” said the cardinal.
“The basis on which God has willed that His revelation should rest in
the world is the testimony of the Catholic Church, which, if considered
only as a human and historical witness, affords the highest and
most certain evidence for the fact and the contents of the Christian
religion. If this be denied, there is no such thing as history. But the
Catholic Church is not only a human and historical witness of its own
origin, constitution, and authority, it is also a supernatural and
divine witness, which can neither fail nor err. When it oecumenically
speaks, it is not merely the voice of the fathers of the world; it
declares what ‘it hath seemed good to the Holy Ghost and to us.’”
There was a pause, and then Lothair remarked: “You said, air, that
the council would show to the civil powers of the Christian world the
inevitable future they are preparing for themselves?”
“Even so. Now mark this, my child. At the Council of Trent the Christian
powers were represented, and properly so. Their seats will be empty at
the Council of the Vatican. What does that mean? The separation between
Church and State, talked of for a long time, now demonstrated. And what
does separation between Church and State mean? That society is no longer
consecrated. The civil governments of the world no longer profess to be
Catholic. The faithful indeed among their subjects will be represented
at the council by their pastors, but the civil powers have separated
themselves from the Church; either by royal edict, or legislative
enactment, or revolutionary changes, they have abolished the legal
status of the Catholic Church within their territory. It is not their
choice; they are urged on by an invisible power that is anti-Christian,
and which is the true, natural, and implacable enemy of the one visible
and universal Church. The coming anarchy is called progress, because it
advances along the line of departure from the old Christian order of the
world. Christendom was the offspring of the Christian family, and the
foundation of the Christian family is the sacrament of matrimony, the
sprit of all domestic and public morals. The anti-Christian societies
are opposed to the principle of home. When they have destroyed the
hearth, the morality of society will perish. A settlement in the
foundations may be slow in sinking, but it brings all down at last.
The next step in de-Christianizing the political life of nations is
to establish national education without Christianity. This is
systematically aimed at wherever the revolution has its way. The period
and policy of Julian are returning. Some think this bodes ill for the
Church; no, it is the State that will suffer. The secret societies are
hurrying the civil governments of the world, and mostly the governments
who disbelieve in their existence, to the brink of a precipice, over
which monarchies, and law, and civil order, will ultimately fall and
perish together.”
“Then all is hopeless,” said Lothair.
“To human speculation,” said the cardinal; “but none can fathom the
mysteries of Divine interposition. This coming council may save society,
and on that I would speak to you most earnestly. His holiness has
resolved to invite the schismatic priesthoods to attend it, and labor to
bring about the unity of Christendom. He will send an ambassador to the
patriarch of the heresy of Photius, which is called the Greek Church. He
will approach Lambeth. I have little hope of the latter, though there is
more than one of the Anglican bishops who revere the memory and example
of Laud. But I by no means despair of your communion being present in
some form at the council. There are true spirits at Oxford who sigh for
unity. They will form, I hope, a considerable deputation; but, as
not yet being prelates, they cannot take their seats formally in the
council, I wish, in order to increase and assert their influence, that
they should be accompanied by a band of powerful laymen, who shall
represent the pious and pure mind of England—the coming guardians of
the land in the dark hour that may be at hand. Considering your previous
knowledge of Rome, your acquaintance with its eminent men and its
language, and considering too, as I well know, that the Holy Father
looks to you as one marked out by Providence to assert the truth, it
would please me—and, trust me, it would be wise in you—were you to visit
Rome on this sublime occasion, and perhaps put your mark on the world’s
history.”
“It must yet be a long time before the council meets,” said Lothair,
after a pause.
“Not too long for preparation,” replied the cardinal. “From this hour,
until its assembling, the pulse of humanity will throb. Even at this
hour they are speaking of the same matters as ourselves alike on
the Euphrates and the St. Lawrence. The good Catesby is in Ireland,
conferring with the bishops, and awakening them to the occasion. There
is a party among them narrow-minded and local, the effects of their
education. There ought not to be an Irish priest who was not brought
up at the Propaganda. You know that admirable institution. We had some
happy hours at Rome together—may we soon repeat them! You were very
unwell there; next time you will judge of Rome in health and vigor.”
CHAPTER 85 They say there is a skeleton in every house; it may be
doubted. What is more certain are the sorrow and perplexity which
sometimes, without a warning and preparation, suddenly fall upon a
family living in a world of happiness and ease, and meriting their
felicity by every gift of fortune and disposition.
Perhaps there never was a circle that enjoyed life more, and deserved
to enjoy life more, than the Brentham family. Never was a family more
admired and less envied. Nobody grudged them their happy gifts and
accidents, for their demeanor was so winning, and their manners so
cordial and sympathetic, that every one felt as if he shared their
amiable prosperity. And yet, at this moment, the duchess, whose
countenance was always as serene as her soul, was walking with disturbed
visage and agitated step up and down the private room of the duke;
while his grace, seated, his head upon his arm, and with his eyes on the
ground, was apparently in anxious thought.
Now, what had happened? It seems that these excellent parents had
become acquainted, almost at the same moment, with two astounding and
disturbing facts: their son wanted to marry Euphrosyne Cantacuzene, and
their daughter would not marry the Duke of Brecon.
“I was so perfectly unprepared for the communication,” said the duke,
looking up, “that I have no doubt I did not express myself as I ought to
have done. But I do not think I said any thing wrong. I showed surprise,
sorrow—no anger. I was careful not to say any thing to hurt his
feelings—that is a great point in these matters—nothing disrespectful of
the young lady. I invited him to speak to me again about it when I had a
little got over my surprise.”
“It is really a catastrophe,” exclaimed the duchess; “and only think,
I came to you for sympathy in my sorrow, which, after all, though
distressing, is only a mortification!”
“I am very sorry about Brecon,” said the duke, “who is a man of honor,
and would have suited us very well; but, my dear Augusta, I never took
exactly the same view of this affair as you did—I was never satisfied
that Corisande returned his evident, I might say avowed, admiration of
her.”
“She spoke of him always with great respect,” said the duchess, “and
that is much in a girl of Corisande’s disposition. I never heard her
speak of any of her admirers in the same tone—certainly not of Lord
Carisbrooke; I was quite prepared for her rejection of him. She never
encouraged him.”
