The Right Honourable Job Thornberry and Mrs. Thornberry had received
an invitation to the Montfort ball. Job took up the card, and turned it
over more than once, and looked at it as if it were some strange animal,
with an air of pleased and yet cynical perplexity; then he shrugged
his shoulders and murmured to himself, “No, I don’t think that will do.
Besides, I must be at Hurstley by that time.”
Going to Hurstley now was not so formidable an affair as it was in
Endymion’s boyhood. Then the journey occupied a whole and wearisome
day. Little Hurstley had become a busy station of the great Slap-Bang
railway, and a despatch train landed you at the bustling and flourishing
hostelry, our old and humble friend, the Horse Shoe, within the
two hours. It was a rate that satisfied even Thornberry, and almost
reconciled him to the too frequent presence of his wife and family at
Hurstley, a place to which Mrs. Thornberry had, it would seem, become
passionately attached.
“There is a charm about the place, I must say,” said Job to himself,
as he reached his picturesque home on a rich summer evening; “and yet I
hated it as a boy. To be sure, I was then discontented and unhappy, and
now I have every reason to be much the reverse. Our feelings affect
even scenery. It certainly is a pretty place; I really think one of the
prettiest places in England.”
Job was cordially welcomed. His wife embraced him, and the younger
children clung to him with an affection which was not diminished by the
remembrance that their father never visited them with empty hands. His
eldest son, a good-looking and well-grown stripling, just home for the
holidays, stood apart, determined to show he was a man of the world, and
superior to the weakness of domestic sensibility. When the hubbub was a
little over, he advanced and shook hands with his father with a certain
dignity.
“And when did you arrive, my boy? I was looking up your train in
Bradshaw as I came along. I made out you should get the branch at
Culvers Gate.”
“I drove over,” replied the son; “I and a friend of mine drove tandem,
and I’ll bet we got here sooner than we should have done by the branch.”
“Hem!” said Job Thornberry.
“Job,” said Mrs. Thornberry, “I have made two engagements for you this
evening. First, we will go and see your father, and then we are to drink
tea at the rectory.”
“Hem!” said Job Thornberry; “well, I would rather the first evening
should have been a quiet one; but let it be so.”
The visit to the father was kind, dutiful, and wearisome. There was not
a single subject on which the father and son had thoughts in common. The
conversation of the father took various forms of expressing his wonder
that his son had become what he was, and the son could only smile, and
turn the subject, by asking after the produce of some particular field
that had been prolific or obstinate in the old days. Mrs. Thornberry
looked absent, and was thinking of the rectory; the grandson who
had accompanied them was silent and supercilious; and everybody felt
relieved when Mrs. Thornberry, veiling her impatience by her fear of
keeping her father-in-law up late, made a determined move and concluded
the domestic ceremony.
The rectory afforded a lively contrast to the late scene. Mr. and Mrs.
Penruddock were full of intelligence and animation. Their welcome of
Mr. Thornberry was exactly what it ought to have been; respectful, even
somewhat deferential, but cordial and unaffected. They conversed on all
subjects, public and private, and on both seemed equally well informed,
for they not only read more than one newspaper, but Mrs. Penruddock had
an extensive correspondence, the conduct of which was one of the chief
pleasures and excitements of her life. Their tea-equipage, too, was a
picture of abundance and refinement. Such pretty china, and such various
and delicious cakes! White bread, and brown bread, and plum cakes, and
seed cakes, and no end of cracknels, and toasts, dry or buttered. Mrs.
Thornberry seemed enchanted and gushing with affection,--everybody was
dear or dearest. Even the face of John Hampden beamed with condescending
delight as he devoured a pyramid of dainties.
Just before the tea-equipage was introduced Mrs. Penruddock rose from
her seat and whispered something to Mrs. Thornberry, who seemed pleased
and agitated and a little blushing, and then their hostess addressed Job
and said, “I was mentioning to your wife that the archbishop was here,
and that I hope you would not dislike meeting him.”
