About the time that the ladies rose from the dinner-table in Hill
Street, Mr. Sidney Wilton entered the hall of the Clarendon Hotel, and
murmured an inquiry of the porter. Whereupon a bell was rung, and soon
a foreign servant appeared, and bowing, invited Mr. Wilton to ascend the
staircase and follow him. Mr. Wilton was ushered through an ante-chamber
into a room of some importance, lofty and decorated, and obviously
adapted for distinguished guests. On a principal table a desk was open
and many papers strewn about. Apparently some person had only recently
been writing there. There were in the room several musical instruments;
the piano was open, there was a harp and a guitar. The room was rather
dimly lighted, but cheerful from the steady blaze of the fire, before
which Mr. Wilton stood, not long alone, for an opposite door opened, and
a lady advanced leading with her left hand a youth of interesting mien,
and about twelve years of age. The lady was fair and singularly thin. It
seemed that her delicate hand must really be transparent. Her cheek
was sunk, but the expression of her large brown eyes was inexpressibly
pleasing. She wore her own hair, once the most celebrated in Europe,
and still uncovered. Though the prodigal richness of the tresses had
disappeared, the arrangement was still striking from its grace. That
rare quality pervaded the being of this lady, and it was impossible not
to be struck with her carriage as she advanced to greet her guest; free
from all affectation and yet full of movement and gestures, which might
have been the study of painters.
“Ah!” she exclaimed as she gave him her hand, which he pressed to his
lips, “you are ever faithful.”
Seating themselves, she continued, “You have not seen my boy since he
sate upon your knee. Florestan, salute Mr. Wilton, your mother’s most
cherished friend.”
“This is a sudden arrival,” said Mr. Wilton.
“Well, they would not let us rest,” said the lady. “Our only refuge was
Switzerland, but I cannot breathe among the mountains, and so, after
a while, we stole to an obscure corner of the south, and for a time we
were tranquil. But soon the old story: representations, remonstrances,
warnings, and threats, appeals to Vienna, and lectures from Prince
Metternich, not the less impressive because they were courteous, and
even gallant.”
“And had nothing occurred to give a colour to such complaints? Or was it
sheer persecution?”
“Well, you know,” replied the lady, “we wished to remain quiet and
obscure; but where the lad is, they will find him out. It often
astonishes me. I believe if we were in the centre of a forest in some
Indian isle, with no companions but monkeys and elephants, a secret
agent would appear--some devoted victim of our family, prepared to
restore our fortunes and renovate his own. I speak the truth to you
always. I have never countenanced these people; I have never encouraged
them; but it is impossible rudely to reject the sympathy of those who,
after all, are your fellow-sufferers, and some of who have given proof
of even disinterested devotion. For my own part, I have never faltered
in my faith, that Florestan would some day sit on the throne of his
father, dark as appears to be our life; but I have never much believed
that the great result could be occasioned or precipitated by intrigues,
but rather by events more powerful than man, and led on by that fatality
in which his father believed.”
“And now you think of remaining here?” said Mr. Wilton.
“No,” said the lady, “that I cannot do. I love everything in this
country except its climate and, perhaps, its hotels. I think of trying
the south of Spain, and fancy, if quite alone, I might vegetate there
unnoticed. I cannot bring myself altogether to quit Europe. I am, my
dear Sidney, intensely European. But Spain is not exactly the country
I should fix upon to form kings and statesmen. And this is the point
on which I wish to consult you. I want Florestan to receive an English
education, and I want you to put me in the way of accomplishing this.
It might be convenient, under such circumstances, that he should not
obtrude his birth--perhaps, that it should be concealed. He has many
honourable names besides the one which indicates the state to which he
was born. But, on all these points, we want your advice.” And she seemed
to appeal to her son, who bowed his head with a slight smile, but did
not speak.
Mr. Wilton expressed his deep interest in her wishes, and promised to
consider how they might best be accomplished, and then the conversation
took a more general tone.
“This change of government in your country,” said the lady, “so
unexpected, so utterly unforeseen, disturbs me; in fact, it decided my
hesitating movements. I cannot but believe that the accession of
the Duke of Wellington to power must be bad, at least, for us. It is
essentially reactionary. They are triumphing at Vienna.”
“Have they cause?” said Mr. Wilton. “I am an impartial witness, for I
have no post in the new administration; but the leading colleagues of
Mr. Canning form part of it, and the conduct of foreign affairs remains
in the same hands.”
“That is consoling,” said the lady. “I wonder if Lord Dudley would see
me. Perhaps not. Ministers do not love pretenders. I knew him when I
was not a pretender,” added the lady, with the sweetest of smiles, “and
thought him agreeable. He was witty. Ah! Sidney, those were happy days.
I look back to the past with regret, but without remorse. One might have
done more good, but one did some;” and she sighed.