“Well,” said the duke, “I grant you it is mortifying—infinitely
distressing; and Brecon is the last man I could have wished that it
should occur to; but, after all, our daughter must decide for herself
in such affairs. She is the person most interested in the event. I never
influenced her sisters in their choice, and she also must be free. The
other subject is more grave.”
“If we could only ascertain who she really is,” said the duchess.
“According to Bertram, fully our equal; but I confess I am no judge of
Levantine nobility,” his grace added, with a mingled expression of pride
and despair.
“That dreadful travelling abroad!” exclaimed the duchess. “I always had
a foreboding of something disastrous from it. Why should he have gone
abroad, who has never been to Ireland, or seen half the counties of his
own country?”
“They all will go,” said the duke; “and I thought, with St. Aldegonde,
he was safe from getting into any scrape of this kind.”
“I should like to speak to Granville about it,” said the duchess. “When
he is serious, his judgment is good.”
“I am to see St. Aldegonde before I speak to Bertram,” said the duke. “I
should not be surprised if he were here immediately.”
One of the social mysteries is, “how things get about!” It is not the
interest of any of the persons immediately connected with the subject
that society should be aware that the Lady Corisande had declined the
proposal of the Duke of Brecon. Society had no right even to assume that
such a proposal was either expected or contemplated. The Duke of Brecon
admired Lady Corisande, so did many others; and many others were admired
by the Duke of Brecon. The duchess even hoped that, as the season was
waning, it might break up, and people go into the country or abroad, and
nothing be observed. And yet it “got about.” The way things get about
is through the Hugo Bohuns. Nothing escapes their quick eyes and
slow hearts. Their mission is to peer into society, like professional
astronomers ever on the watch to detect the slightest change in the
phenomena. Never embarrassed by any passion of their own, and their only
social scheming being to maintain their transcendent position, all their
life and energy are devoted to the discovery of what is taking place
around them; and experience, combined with natural tact, invests them
with almost a supernatural skill in the detection of social secrets.
And so it happened that scarcely a week had passed before Hugo began to
sniff the air, and then to make fine observations at balls, as to whom
certain persons danced with, or did not dance with; and then he began
the curious process of what he called putting two and two together, and
putting two and two together proved in about a fortnight that it was all
up between Lady Corisande and the Duke of Brecon.
Among others he imparted this information to Lothair, and it set Lothair
a thinking; and he went to a ball that evening solely with the purpose
of making social observations like Hugo Bohun. But Lady Corisande was
not there, though the Duke of Brecon was, apparently in high spirits,
and waltzing more than once with Lady Grizell Falkirk. Lothair was not
very fortunate in his attempts to see Bertram. He called more than once
at Crecy House too, but in vain. The fact is, Bertram was naturally
entirely engrossed with his own difficulties, and the duchess, harassed
and mortified, could no longer be at home in the morning.
Her grace, however, evinced the just appreciation of character for which
women are remarkable, in the confidence which she reposed in the good
sense of Lord St. Aldegonde at this crisis. St. Aldegonde was the only
one of his sons-in-law whom the duke really considered and a little
feared. When St. Aldegonde was serious, his influence over men
was powerful. And he was serious now. St. Aldegonde, who was not
conventional, had made the acquaintance of Mr. Cantacuzene immediately
on his return to England, and they had become friends. He had dined in
the Tyburnian palace of the descendant of the Greek emperors more than
once, and had determined to make his second son, who was only four years
of age, a Greek merchant. When the duke therefore consulted him on “the
catastrophe,” St. Aldegonde took high ground, spoke of Euphrosyne in
the way she deserved, as one equal to an elevated social position, and
deserving it. “But if you ask me my opinion, sir,” he continued, “I do
not think, except for Bertram’s sake, that you have any cause to fret
yourself. The family wish her to marry her cousin, the eldest son of the
Prince of Samos. It is an alliance of the highest, and suits them much
better than any connection with us. Besides, Cantacuzene will give
his children large fortunes, and they like the money to remain in
the family. A hundred or a hundred and fifty thousand pounds—perhaps
more—goes a great way on the coasts of Asia Minor. You might buy up half
the Archipelago. The Cantacuzenes are coming to dine with us next week.
Bertha is delighted with them. Mr. Cantacuzene is so kind as to say he
will take Clovis into his counting-house. I wish I could induce your
grace to come and meet him: then you could judge for yourself. You would
not be in the least shocked were Bertram to marry the daughter of some
of our great merchants or bankers. This is a great merchant and
banker, and the descendant of princes, and his daughter one of the most
beautiful and gifted of women and worthy to be a princess.”
“There is a good deal in what St. Aldegonde says,” said the duke
afterward to his wife. “The affair takes rather a different aspect. It
appears they are really people of high consideration, and great wealth
too. Nobody could describe them as adventurers.”
“We might gain a little time,” said the duchess. “I dislike peremptory
decisions. It is a pity we have not an opportunity of seeing the young
lady.”
“Granville says she is the most beautiful woman he ever met, except her
sister.”
“That is the artist’s wife?” said the duchess.
“Yes,” said the duke, “I believe a most distinguished man, but it rather
adds to the imbroglio. Perhaps things may turn out better than they
first promised. The fact is, I am more amazed than annoyed. Granville
knows the father, it seems, intimately. He knows so many odd people. He
wants me to meet him at dinner. What do you think about it? It is a good
thing sometimes to judge for one’s self. They say this Prince of Samos
she is half betrothed to is attaché to the Turkish embassy at Vienna,
and is to visit England.”
“My nervous system is quite shaken,” said the duchess. “I wish we could
all go to Brentham. I mentioned it to Corisande this morning, and I was
surprised to find that she wished to remain in town.”
“Well, we will decide nothing, my dear, in a hurry. St. Aldegonde says
that, if we decide in that sense, he will undertake to break off the
whole affair. We may rely on that. We need consider the business only
with reference to Bertram’s happiness and feelings. That is an important
issue, no doubt, but it is a limited one. The business is not of so
disagreeable a nature as it seemed. It is not an affair of a rash
engagement, in a discreditable quarter, from which he cannot extricate
himself. There is no doubt they are thoroughly reputable people, and
will sanction nothing which is not decorous and honorable. St. Aldegonde
has been a comfort to me in this matter; and you will find out a great
deal when you speak to him about it. Things might be worse. I wish I was
as easy about the Duke of Brecon. I met him this morning and rode with
him—to show there was no change in my feelings.”