And very shortly after this, the archbishop, who had been taking a
village walk, entered the room. It was evident that he was intimate with
the occupiers of Hurstley Hall. He addressed Mrs. Thornberry with the
ease of habitual acquaintance, while John Hampden seemed almost to rush
into his arms. Job himself had seen his Grace in London, though he
had never had the opportunity of speaking to him, but yielded to his
cordiality, when the archbishop, on his being named, said, “It is a
pleasure to meet an old friend, and in times past a kind one.”
It was a most agreeable evening. The archbishop talked to every one,
but never seemed to engross the conversation. He talked to the ladies of
gardens, and cottages, and a little of books, seemed deeply interested
in the studies and progress of the grandson Thornberry, who evidently
idolised him; and in due course his Grace was engaged in economical
speculations with Job himself, who was quite pleased to find a priest as
liberal and enlightened as he was able and thoroughly informed. An hour
before midnight they separated, though the archbishop attended them to
the hall.
Mrs. Thornberry’s birthday was near at hand, which Job always
commemorated with a gift. It had commenced with some severe offering,
like “Paradise Lost,” then it fell into the gentler form of Tennyson,
and, of late, unconsciously under the influence of his wife, it had
taken the shape of a bracelet or a shawl.
This evening, as he was rather feeling his way as to what might please
her most, Mrs. Thornberry embracing him, and hiding her face on his
breast, murmured, “Do not give me any jewel, dear Job. What I should
like would be that you should restore the chapel here.”
“Restore the chapel here! oh, oh!” said Job Thornberry.
CHAPTER XC
The archbishop called at Hurstley House the next day. It was a visit
to Mr. Thornberry, but all the family were soon present, and clustered
round the visitor. Then they walked together in the gardens, which
had become radiant under the taste and unlimited expenditure of Mrs.
Thornberry; beds glowing with colour or rivalling mosaics, choice
conifers with their green or purple fruit, and rare roses with their
fanciful and beauteous names; one, by the by, named “Mrs. Penruddock,”
and a very gorgeous one, “The Archbishop.”
As they swept along the terraces, restored to their pristine comeliness,
and down the green avenues bounded by copper beeches and ancient yews,
where men were sweeping away every leaf and twig that had fallen in the
night and marred the consummate order, it must have been difficult
for the Archbishop of Tyre not to recall the days gone by, when this
brilliant and finished scene, then desolate and neglected, the abode of
beauty and genius, yet almost of penury, had been to him a world of deep
and familiar interest. Yes, he was walking in the same glade where he
had once pleaded his own cause with an eloquence which none of his most
celebrated sermons had excelled. Did he think of this? If he did, it
was only to wrench the thought from his memory. Archbishops who are
yet young, who are resolved to be cardinals, and who may be popes, are
superior to all human weakness.
“I should like to look at your chapel,” said his Grace to Mr.
Thornberry; “I remember it a lumber room, and used to mourn over its
desecration.”
“I never was in it,” said Job, “and cannot understand why my wife is so
anxious about it as she seems to be. When we first went to London, she
always sate under the Reverend Socinus Frost, and seemed very satisfied.
I have heard him; a sensible man--but sermons are not much in my way,
and I do not belong to his sect, or indeed any other.”
However, they went to the chapel all the same, for Mrs. Thornberry
was resolved on the visit. It was a small chamber but beautifully
proportioned, like the mansion itself--of a blended Italian and Gothic
style. The roof was flat, but had been richly gilt and painted, and was
sustained by corbels of angels, divinely carved. There had been some
pews in the building; some had fallen to pieces, and some remained, but
these were not in the original design. The sacred table had disappeared,
but two saintly statues, sculptured in black oak, seemed still to guard
the spot which it had consecrated.
“I wonder what became of the communion table?” said Job.
“Oh! my dear father, do not call it a communion table,” exclaimed John
Hampden pettishly.
