Simon, Earl of Montfort, with whom Endymion was so unexpectedly going
to dine, may be said to have been a minor in his cradle. Under
ordinary circumstances, his inheritance would have been one of the most
considerable in England. His castle in the north was one of the glories
of the land, and becomingly crowned his vast domain. Under the old
parliamentary system, he had the greatest number of nomination boroughs
possessed by any Whig noble. The character and conduct of an individual
so qualified were naturally much speculated on and finely scanned.
Nothing very decided transpired about them in his boyhood, but certainly
nothing adverse. He was good-looking and athletic, and was said to
be generous and good-natured, and when he went to Harrow, he became
popular. In his eighteenth year, while he was in correspondence with
his guardians about going to Christ Church, he suddenly left his country
without giving any one notice of his intentions, and entered into, and
fulfilled, a vast scheme of adventurous travel. He visited countries
then rarely reached, and some of which were almost unknown. His flag
had floated in the Indian Ocean, and he had penetrated the dazzling
mysteries of Brazilian forests. When he was of age, he returned, and
communicated with his guardians, as if nothing remarkable had happened
in his life. Lord Montfort had inherited a celebrated stud, which the
family had maintained for more than a century, and the sporting world
remarked with satisfaction that their present representative appeared to
take much interest in it. He had an establishment at Newmarket, and his
horses were entered for all the great races of the kingdom. He appeared
also at Melton, and conducted the campaign in a style becoming such
a hero. His hunters and his cooks were both first-rate. Although he
affected to take little interest in politics, the events of the time
forced him to consider them and to act. Lord Grey wanted to carry his
Reform Bill, and the sacrifice of Lord Montfort’s numerous boroughs was
a necessary ingredient in the spell. He was appealed to as the head
of one of the greatest Whig houses, and he was offered a dukedom. He
relinquished his boroughs without hesitation, but he preferred to remain
with one of the oldest earldoms of England for his chief title. All
honours, however, clustered about him, though he never sought them, and
in the same year he tumbled into the Lord Lieutenancy of his county,
unexpectedly vacant, and became the youngest Knight of the Garter.
Society was looking forward with the keenest interest to the impending
season, when Lord Montfort would formally enter its spell-bound ranks,
and multiform were the speculations on his destiny. He attended an early
levee, in order that he might be presented--a needful ceremony which had
not yet taken place--and then again quitted his country, and for years.
He was heard of in every capital except his own. Wonderful exploits
at St. Petersburg, and Paris, and Madrid, deeds of mark at Vienna, and
eccentric adventures at Rome; but poor Melton, alas! expecting him
to return every season, at last embalmed him, and his cooks, and his
hunters, and his daring saddle, as a tradition,--jealous a little
of Newmarket, whither, though absent, he was frequently transmitting
foreign blood, and where his horses still ran, and were often
victorious.
At last it would appear that the restless Lord Montfort had found his
place, and that place was Paris. There he dwelt for years in Sybaritic
seclusion. He built himself a palace, which he called a villa, and which
was the most fanciful of structures, and full of every beautiful object
which rare taste and boundless wealth could procure, from undoubted
Raffaelles to jewelled toys. It was said that Lord Montfort saw no
one; he certainly did not court or receive his own countrymen, and this
perhaps gave rise to, or at least caused to be exaggerated, the tales
that were rife of his profusion, and even his profligacy. But it was not
true that he was entirely isolated. He lived much with the old families
of France in their haughty faubourg, and was highly considered by them.
It was truly a circle for which he was adapted. Lord Montfort was the
only living Englishman who gave one an idea of the nobleman of
the eighteenth century. He was totally devoid of the sense of
responsibility, and he looked what he resembled. His manner, though
simple and natural, was finished and refined, and, free from forbidding
reserve, was yet characterised by an air of serious grace.
With the exception of the memorable year when he sacrificed his
nomination boroughs to the cause for which Hampden died on the field
and Sidney on the scaffold--that is to say, the Whig government of
England--Lord Montfort had been absent for his country for ten years,
and one day, in his statued garden at the Belvedere, he asked himself
what he had gained by it. There was no subject, divine or human, in
which he took the slightest interest. He entertained for human nature
generally, and without any exception, the most cynical appreciation. He
had a sincere and profound conviction, that no man or woman ever acted
except from selfish and interested motives. Society was intolerable to
him; that of his own sex and station wearisome beyond expression; their
conversation consisted only of two subjects, horses and women, and he
had long exhausted both. As for female society, if they were ladies, it
was expected that, in some form or other, he should make love to them,
and he had no sentiment. If he took refuge in the _demi-monde_, he
encountered vulgarity, and that, to Lord Montfort, was insufferable.