CHAPTER 86 The world goes on with its aching hearts and its smiling
faces, and very often, when a year has revolved, the world finds out
there was no sufficient cause for the sorrows or the smiles. There is
too much unnecessary anxiety in the world, which is apt too hastily to
calculate the consequences of any unforeseen event, quite forgetting
that, acute as it is in observation, the world, where the future is
concerned, is generally wrong. The duchess would have liked to have
buried herself in the shades of Brentham, but Lady Corisande, who
deported herself as if there were no care at Crecy House except that
occasioned by her brother’s rash engagement, was of opinion that “mamma
would only brood over this vexation in the country,” and that it would
be much better not to anticipate the close of the waning season. So the
duchess and her lovely daughter were seen everywhere where they ought to
be seen, and appeared the pictures of serenity and satisfaction.
As for Bertram’s affair itself, under the manipulation of St. Aldegonde,
it began to assume a less anxious and more practicable aspect. The duke
was desirous to secure his son’s happiness, but wished nothing to be
done rashly. If, for example, in a year’s time or so, Bertram continued
in the same mind, his father would never be an obstacle to his
well-considered wishes. In the mean time, an opportunity might offer of
making the acquaintance of the young lady and her friends.
And, in the mean time, the world went on dancing, and betting, and
banqueting, and making speeches, and breaking hearts and heads, till
the time arrived when social stock is taken, the results of the campaign
estimated and ascertained, and the question asked, “Where do you think
of going this year?”
“We shall certainly winter at Rome,” said Lady St. Jerome to Lady
Clanmorne, who was paying a morning visit. “I wish you could induce Lord
Clanmorne to join us.”
“I wish so, too,” said the lady, “but that is impossible. He never will
give up his hunting.”
“I am sure there are more foxes in the Campagna than at Vauxe,” said
Lady St. Jerome.
“I suppose you have heard of what they call the double event?” said Lady
Clanmorne.
“No.”
“Well, it is quite true; Mr. Bohun told me last night, and he always
knows every thing.”
“Every thing!” said Lady St. Jerome; “but what is it that he knows now?”
“Both the Ladies Falkirk are to be married! And on the same day.”
“But to whom?”
“Whom should you think?”
“I will not even guess,” said Lady St. Jerome.
“Clare,” she said to Miss Arundel, who was engaged apart, “you always
find out conundrums. Lady Clanmorne has got some news for us. Lady Flora
Falkirk and her sister are going to be married, and on the same day. And
to whom, think you?”
“Well, I should think that somebody has made Lord Carisbrooke a happy
man,” said Miss Arundel.
“Very good,” said Lady Clanmorne. “I think Lady Flora will make an
excellent Lady Carisbrooke. He is not quite as tall as she is, but he is
a man of inches. And now for Lady Grizell.”
“My powers of divination are quite exhausted,” said Miss Arundel.
“Well, I will not keep you in suspense,” said Lady Clanmorne. “Lady
Grizell is to be Duchess of Brecon.”
“Duchess of Brecon!” exclaimed both Miss Arundel and Lady St. Jerome.
“I always admired the ladies,” said Miss Arundel. “We met them at
a country-house last year, and I thought them pleasing in every
way—artless and yet piquant; but I did not anticipate their fate being
so soon sealed.”
“And so brilliantly,” added Lady St. Jerome.
“You met them at Muriel Towers,” said Lady Clanmorne. “I heard of you
there: a most distinguished party. There was an American lady there, was
there not? a charming person, who sang, and acted, and did all sorts of
things.”
“Yes; there was. I believe, however, she was an Italian, married to an
American.”
“Have you seen much of your host at Muriel Towers?” said Lady Clanmorne.
“We see him frequently,” said Lady St. Jerome.
“Ah! yes, I remember; I met him at Vauxe the other day. He is a great
admirer of yours,” Lady Clanmorne added, addressing Miss Arundel.
“Oh! we are friends, and have long been so,” said Miss Arundel, and she
left the room.
“Clare does not recognize admirers,” said Lady St. Jerome, gravely.
“I hope the ecclesiastical fancy is not reviving,” said Lady Clanmorne.
“I was half in hopes that the lord of Muriel Towers might have deprived
the Church of its bride.”
“That could never be,” said Lady St. Jerome; “though, if it could have
been, a source of happiness to Lord St. Jerome and myself would not have
been wanting. We greatly regard our kinsman, but, between ourselves,”
added Lady St. Jerome in a low voice, “it was supposed that he was
attached to the American lady of whom you were speaking.”
“And where is she now?”
“I have heard nothing of late. Lothair was in Italy at the same time as
ourselves, and was ill there, under our roof; so we saw a great deal of
him. Afterward he travelled for his health, and has now just returned
from the East.”
A visitor was announced, and Lady Clanmorne retired.
Nothing happens as you expect. On his voyage home Lothair had indulged
in dreams of renewing his intimacy at Crecy House, around whose hearth
all his sympathies were prepared to cluster. The first shock to
this romance was the news he received of the impending union of Lady
Corisande with the Duke of Brecon. And, what with this unexpected
obstacle to intimacy, and the domestic embarrassments occasioned by
Bertram’s declaration, he had become a stranger to a roof which had so
filled his thoughts. It seemed to him that he could not enter the house
either as the admirer of the daughter or as the friend of her brother.
She was probably engaged to another, and, as Bertram’s friend and
fellow-traveller, he fancied he was looked upon by the family as one who
had in some degree contributed to their mortification. Much of this was
imaginary, but Lothair was very sensitive, and the result was that he
ceased to call at Crecy House, and for some time, kept aloof from the
duchess and her daughter, when he met them in general society. He was
glad to hear from Bertram and St. Aldegonde that the position of the
former was beginning to soften at home, and that the sharpness of his
announcement was passing away. And, when he had clearly ascertained that
the contemplated union of Lady Corisande with the duke was certainly
not to take place, Lothair began to reconnoitre, and try to resume his
original position. But his reception was not encouraging, at least not
sufficiently cordial for one who by nature was retiring and reserved.