“Why, what should I call it, my boy?”
“The altar.”
“Why, what does it signify what we call it? The thing is the same.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the young gentleman, in a tone of contemptuous
enthusiasm, “it is all the difference in the world. There should be a
stone altar and a reredos. We have put up a reredos in our chapel at
Bradley. All the fellows subscribed; I gave a sovereign.”
“Well, I must say,” said the archbishop, who had been standing in
advance with Mrs. Thornberry and the children, while this brief and
becoming conversation was taking place between father and son, “I
think you could hardly do a better thing than restore this chapel, Mr.
Thornberry, but there must be no mistake about it. It must be restored
to the letter, and it is a style that is not commonly understood. I have
a friend, however, who is a master of it, the most rising man in his
profession, as far as church architecture is concerned, and I will get
him just to run down and look at this, and if, as I hope, you resolve to
restore it, rest assured he will do you justice, and you will be proud
of your place of worship.”
“I do not care how much we spend on our gardens,” said Job, “for they
are transitory pleasures, and we enjoy what we produce; but why I should
restore a chapel in a house which does not belong to myself is not so
clear to me.”
“But it should belong to yourself,” rejoined the archbishop. “Hurstley
is not in the market, but it is to be purchased. Take it altogether,
I have always thought it one of the most enviable possessions in the
world. The house, when put in order, would be one of the ornaments of
the kingdom. The acreage, though considerable, is not overwhelming, and
there is a range of wild country of endless charm. I wandered about it
in my childhood and my youth, and I have never known anything equal to
it. Then as to the soil and all that, you know it. You are a son of
the soil. You left it for great objects, and you have attained those
objects. They have given you fame as well as fortune. There would be
something wonderfully dignified and graceful in returning to the land
after you have taken the principal part in solving the difficulties
which pertained to it, and emancipating it from many perils.”
“I am sure it would be the happiest day of my life, if Job would
purchase Hurstley,” said Mrs. Thornberry.
“I should like to go to Oxford, and my father purchase Hurstley,” said
the young gentleman. “If we have not landed property, I would sooner
have none. If we have not land, I should like to go into the Church, and
if I may not go to Oxford, I would go to Cuddesdon at once. I know it
can be done, for I know a fellow who has done it.”
Poor Job Thornberry! He had ruled multitudes, and had conquered
and commanded senates. His Sovereign had made him one of her privy
councillors, and half a million of people had returned him their
representative to parliament. And here he stood silent, and a little
confused; sapped by his wife, bullied by his son, and after having
passed a great part of his life in denouncing sacerdotalism, finding his
whole future career chalked out, without himself being consulted, by
a priest who was so polite, sensible, and so truly friendly, that his
manner seemed to deprive its victims of every faculty of retort or
repartee. Still he was going to say something when the door opened, and
Mrs. Penruddock appeared, exclaiming in a cheerful voice, “I thought
I should find you here. I would not have troubled your Grace, but
this letter marked ‘private, immediate, and to be forwarded,’ has been
wandering about for some time, and I thought it was better to bring it
to you at once.”
The Archbishop of Tyre took the letter, and seemed to start as he read
the direction. Then he stood aside, opened it, and read its contents.
The letter was from Lady Roehampton, desiring to see him as soon as
possible on a matter of the utmost gravity, and entreating him not to
delay his departure, wherever he might be.
“I am sorry to quit you all,” said his Grace; “but I must go up to town
immediately. The business is urgent.”
CHAPTER XCI
Endymion arrived at home very late from the Montfort ball, and rose
in consequence at an unusually late hour. He had taken means to become
sufficiently acquainted with the cause of his sister’s absence the night
before, so he had no anxiety on that head. Lady Roehampton had really
intended to have been present, was indeed dressed for the occasion;
but when the moment of trial arrived, she was absolutely unequal to the
effort. All this was amplified in a little note from his sister, which
his valet brought him in the morning. What, however, considerably
surprised him in this communication was her announcement that her
feelings last night had proved to her that she ought not to remain in
London, and that she intended to find solitude and repose in the little
watering-place where she had passed a tranquil autumn during the first
year of her widowhood. What completed his astonishment, however, was the
closing intimation that, in all probability, she would have left town
before he rose. The moment she had got a little settled she would write
to him, and when business permitted, he must come and pay her a little
visit.