“You seemed to me,” said Sidney with emotion, “to diffuse benefit and
blessings among all around you.”
“And I read,” said the lady, a little indignant, “in some memoirs the
other day, that our court was a corrupt and dissolute court. It was
a court of pleasure, if you like; but of pleasure that animated and
refined, and put the world in good humour, which, after all, is good
government. The most corrupt and dissolute courts on the continent
of Europe that I have known,” said the lady, “have been outwardly the
dullest and most decorous.”
“My memory of those days,” said Mr. Wilton, “is of ceaseless grace and
inexhaustible charm.”
“Well,” said the lady, “if I sinned I have at least suffered. And I hope
they were only sins of omission. I wanted to see everybody happy,
and tried to make them so. But let us talk no more of ourselves. The
unfortunate are always egotistical. Tell me something of Mr. Wilton;
and, above all, tell me why you are not in the new government.”
“I have not been invited,” said Mr. Wilton. “There are more claimants
than can be satisfied, and my claims are not very strong. It is scarcely
a disappointment to me. I shall continue in public life; but, so far as
political responsibility is concerned, I would rather wait. I have some
fancies on that head, but I will not trouble you with them. My time,
therefore, is at my command; and so,” he added smilingly, “I can attend
to the education of Prince Florestan.”
“Do you hear that, Florestan?” said the lady to her son; “I told you we
had a friend. Thank Mr. Wilton.”
And the young Prince bowed as before, but with a more serious
expression. He, however, said nothing.
“I see you have not forgotten your most delightful pursuit,” said Mr.
Wilton, and he looked towards the musical instruments.
“No,” said the lady; “throned or discrowned, music has ever been the
charm or consolation of my life.”
“Pleasure should follow business,” said Mr. Wilton, “and we have
transacted ours. Would it be too bold if I asked again to hear those
tones which have so often enchanted me?”
“My voice has not fallen off,” said the lady, “for you know it was never
first-rate. But they were kind enough to say it had some expression,
probably because I generally sang my own words to my own music. I will
sing you my farewell to Florestan,” she added gaily, and took up her
guitar, and then in tones of melancholy sweetness, breaking at last into
a gushing burst of long-controlled affection, she expressed the agony
and devotion of a mother’s heart. Mr. Wilton was a little agitated;
her son left the room. The mother turned round with a smiling face, and
said, “The darling cannot bear to hear it, but I sing it on purpose, to
prepare him for the inevitable.”
“He is soft-hearted,” said Mr. Wilton.
“He is the most affectionate of beings,” replied the mother.
“Affectionate and mysterious. I can say no more. I ought to tell you his
character. I cannot. You may say he may have none. I do not know. He has
abilities, for he acquires knowledge with facility, and knows a
great deal for a boy. But he never gives an opinion. He is silent and
solitary. Poor darling! he has rarely had companions, and that may be
the cause. He seems to me always to be thinking.”
“Well, a public school will rouse him from his reveries,” said Mr.
Wilton.
“As he is away at this moment, I will say that which I should not care
to say before his face,” said the lady. “You are about to do me a great
service, not the first; and before I leave this, we may--we must--meet
again more than once, but there is no time like the present. The
separation between Florestan and myself may be final. It is sad to think
of such things, but they must be thought of, for they are probable.
I still look in a mirror, Sidney; I am not so frightened by what has
occurred since we first met, to be afraid of that--but I never deceive
myself. I do not know what may be the magical effect of the raisins of
Malaga, but if it saves my life the grape cure will indeed achieve a
miracle. Do not look gloomy. Those who have known real grief seldom seem
sad. I have been struggling with sorrow for ten years, but I have got
through it with music and singing, and my boy. See now--he will be a
source of expense, and it will not do for you to be looking to a woman
for supplies. Women are generous, but not precise in money matters. I
have some excuse, for the world has treated me not very well. I never
got my pension regularly; now I never get it at all. So much for
the treaties, but everybody laughs at them. Here is the fortune of
Florestan, and I wish it all to be spent on his education,” and she
took a case from her bosom. “They are not the crown jewels, though. The
memoirs I was reading the other day say I ran away with them. That is
false, like most things said of me. But these are gems of Golconda,
which I wish you to realise and expend for his service. They were the
gift of love, and they were worn in love.”
“It is unnecessary,” said Mr. Wilton, deprecating the offer by his
attitude.
“Hush!” said the lady. “I am still a sovereign to you, and I must be
obeyed.”
Mr. Wilton took the case of jewels, pressed it to his lips, and then
placed it in the breast pocket of his coat. He was about to retire, when
the lady added, “I must give you this copy of my song.”
“And you will write my name on it?”
“Certainly,” replied the lady, as she went to the table and wrote, “For
Mr. Sidney Wilton, from AGRIPPINA.”