Lady Corisande was always kind, and after some time he danced with her
again. But there were no invitations to luncheon from the duchess; they
never asked him to dinner. His approaches were received with courtesy,
but he was not courted.
The announcement of the marriage of the Duke of Brecon did not,
apparently, in any degree, distress Lady Corisande. On the contrary, she
expressed much satisfaction at her two young friends settling in life
with such success and splendor. The ambition both of Lady Flora and
Lady Grizell was that Corisande should be a bridesmaid. This would be a
rather awkward post to occupy under the circumstances, so she embraced
both, and said that she loved them both so equally, that she would not
give a preference to either, and therefore, though she certainly
would attend their wedding, she would refrain from taking part in the
ceremony.
The duchess went with Lady Corisande one morning to Mr. Ruby’s to choose
a present from her daughter to each of the young ladies. Mr. Ruby in
a back shop poured forth his treasures of bracelets, and rings, and
lockets. The presents must be similar in value and in beauty, and yet
there must be some difference between them; so it was a rather long and
troublesome investigation, Mr. Ruby, as usual, varying its monotony, or
mitigating its wearisomeness, by occasionally, or suddenly, exhibiting
some splendid or startling production of his art. The parure of an
empress, the bracelets of grand-duchesses, a wonderful fan that was to
flutter in the hands of majesty, had all in due course appeared, as well
as the black pearls and yellow diamonds that figure and flash on such
occasions, before eyes so favored and so fair.
At last—for, like a prudent general, Mr. Ruby had always a great
reserve—opening a case, he said, “There!” and displayed a crucifix of
the most exquisite workmanship and the most precious materials.
“I have no hesitation in saying the rarest jewel which this century has
produced. See! the figure by Monti; a masterpiece. Every emerald in
the cross a picked stone. These corners, your grace is aware,” said
Mr. Ruby, condescendingly, “contain the earth of the holy places at
Jerusalem. It has been shown to no one but your grace.”
“It is indeed most rare and beautiful,” said the duchess, “and most
interesting, too, from containing the earth of the holy places. A
commission, of course?”
“From one of our most eminent patrons,” and then he mentioned Lothair’s
name.
Lady Corisande looked agitated.
“Not for himself,” said Mr. Ruby.
Lady Corisande seemed relieved.
“It is a present to a young lady—Miss Arundel.”
Lady Corisande changed color, and, turning away, walked toward a case
of works of art, which was in the centre of the shop, and appeared to be
engrossed in their examination.
CHAPTER 87 A day or two after this adventure of the crucifix, Lothair
met Bertram, who said to him, “By-the-by, if you want to see my people
before they leave town, you must call at once.”
“You do not mean that,” replied Lothair, much surprised. “Why, the
duchess told me, only three or four days ago, that they should not leave
town until the end of the first week of August. They are going to the
weddings.”
“I do not know what my mother said to you, my dear fellow, but they go
to Brentham the day after to-morrow, and will not return. The duchess
has been for a long time wishing this, but Corisande would stay. She
thought they would only bother themselves about my affairs, and there
was more distraction for them in town. But now they are going, and it is
for Corisande they go. She is not well, and they have suddenly resolved
to depart.”
“Well, I am very sorry to hear it,” said Lothair; “I shall call at Crecy
House. Do you think they will see me?”
“Certain.”
“And what are your plans?”
“I have none,” said Bertram. “I suppose I must not leave my father alone
at this moment. He has behaved well; very kindly, indeed. I have nothing
to complain of. But still all is vague, and I feel somehow or other I
ought to be about him.”
“Have you heard from our dear friends abroad?”
“Yes,” said Bertram, with a sigh, “Euphrosyne writes to me; but I
believe St. Aldegonde knows more about their views and plans than I do.
He and Mr. Phoebus correspond much. I wish to Heaven they were here, or
rather that we were with them!” he added, with another sigh. “How happy
we all were, at Jerusalem! How I hate London! And Brentham worse. I
shall have to go to a lot of agricultural dinners and all sorts of
things. The duke expects it, and I am bound now to do every thing to
please him. What do you think of doing?”
“I neither know nor care,” said Lothair, in a tone of great despondency.
“You are a little hipped.”
“Not a little. I suppose it is the excitement of the last two years that
has spoiled me for ordinary life. But I find the whole thing utterly
intolerable, and regret now that I did not rejoin the staff of the
general. I shall never have such a chance again. It was a mistake; but
one is born to blunder.”
Lothair called at Crecy House. The hall-porter was not sure whether the
duchess was at home, and the groom of the chambers went to see. Lothair
had never experienced this form. When the groom of the chambers came
down again, he gave her grace’s compliments; but she had a headache, and
was obliged to lie down, and was sorry she could not see Lothair, who
went away livid.
Crecy House was only yards from St. James’s Square, and Lothair repaired
to an accustomed haunt. He was not in a humor for society, and yet he
required sympathy. There were some painful associations with the
St. Jerome family, and yet they had many charms. And the painful
associations had been greatly removed by their easy and cordial
reception of him, and the charms had been renewed and increased by
subsequent intercourse. After all, they were the only people who had
always been kind to him. And, if they had erred in a great particular,
they had been animated by pure, and even sacred, motives. And had
they erred? Were not his present feelings of something approaching to
desolation a fresh proof that the spirit of man can alone be sustained
by higher relations than merely human ones? So he knocked at the door,
and Lady St. Jerome was at home. She had not a headache; there were no
mysterious whisperings between hall-porters and grooms of the chamber,
to ascertain whether he was one of the initiated. Whether it were London
or Vauxe, the eyes of the household proved that he was ever a welcome
and cherished guest.
Lady St. Jerome was alone, and rose from her writing-table to receive
him. And then—for she was a lady who never lost a moment—she resumed
some work, did not interfere with their conversation. Her talking
resources were so happy and inexhaustible, that it signified little that
her visitor, who was bound in that character to have something to say,
was silent and moody.
“My lord,” she continued, “has taken the Palazzo Agostini for a term. I
think we should always pass our winters at Rome under any circumstances,
but—the cardinal has spoken to you about the great event—if that comes
off, of which, between ourselves, whatever the world may say, I believe
there is no sort of doubt, we should not think of being absent from Rome
for a day during the council.”