“She was always capricious,” exclaimed Lady Montfort, who had not
forgotten the disturbance of her royal supper-table.
“Hardly that, I think,” said Endymion. “I have always looked on Myra as
a singularly consistent character.”
“I know, you never admit your sister has a fault.”
“You said the other day yourself that she was the only perfect character
you knew.”
“Did I say that? I think her capricious.”
“I do not think you are capricious,” said Endymion, “and yet the world
sometimes says you are.”
“I change my opinion of persons when my taste is offended,” said Lady
Montfort. “What I admired in your sister, though I confess I sometimes
wished not to admire her, was that she never offended my taste.”
“I hope satisfied it,” said Endymion.
“Yes, satisfied it, always satisfied it. I wonder what will be her lot,
for, considering her youth, her destiny has hardly begun. Somehow or
other, I do not think she will marry Sidney Wilton.”
“I have sometimes thought that would be,” said Endymion.
“Well, it would be, I think, a happy match. All the circumstances would
be collected that form what is supposed to be happiness. But tastes
differ about destinies as well as about manners. For my part, I think
to have a husband who loved you, and he clever, accomplished, charming,
ambitious, would be happiness; but I doubt whether your sister cares
so much about these things. She may, of course does, talk to you more
freely; but with others, in her most open hours, there seems a secret
fund of reserve in her character which I never could penetrate,
except, I think, it is a reserve which does not originate in a love of
tranquillity, but quite the reverse. She is a strong character.”
“Then, hardly a capricious one.”
“No, not capricious; I only said that to tease you. I am capricious;
I know it. I disregard people sometimes that I have patronised and
flattered. It is not merely that I have changed my opinion of them, but
I positively hate them.”
“I hope you will never hate me,” said Endymion.
“You have never offended my taste yet,” said Lady Montfort with a smile.
Endymion was engaged to dine to-day with Mr. Bertie Tremaine. Although
now in hostile political camps, that great leader of men never permitted
their acquaintance to cease. “He is young,” reasoned Mr. Bertie
Tremaine; “every political party changes its principles on an average
once in ten years. Those who are young must often then form new
connections, and Ferrars will then come to me. He will be ripe and
experienced, and I could give him a good deal. I do not want numbers. I
want men. In opposition, numbers often only embarrass. The power of the
future is ministerial capacity. The leader with a cabinet formed will
be the minister of England. He is not to trouble himself about numbers;
that is an affair of the constituencies.”
Male dinners are in general not amusing. When they are formed, as they
usually are, of men who are supposed to possess a strong and common
sympathy--political, sporting, literary, military, social--there is
necessarily a monotony of thought and feeling, and of the materials
which induce thought and feeling. In a male dinner of party politicians,
conversation soon degenerates into what is termed “shop;” anecdotes
about divisions, criticism of speeches, conjectures about office,
speculations on impending elections, and above all, that heinous subject
on which enormous fibs are ever told, the registration. There are,
however, occasional glimpses in their talk which would seem to intimate
that they have another life outside the Houses of Parliament. But that
extenuating circumstance does not apply to the sporting dinner. There
they begin with odds and handicaps, and end with handicaps and odds, and
it is doubtful whether it ever occurs to any one present, that there
is any other existing combination of atoms than odds and handicaps.
A dinner of wits is proverbially a place of silence; and the envy and
hatred which all literary men really feel for each other, especially
when they are exchanging dedications of mutual affection, always ensure,
in such assemblies, the agreeable presence of a general feeling of
painful constraint. If a good thing occurs to a guest, he will not
express it, lest his neighbour, who is publishing a novel in numbers,
shall appropriate it next month, or he himself, who has the same
responsibility of production, be deprived of its legitimate appearance.