He had tried them in every capital, and vulgarity was the badge of all
their tribe. He had attempted to read; a woman had told him to read
French novels, but he found them only a clumsy representation of the
life which, for years, he had practically been leading. An accident made
him acquainted with Rabelais and Montaigne; and he had relished them,
for he had a fine sense of humour. He might have pursued these studies,
and perhaps have found in them a slight and occasional distraction, but
a clever man he met at a guingette at Passy, whither he had gone to try
to dissipate his weariness in disguise, had convinced him, that if there
were a worthy human pursuit, an assumption which was doubtful, it was
that of science, as it impressed upon man his utter insignificance.
No one could say Lord Montfort was a bad-hearted man, for he had no
heart. He was good-natured, provided it brought him no inconvenience;
and as for temper, his was never disturbed, but this not from sweetness
of disposition, rather from a contemptuous fine taste, which assured
him, that a gentleman should never be deprived of tranquillity in a
world where nothing was of the slightest consequence.
The result of these reflections was, that he was utterly wearied with
Belvedere and Paris, and as his mind was now rather upon science, he
fancied he should like to return to a country where it flourished,
and where he indulged in plans of erecting colossal telescopes, and
of promoting inquiry into the origin of things. He thought that with
science and with fishing, the only sport to which he still really clung,
for he liked the lulling influence of running streams, and a pastime he
could pursue in loneliness, existence might perhaps be endured.
Society was really surprised when they heard of the return of Lord
Montfort to England. He came back in the autumn, so that there should
be no season to encounter, and his flag was soon flying at his castle.
There had been continuous attacks for years on the government for having
made an absentee lord lieutenant of his country, and conferring the high
distinction of the garter on so profligate a character. All this made
his return more interesting and exciting.
A worthy nobleman of high rank and of the same county, who for the last
five years everybody, shaking everybody’s head, had been saying ought to
have been lord lieutenant, had a great county function in his immediate
neighbourhood in the late autumn, and had invited a large party to
assist him in its celebration. It seemed right also to invite the lord
lieutenant, but no one expected that he would make his appearance. On
the contrary, the invitation was accepted, and the sensation was great.
What would he be like, and what would he do, and was he so very wicked
as the county newspaper said? He came, this wicked man, with his
graceful presence and his diamond star, and everybody’s heart palpitated
with a due mixture of terror and admiration. The only exception to these
feelings was the daughter of the house, the Lady Berengaria. She
was then in her second season, but still unparagoned, for she was a
fastidious, not to say disdainful lady. The highest had been at her
feet, and sued in vain. She was a stirring spirit, with great ambition
and a daring will; never content except in society, and influencing
it--for which she was qualified by her grace and lively fancy, her ready
though capricious sympathy, and her passion for admiration.
The function was successful, and the county full of enthusiasm for their
lord lieutenant, whose manner quite cleared his character. The party
did not break up, in fact the function was only an excuse for the party.
There was sport of all kinds, and in the evenings a carnival--for Lady
Berengaria required everybody about her to be gay and diverting--games
and dances, and infinite frolic. Lord Montfort, who, to the surprise of
every one, did not depart, spoke to her a little, and perhaps would
not have spoken at all, had they not met in the hunting-field. Lady
Berengaria was a first-rate horsewoman, and really in the saddle looked
irresistible.
The night before the party, which had lasted a week, broke up, Lord
Montfort came and sat by Lady Berengaria. He spoke about the run of the
morning, and she replied in the same vein. “I have got a horse, Lady
Berengaria, which I should like you to ride. Would you do so?”
“Certainly, and what sort of horse is it?”
“You shall see to-morrow. It is not far off. I like to have some horses
always near,” and then he walked away.
It was a dark chestnut of matchless beauty. Lady Berengaria, who was
of an emphatic nature, was loud in her admiration of its beauty and its
hunting qualities.
“I agree with you,” said Lord Montfort, “that it will spoil you for any
other horse, and therefore I shall ask permission to leave it here for
your use.”