“Why! it may last years,” said Lothair. “There is no reason why it
should not last the Council of Trent. It has in reality much more to
do.”
“We do things quicker now,” said Lady St. Jerome.
“That depends on what there is to do. To revive faith is more difficult
than to create it.”
“There will be no difficulty when the Church has assembled,” said
Lady St. Jerome. “This sight of the universal Fathers coming from the
uttermost ends of the earth to bear witness to the truth will at once
sweep away all the vain words and vainer thoughts of this unhappy
century. It will be what they call a great fact, dear Lothair; and when
the Holy Spirit descends upon their decrees, my firm belief is the whole
world will rise as it were from a trance, and kneel before the divine
tomb of St. Peter.”
“Well, we shall see,” said Lothair.
“The cardinal wishes you very much to attend the council. He wishes you
to attend it as an Anglican, representing with a few others our laity.
He says it would have the very best effect for religion.”
“He spoke to me.”
“And you agreed to go?”
“I have not refused him. If I thought I could do any good I am not sure
I would not go,” said Lothair; “but, from what I have seen of the Roman
court, there is little hope of reconciling our differences. Rome is
stubborn. Now, look at the difficulty they make about the marriage of a
Protestant and one of their own communion. It is cruel, and I think on
their part unwise.”
“The sacrament of marriage is of ineffable holiness,” said Lady St.
Jerome.
“I do not wish to deny that,” said Lothair, “but I see no reason why I
should not marry a Roman Catholic if I liked, without the Roman Church
interfering and entirely regulating my house and home.”
“I wish you would speak to Father Coleman about this,” said Lady St.
Jerome.
“I have had much talk with Father Coleman about many things in my time,”
said Lothair, “but not about this. By-the-by, have you any news of the
monsignore?”
“He is in Ireland, arranging about the Oecumenical Council. They do
not understand these matters there as well as we do in England, and
his holiness, by the cardinal’s advice, has sent the monsignore to put
things right.”
“All the Father Colemans in the world cannot alter the state of affairs
about mixed marriages,” said Lothair; “they can explain, but they cannot
alter. I want change in this matter, and Rome never changes.”
“It is impossible for the Church to change,” said Lady St. Jerome,
“because it is Truth.”
“Is Miss Arundel at home?” said Lothair.
“I believe so,” said Lady St. Jerome.
“I never see her now,” he said, discontentedly. “She never goes to
balls, and she never rides. Except occasionally under this roof, she is
invisible.”
‘“Clare does not go any longer into society,” said Lady St. Jerome.
“Why?”
“Well, it is a secret,” said Lady St. Jerome, with some disturbance of
countenance and speaking in a lower tone; “at least at present; and yet
I can hardly on such a subject wish that there should be a secret from
you—Clare is about to take the veil.”
“Then I have not a friend left in the world,” said Lothair, in a
despairing tone.
Lady St. Jerome looked at him with an anxious glance. “Yes,” she
continued; “I do not wish to conceal it from you, that for a time we
could have wished it otherwise—it has been, it is a trying event for
my lord and myself—but the predisposition, which was always strong,
has ended in a determination so absolute, that we recognize the Divine
purpose in her decision, and we bow to it.”
“I do not bow to it,” said Lothair; “I think it barbarous and unwise.”
“Hush, hush! dear friend.”
“And does the cardinal approve of this step?”
“Entirely.”
“Then my confidence in him is entirely destroyed,” said Lothair.
CHAPTER 88 It was August, and town was thinning fast. Parliament still
lingered, but only for technical purposes; the political struggle of the
session having terminated at the end of July. One social event was yet
to be consummated—the marriages of Lothair’s cousins. They were to
be married on the same day, at the same time, and in the same place.
Westminster Abbey was to be the scene, and, as it was understood that
the service was to be choral, great expectations of ecclesiastical
splendor and effect were much anticipated by the fair sex. They were,
however, doomed to disappointment, for, although the day was fine, the
attendance numerous and brilliant beyond precedent, Lord Culloden would
have “no popery.” Lord Carisbrooke, who was a ritualist, murmured, and
was encouraged in his resistance by Lady Clanmorne and a party, but, as
the Duke of Brecon was high and dry, there was a want of united action,
and Lord Culloden had his way.
After the ceremony, the world repaired to the mansion of Lord Culloden
in Belgrave Square, to inspect the presents, and to partake of a dinner
called a breakfast. Cousin Lothair wandered about the rooms, and had
the satisfaction of seeing a bracelet with a rare and splendid sapphire
which he had given to Lady Flora, and a circlet of diamond stars which
he had placed on the brow of the Duchess of Brecon. The St. Aldegondes
were the only members of the Brentham family who were present. St.
Aldegonde had a taste for marriages and public executions, and Lady
St. Aldegonde wandered about with Lothair, and pointed out to him
Corisande’s present to his cousins.
“I never was more disappointed than by your family leaving town so early
this year,” he said.
“We were quite surprised.”
“I am sorry to bear your sister is indisposed.”
“Corisande! she is perfectly well.”
“I hope the duchess’s headache is better,” said Lothair. “She could not
receive me when I called to say farewell, because she had a headache.”
“I never knew mamma to have a headache,” said Lady St. Aldegonde.
“I suppose you will be going to Brentham?”
“Next week.”’
“And Bertram too?”
“I fancy that we shall be all there.”
“I suppose we may consider now that the season is really over!”
“Yes; they stayed for this. I should not be surprised if every one in
these rooms had disappeared by to-morrow.”
“Except myself,” said Lothair.
“Do you think of going abroad again?”
“One might as well go,” said Lothair, “as remain.”
“I wish Granville would take me to Paris. It seems so odd not to have
seen Paris. All I want is to see the new streets and dine at a caf.”
“Well, you have an object; that is something,” said Lothair. “I have
none.”
“Men have always objects,” said Lady St. Aldegonde. “They make business
when they have none, or it makes itself. They move about, and it comes.”
“I have moved about a great deal,” said Lothair, “and nothing has come
to me but disappointment. I think I shall take to croquet, like that
curious gentleman I remember at Brentham.”
“Ah! you remember every thing.”
“It is not easy to forget any thing at Brentham,” said Lothair. “It is
just two years ago. That was a happy time.”
“I doubt whether our reassembling will be quite as happy this year,”
said Lady St. Aldegonde, in a serious tone. “This engagement of Bertram
is an anxious business; I never saw papa before really fret. And there
are other things which are not without vexation—at least to mamma.”
“I do not think I am a great favorite of your mamma,” said Lothair. “She
once used to be very kind to me, but she is so no longer.”
“I am sure you mistake her,” said Lady St. Aldegonde, but not in a tone
which indicated any confidence in her remark. “Mamma is anxious about my
brother, and all that.”
“I believe the duchess thinks that I am in some way or other connected
with this embarrassment; but I really had nothing to do with it, though
I could not refuse my testimony to the charms of the young lady, and my
belief she would make Bertram a happy man.”
“As for that, you know, Granville saw a great deal more of her, at least
at Jerusalem, than you did, and he has said to mamma a great deal more
than you have done.”
“Yes; but she thinks that, had it not been for me, Bertram would never
have known the Phoebus family. She could not conceal that from me, and
it has poisoned her mind.”
“Oh! do not use such words.”
“Yes; but they are true. And your sister is prejudiced against me also.”
“That I am sure she is not,” said Lady St. Aldegonde, quickly.
“Corisande was always your friend.”
“Well, they refused to see me, when we may never meet again for months,
perhaps for years,” said Lothair, “perhaps never.”
“What shocking things you are saying, my dear lord, to-day! Here, Lord
Culloden wants you to return thanks for the bridesmaids. You must put on
a merry face.”
The dreary day at last arrived, and very quickly, when Lothair was the
only person left in town. When there is nobody you know in London, the
million that go about are only voiceless phantoms. Solitude in a city is
a trance. The motion of the silent beings with whom you have no speech
or sympathy, only makes the dreamlike existence more intense. It is not
so in the country; the voices of Nature are abundant, and, from the hum
of insects to the fall of the avalanche, something is always talking to
you.
Lothair shrank from the streets. He could not endure the dreary glare of
St. James’s and the desert sheen of Pall Mall. He could mount his horse
in the park, and soon lose himself in suburban roads that he once loved.
Yes; it was irresistible; and he made a visit to Belmont. The house
was dismantled, and the gardens shorn of their lustre, but still it
was there; very fair in the sunshine, and sanctified in his heart. He
visited every room that he had frequented, and lingered in her boudoir.
He did not forget the now empty pavilion, and he plucked some flowers
that she once loved, and pressed them to his lips, and placed them near
his heart. He felt now what it was that made him unhappy: it was the
want of sympathy.
He walked through the park to the residence of Mr. Phoebus, where he had
directed his groom to meet him. His heart beat as he wandered along, and
his eye was dim with tears. What characters and what scenes had he not
become acquainted with since his first visit to Belmont! And, even now,
when they had departed, or were absent, what influence were they not
exercising over his life, and the life of those most intimate with him!
Had it not been for his pledge to Theodora, it was far from improbable
that he would now have been a member of the Roman Catholic Church, and
all his hopes at Brentham, and his intimacy with the family on which he
had most reckoned in life for permanent friendship and support,
seemed to be marred and blighted by the witching eyes of that mirthful
Euphrosyne, whose mocking words on the moonlit terrace at Belmont first
attracted his notice to her. And then, by association of ideas, he
thought of the general, and what his old commander had said at their
last interview, reminding him of his fine castle, and expressing his
conviction that the lord of such a domain must have much to do.
“I will try to do it,” said Lothair; “and will go down to Muriel
tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 89 Lothair, who was very sensible to the charms of Nature, found
at first relief in the beauties of Muriel. The season was propitious to
the scene. August is a rich and leafy month, and the glades and avenues
and stately trees of his parks and pleasaunces seemed, at the same time,
to soothe and gladden his perturbed spirit. Muriel was still new to him,
and there was much to examine and explore for the first time. He found a
consolation also in the frequent remembrance that these scenes had been
known to those whom he loved. Often in the chamber, and often in the
bower, their forms arose; sometimes their voices lingered in his ear; a
frolic laugh, or whispered words of kindness and enjoyment. Such a
place as Muriel should always be so peopled. But that is impossible.
One cannot always have the most agreeable people in the world assembled
under one’s roof. And yet the alternative should not be the loneliness
he now experienced. The analytical Lothair resolved that there was no
happiness without sympathy.
The most trying time were the evenings. A man likes to be alone in the
morning. He writes his letters and reads the newspapers, attempts to
examine his steward’s accounts, and if he wants society can gossip with
his stud-groom. But a solitary evening in the country is gloomy, however
brilliant the accessories. As Mr. Phoebus was not present, Lothair
violated the prime principles of a first-class Aryan education, and
ventured to read a little. It is difficult to decide which is the most
valuable companion to a country eremite at his nightly studies, the
volume that keeps him awake or the one that sets him a-slumbering.
At the end of a week Lothair had some good sport on his moors—and this
reminded him of the excellent Campian, who had received and answered his
letter. The colonel, however, held out but a faint prospect of returning
at present to Europe, though, whenever he did, he promised to be the
guest of Lothair. Lothair asked some of his neighbors to dinner, and he
made two large parties to slaughter his grouse. They were grateful and
he was popular, but “we have not an idea in common,” thought Lothair,
as, wearied and uninterested, he bade his last guest his last
good-night. Then Lothair paid a visit to the lord-lieutenant, and stayed
two nights at Agramont Castle. Here he met many county notables, and
“great was the company of the preachers;” but the talk was local
or ecclesiastical, and, after the high-spiced condiments of the
conversation to which he was accustomed, the present discourse was
insipid even to nausea. He sought some relief in the society of Lady
Ida Alice, but she blushed when she spoke to him, and tittered when he
replied to her; and at last he found refuge in pretty Mrs. Ardenne, who
concluded by asking him for his photograph.
On the morrow of his return to Muriel, the servant bringing in his
letters, he seized one in the handwriting of Bertram, and, discarding
the rest, devoured the communication of his friend, which was eventful.