The party broke up, but, strange to say, Lord Montfort did not depart.
It was a large family. Lady Berengaria had several sisters; her
eldest brother was master of the hounds, and her younger brothers were
asserting their rights as cadets, and killing their father’s pheasants.
There was also a number of cousins, who were about the same age, and
were always laughing, though it was never quite clear what it was about.
An affectation of gaiety may be sometimes detected in youth.
As Lord Montfort always had the duty of ushering the lady of the
house to dinner, he never had the opportunity of conversing with Lady
Berengaria, even had he wished it; but it was not all clear that he did
wish it, and it seemed that he talked as much to her sisters and the
laughing cousins as to herself, but still he did not go away, which was
most strange, and commenced to be embarrassing.
At last one evening, both her parents slumbering, one over the newspaper
and the other over her work, and the rest of the party in a distant
room playing at some new game amid occasional peals of laughter, Lord
Montfort, who had been sitting for some time by Lady Berengaria’s side,
and only asking now and then a question, though often a searching one,
in order to secure her talking to him, rather abruptly said, “I wonder
if anything would ever induce you to marry me?”
This was the most startling social event of the generation. Society
immediately set a-wondering how it would turn out, and proved very
clearly that it must turn out badly. Men who knew Montfort well at Paris
looked knowing, and said they would give it six months.
But the lady was as remarkable a woman as the bridegroom was in his
sex. Lady Berengaria was determined to be the Queen of Society, and had
confidence in her unlimited influence over man. It is, however, rather
difficult to work on the feelings of a man who has no heart. This she
soon found out, and to her dismay, but she kept it a profound secret.
By endless ingenuity on her part, affairs went on very well much longer
than the world expected, and long enough to fulfil the object of Lady
Berengaria’s life. Lord Montfort launched his wife well, and seemed
even content to be occasionally her companion until she had mounted
the social throne. He was proud of her as he would be of one of his
beautiful horses; but when all the world had acknowledged the influence
of Berengaria, he fell into one of his old moods, and broke to her that
he could bear it no longer, and that he must retire from society. Lady
Montfort looked distressed, but, resolved under no circumstances to be
separated from her husband, whom she greatly admired, and to whom,
had he wished it, she could have become even passionately attached,
signified her readiness to share his solitude. But she then found
out that this was not what he wanted. It was not only retirement from
society, but retirement from Lady Montfort, that was indispensable. In
short, at no time of his perverse career had Lord Montfort been more
wilful.
During the last years of his residence in Paris, when he was shut up
in his delicious Belvedere, he had complained much of the state of his
health, and one of his principal pursuits was consulting the faculty on
this interesting subject. The faculty were unanimous in their opinion
that the disorder from which their patient was suffering was _Ennui_.
This persistent opinion irritated him, and was one of the elements
of his decision to leave the country. The unexpected distraction that
followed his return to his native land had made him neglect or forget
his sad indisposition, but it appears that it had now returned, and in
an aggravated form. Unhappily the English physicians took much the
same view of the case as their French brethren. They could find nothing
organically wrong in the constitution or condition of Lord Montfort,
and recommended occupation and society. At present he shrank with some
disgust at the prospect of returning to France, and he had taken it into
his head that the climate of Montfort did not agree with him. He was
convinced that he must live in the south of England. One of the most
beautiful and considerable estates in that favoured part of our country
was virtually in the market, and Lord Montfort, at the cost of half a
million, became the proprietor of Princedown. And here he announced that
he should dwell and die.