It seems that the Phoebus family had returned to England, and were at
Brentham, and had been there a week. The family were delighted with
them, and Euphrosyne was an especial favorite. But this was not all. It
seems that Mr. Cantacuzene had been down to Brentham, and stayed, which
he never did anywhere, a couple of days. And the duke was particularly
charmed with Mr. Cantacuzene. This gentleman, who was only in the
earlier term of middle age, and looked younger than his age, was
distinguished in appearance, highly polished, and singularly acute. He
appeared to be the master of great wealth, for he offered to make upon
Euphrosyne any settlement which the duke desired. He had no son, and
did not wish his sons-in-law to be sighing for his death. He wished his
daughters, therefore, to enjoy the bulk of their inheritances in his
lifetime. He told the duke that he had placed one hundred thousand
pounds in the names of trustees on the marriage of Madame Phoebus, to
accumulate, “and when the genius and vanity of her husband are both
exhausted, though I believe they are inexhaustible,” remarked Mr.
Cantacuzene, “it will be a nest’s-egg for them to fall back upon, and at
least save them from penury.” The duke had no doubt that Mr. Cantacuzene
was of imperial lineage. But the latter portion of the letter was the
most deeply interesting to Lothair. Bertram wrote that his mother had
just observed that she thought the Phoebus family would like to meet
Lothair, and begged Bertram to invite him to Brentham. The letter ended
by an urgent request, that, if disengaged, he should arrive immediately.
Mr. Phoebus highly approved of Brentham. All was art, and art of a high
character. He knew no residence with an aspect so thoroughly Aryan.
Though it was really a family party, the house was quite full; at least,
as Bertram said to Lothair on his arrival, “there is only room for
you—and you are in your old quarters.”
“That is exactly what I wished,” said Lothair.
He had to escort the duchess to dinner. Her manner was of old days. “I
thought you would like to meet your friends,” she said.
“It gives me much pleasure, but much more to find myself at Brentham.”
“There seems every prospect of Bertram being happy. We are enchanted
with the young lady. You know her, I believe, well? The duke is highly
pleased with her father, Mr. Cantacuzene—he says one of the most
sensible men he ever met, and a thorough gentleman, which he may
well be, for I believe there is no doubt he is of the highest
descent—emperors they say, princes even now. I wish you could have met
him, but he would only stay eight-and-forty hours. I understand his
affairs are vast.”
“I have always heard a considerable person; quite the head of the Greek
community in this country—indeed, in Europe generally.”
“I see by the morning papers that Miss Arundel has taken the veil.”
“I missed my papers to-day,” said Lothair, a little agitated, “but I
have long been aware of her intention of doing so.”
“Lady St. Jerome will miss her very much. She was quite the soul of the
house.”
“It must be a great and painful sacrifice,” said Lothair; “but, I
believe, long meditated. I remember when I was at Vauxe, nearly two
years ago, that I was told this was to be her fate. She was quite
determined on it.”
“I saw the beautiful crucifix you gave her, at Mr. Ruby’s.”
“It was an homage to her for her great goodness to me when I was ill at
Rome—and it was difficult to find any thing that would please or suit
her. I fixed on the crucifix, because it permitted me to transfer to it
the earth of the holy places, which were included in the crucifix,
that was given to me by the monks of the Holy Sepulchre, when I made my
pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”
In the evening St. Aldegonde insisted on their dancing, and he
engaged himself to Madame Phoebus. Bertram and Euphrosyne seemed never
separated; Lothair was successful in inducing Lady Corisande to be his
partner.
“Do you remember your first ball at Crecy House?” asked Lothair. “You
are not nervous now?”
“I would hardly say that,” said Lady Corisande, “though I try not to
show it.”
“It was the first ball for both of us,” said Lothair. “I have not danced
so much in the interval as you have. Do you know, I was thinking, just
now, I have danced oftener with you than with any one else?”
“Are not you glad about Bertram’s affair ending so well?”
“Very; he will be a happy man. Every body is happy, I think, except
myself.”
In the course of the evening, Lady St. Aldegonde, on the arm of Lord
Montairy, stopped for a moment as she passed Lothair, and said: “Do you
remember our conversation at Lord Culloden’s breakfast? Who was right
about mamma?”
They passed their long summer days in rambling and riding, and in
wondrous new games which they played in the hall. The striking feature,
however, were the matches at battledore and shuttlecock between Madame
Phoebus and Lord St. Aldegonde, in which the skill and energy displayed
were supernatural, and led to betting. The evenings were always gay;
sometimes they danced; more or less they always had some delicious
singing. And Mr. Phoebus arranged some tableaux most successfully.
All this time, Lothair hung much about Lady Corisande; he was by her
side in the riding-parties, always very near her when they walked, and
sometimes he managed unconsciously to detach her from the main party,
and they almost walked alone. If he could not sit by her at dinner,
he joined her immediately afterward, and whether it were a dance, a
tableau, or a new game, somehow or other he seemed always to be her
companion.
It was about a week after the arrival of Lothair, and they were at
breakfast at Brentham, in that bright room full of little round tables
which Lothair always admired, looking, as it did, upon a garden of many
colors.
“How I hate modern gardens!” said St. Aldegonde. “What a horrid thing
this is! One might as well have a mosaic pavement there. Give me
cabbage-roses, sweet-peas, and wall-flowers. That is my idea of a
garden. Corisande’s garden is the only sensible thing of the sort.”
“One likes a mosaic pavement to look like a garden,” said Euphrosyne,
“but not a garden like a mosaic pavement.”
“The worst of these mosaic beds,” said Madame Phoebus, “is, you can
never get a nosegay, and if it were not for the kitchen-garden, we
should be destitute of that gayest and sweetest of creations.”
“Corisande’s garden is, since your first visit to Brentham,” said the
duchess to Lothair. “No flowers are admitted that have not perfume. It
is very old-fashioned. You must get her to show it you.”
It was agreed that after breakfast they should go and see Corisande’s
garden. And a party did go—all the Phoebus family, and Lord and Lady St.
Aldegonde, and Lady Corisande, and Bertram, and Lothair.