This state of affairs was a bitter trial to the proudest woman in
England, but Lady Montfort was also one of the most able. She resisted
nothing, sympathised with all his projects, and watched her opportunity
when she could extract from his unconscious good-nature some reasonable
modification of them. And she ultimately succeeded in establishing a
_modus vivendi_. He was to live and die at Princedown; that was settled;
but if he ever came to town, to consult his physicians, for example, he
was always to inhabit Montfort House, and if she occasionally required a
whiff of southern air, she was to have her rooms always ready for her at
Princedown. She would not interfere with him in the least; he need not
even see her, if he were too unwell. Then as to the general principle of
his life, it was quite clear that he was not interested in anything, and
never would be interested in anything; but there was no reason that he
should not be amused. This distinction between interest and amusement
rather pleased, and seemed to satisfy Lord Montfort--but then it was
difficult to amuse him. The only thing that ever amused him, he said,
were his wife’s letters, and as he was the most selfish as well as the
most polite of men, he requested her to write to him every day. Great
personages, who are selfish and whimsical, are generally surrounded
by parasites and buffoons, but this would not suit Lord Montfort; he
sincerely detested flattery, and he wearied in eight-and-forty hours of
the most successful mountebank in society. What he seemed inclined to
was the society of men of science, of travellers in rare parts, and
of clever artists; in short, of all persons who had what he called
“idiosyncrasy.” Civil engineering was then beginning to attract general
attention, and Lord Montfort liked the society of civil engineers; but
what he liked most were self-formed men, and to learn the secret of
their success, and how they made their fortune. After the first fit of
Princedown was over, Lord Montfort found that it was impossible, even
with all its fascination, to secure a constant, or sufficient, presence
of civil engineers in such distant parts, and so he got into the habit
of coming up to Montfort House, that he might find companions and
be amused. Lady Montfort took great pains that he should not be
disappointed, and catered for him with all the skill of an accomplished
_chef_. Then, when the occasion served, she went down to Princedown
herself with welcome guests--and so it turned out, that circumstances,
which treated by an ordinary mind must have led to a social scandal,
were so adroitly manipulated, that the world little apprehended the real
and somewhat mortifying state of affairs. With the utmost license of
ill-nature, they could not suppose that Lord and Lady Montfort, living
under the same roof, might scarcely see each other for weeks, and that
his communications with her, and indeed generally, were always made in
writing.
Lady Monfort never could agree with her husband in the cardinal
assumption of his philosophy. One of his reasons for never doing
anything was, that there was nothing for him to attain. He had got
everything. Here they at once separated in their conclusions. Lady
Montfort maintained they had got nothing. “What,” she would say, “are
rank and wealth to us? We were born to them. We want something that
we were not born to. You reason like a parvenu. Of course, if you had
created your rank and your riches, you might rest on your oars, and find
excitement in the recollection of what you had achieved. A man of your
position ought to govern the country, and it always was so in the
old days. Your family were prime ministers; why not you, with as much
talent, and much more knowledge?”
“You would make a very good prime minister, Berengaria.”
“Ah! you always jest, I am serious.”
“And so am I. If I ever am to work, I would sooner be a civil engineer
than a prime minister.”
Nothing but the indomitable spirit of Lady Montfort could fight
successfully against such obstacles to her schemes of power as were
presented by the peculiar disposition of her lord. Her receptions every
Saturday night during the season were the most important of social
gatherings, but she held them alone. It was by consummate skill that
she had prevailed upon her lord occasionally appearing at the preceding
banquets, and when they were over, he flitted for an instant and
disappeared. At first, he altogether refused, but then Lady Montfort
would introduce Royalty, always kind, to condescend to express a wish
to dine at Montfort House, and that was a gracious intimation it was
impossible not to act upon, and then, as Lady Montfort would say, “I
trust much to the periodical visits of that dear Queen of Mesopotamia.
He must entertain her, for his father was her lover.”
In this wonderful mystification, by which Lord Montfort was made to
appear as living in a society which he scarcely ever entered, his
wife was a little assisted by his visits to Newmarket, which he even
frequently attended. He never made a bet or a new acquaintance, but he
seemed to like meeting men with whom he had been at school. There is
certainly a magic in the memory of school-boy friendships; it softens
the heart, and even affects the nervous system of those who have no
hearts. Lord Montfort at Newmarket would ask half a dozen men who had
been at school with him, and were now members of the Jockey Club, to be
his guests, and the next day all over the heath, and after the heath,
all over Mayfair and Belgravia, you heard only one speech, “I dined
yesterday,” or “the other day,” as the case might be, “with Montfort;
out and out the best dinner I ever had, and such an agreeable fellow;
the wittiest, the most amusing, certainly the most charming fellow that
ever lived; out and out! It is a pity he does not show a little more.”
And society thought the same; they thought it a pity, and a great one,
that this fascinating being of whom they rarely caught a glimpse, and
who to them took the form of a wasted and unsympathising phantom, should
not show a little more and delight them. But the most curious thing was,
that however rapturous were his guests, the feelings of their host after
they had left him, were by no means reciprocal. On the contrary, he
would remark to himself, “Have I heard a single thing worth remembering?
Not one.”