In the pleasure-grounds of Brentham were the remains of an ancient
garden of the ancient house that had long ago been pulled down. When the
modern pleasure-grounds were planned and created, notwithstanding the
protests of the artists in landscape, the father of the present duke
would not allow this ancient garden to be entirely destroyed, and you
came upon its quaint appearance in the dissimilar world in which it was
placed, as you might in some festival of romantic costume upon a person
habited in the courtly dress of the last century. It was formed upon a
gentle southern slope, with turfen terraces walled in on three sides,
the fourth consisting of arches of golden yew. The duke had given this
garden to Lady Corisande, in order that she might practise her theory,
that flower-gardens should be sweet and luxuriant, and not hard and
scentless imitations of works of art. Here, in their season, flourished
abundantly all those productions of Nature which are now banished from
our once delighted senses; huge bushes of honey-suckle, and bowers of
sweet-pea and sweet-brier, and jessamine clustering over the walls, and
gillyflowers scenting with their sweet breath the ancient bricks from
which they seemed to spring. There were banks of violets which the
southern breeze always stirred, and mignonette filled every vacant nook.
As they entered now, it seemed a blaze of roses and carnations, though
one recognized in a moment the presence of the lily, the heliotrope, and
the stock. Some white peacocks were basking on the southern wall, and
one of them, as their visitors entered, moved and displayed its plumage
with scornful pride. The bees were busy in the air, but their homes were
near, and you might watch them laboring in their glassy hives.
“Now, is not Corisande quite right?” said Lord St. Aldegonde, as he
presented Madame Phoebus with a garland of woodbine, with which she said
she would dress her head at dinner. All agreed with him, and Bertram and
Euphrosyne adorned each other with carnations, and Mr. Phoebus placed
a flower on the uncovered head of Lady St. Aldegonde, according to the
principles of high art, and they sauntered and rambled in the sweet and
sunny air amid a blaze of butterflies and the ceaseless hum of bees.
Bertram and Euphrosyne had disappeared; and the rest were lingering
about the hives while Mr. Phoebus gave them a lecture on the apiary and
its marvellous life. The bees understood Mr. Phoebus, at least he said
so, and thus his friends had considerable advantage in this lesson in
entomology. Lady Corisande and Lothair were in a distant corner of the
garden, and she was explaining to him her plans; what she had done and
what she meant to do.
“I wish I had a garden like this at Muriel,” said Lothair.
“You could easily make one.”
“If you helped me.”
“I have told you all my plans,” said Lady Corisande.
“Yes; but I was thinking of something else when you spoke,” said
Lothair.
“That was not very complimentary.”
“I do not wish to be complimentary,” said Lothair, “if compliments mean
less than they declare. I was not thinking of your garden, but of you.”
“Where can they have all gone?” said Lady Corisande, looking round. “We
must find them.”
“And leave this garden?” said Lothair. “And I without a flower, the only
one without a flower? I am afraid that is significant of my lot.”
“You shall choose a rose,” said Lady Corisande.
“Nay; the charm is, that it should be your choice.”
But choosing the rose lost more times and, when Corisande and Lothair
reached the arches of golden yew, there were no friends in sight.
“I think I hear sounds this way,” said Lothair, and he led his companion
farther from home.
“I see no one,” said Lady Corisande, distressed, and when they had
advanced a little way.
“We are sure to find them in good time,” said Lothair. “Besides, I
wanted to speak to you about the garden at Muriel. I wanted to induce
you to go there and help me to make it. Yes,” he added, after some
hesitation, “on this spot—I believe on this very spot—I asked the
permission of your mother two years ago to express to you my love. She
thought me a boy, and she treated me as a boy. She said I knew nothing
of the world, and both our characters were unformed. I know the world
now. I have committed many mistakes, doubtless many follies—have formed
many opinions, and have changed many opinions; but to one I have been
constant, in one I am unchanged—and that is my adoring love to you.”
She turned pale, she stopped, then, gently taking his arm, she hid her
face in his breast.
He soothed and sustained her agitated frame, and sealed with an embrace
her speechless form. Then, with soft thoughts and softer words, clinging
to him, he induced her to resume their stroll, which both of them now
wished might assuredly be undisturbed. They had arrived at the limit
of the pleasure-grounds, and they wandered into the park and its most
sequestered parts. All this time Lothair spoke much, and gave her the
history of his life since he first visited her home. Lady Corisande
said little, but, when she was more composed, she told him that from the
first her heart had been his, but every thing seemed to go against her
hopes. Perhaps at last, to please her parents, she would have married
the Duke of Brecon, had not Lothair returned; and what he had said to
her that morning at Crecy House had decided her resolution, whatever
might be her lot; to unite it to no one else but him. But then came the
adventure of the crucifix, and she thought all was over for her, and she
quitted town in despair.
“Let us rest here for a while;” said Lothair, “under the shade of this
oak;” and Lady Corisande reclined against its mighty trunk, and Lothair
threw himself at her feet. He had a great deal still to tell her, and,
among other things, the story of the pearls, which he had wished to give
to Theodora.
“She was, after all, your good genius,” said Lady Corisande. “I always
liked her.”
“Well, now,” said Lothair, “that case has never been opened. The year
has elapsed, but I would not open it, for I had always a wild wish that
the person who opened it should be yourself. See, here it is.” And he
gave her the case.
“We will not break the seal,” said Corisande. “Let us respect it for her
sake—ROMA!” she said, examining it; and then they opened the case. There
was the slip of paper which Theodora, at the time, had placed upon the
pearls, and on which she had written some unseen words. They were read
now, and ran thus:
“THE OFFERING OF THEODORA TO LOTHAIR’S BRIDE.”
“Let me place them on you now,” said Lothair.
“I will wear them as your chains,” said Corisande.
The sun began to tell them that some hours had elapsed since they
quitted Brentham House. At last a soft hand, which Lothair retained,
gave him a slight pressure, and a sweet voice whispered: “Dearest, I
think we ought to return.”
And they returned almost in silence. They rather calculated that, taking
advantage of the luncheon-hour, Corisande might escape to her room, but
they were a little too late. Luncheon was over, and they met the duchess
and a large party on the terrace.
“What has become of you, my good people?” said her grace; “bells have
been ringing for you in every direction. Where can you have been?”
“I have been in Corisande’s garden,” said Lothair, “and she has given me
a rose.”