Those who desire to learn something of the manoeuvres at the Russian and
Prussian reviews, or the last rumour at Aldershot or the military clubs,
will know where to find this feast of reason. The flow of soul in these
male festivals is perhaps, on the whole, more genial when found in a
society of young gentlemen, graduates of the Turf and the Marlborough,
and guided in their benignant studies by the gentle experience and the
mild wisdom of White’s. The startling scandal, the rattling anecdote,
the astounding leaps, and the amazing shots, afford for the moment a
somewhat pleasing distraction, but when it is discovered that all these
habitual flim-flams are, in general, the airy creatures of inaccuracy
and exaggeration--that the scandal is not true, the anecdote has no
foundation, and that the feats and skill and strength are invested with
the organic weakness of tradition, the vagaries lose something of the
charm of novelty, and are almost as insipid as claret from which the
bouquet has evaporated.
The male dinners of Mr. Bertie Tremaine were an exception to the general
reputation of such meetings. They were never dull. In the first place,
though to be known at least by reputation was an indispensable condition
of being present, he brought different classes together, and this, at
least for once, stimulates and gratifies curiosity. His house too was
open to foreigners of celebrity, without reference to their political
parties or opinions. Every one was welcome except absolute assassins.
The host too had studied the art of developing character and
conversation, and if sometimes he was not so successful in this respect
as he deserved, there was no lack of amusing entertainment, for in these
social encounters Mr. Bertie Tremaine was a reserve in himself, and if
nobody else would talk, he would avail himself of the opportunity of
pouring forth the treasures of his own teeming intelligence. His various
knowledge, his power of speech, his eccentric paradoxes, his pompous
rhetoric, relieved by some happy sarcasm, and the obvious sense, in all
he said and did, of innate superiority to all his guests, made these
exhibitions extremely amusing.
“What Bertie Tremaine will end in,” Endymion would sometimes say,
“perplexes me. Had there been no revolution in 1832, and he had entered
parliament for his family borough, I think he must by this time have
been a minister. Such tenacity of purpose could scarcely fail. But he
has had to say and do so many odd things, first to get into parliament,
and secondly to keep there, that his future now is not so clear. When
I first knew him, he was a Benthamite; at present, I sometimes seem to
foresee that he will end by being the leader of the Protectionists and
the Protestants.”
“And a good strong party too,” said Trenchard, “but query whether strong
enough?”
“That is exactly what Bertie Tremaine is trying to find out.”
Mr. Bertie Tremaine’s manner in receiving his guests was courtly and
ceremonious; a contrast to the free and easy style of the time. But it
was adopted after due reflection. “No man can tell you what will be the
position he may be called upon to fill. But he has a right to assume
he will always be ascending. I, for example, may be destined to be
the president of a republic, the regent of a monarchy, or a sovereign
myself. It would be painful and disagreeable to have to change one’s
manner at a perhaps advanced period of life, and become liable to the
unpopular imputation that you had grown arrogant and overbearing. On the
contrary, in my case, whatever my elevation, there will be no change.
My brother, Mr. Tremaine Bertie, acts on a different principle. He is a
Sybarite, and has a general contempt for mankind, certainly for the mob
and the middle class, but he is ‘Hail fellow, well met!’ with them
all. He says it answers at elections; I doubt it. I myself represent
a popular constituency, but I believe I owe my success in no slight
measure to the manner in which I gave my hand when I permitted it to be
touched. As I say sometimes to Mr. Tremaine Bertie, ‘You will find
this habit of social familiarity embarrassing when I send you to St.
Petersburg or Vienna.’”
Waldershare dined there, now a peer, though, as he rejoiced to say,
not a peer of parliament. An Irish peer, with an English constituency,
filled, according to Waldershare, the most enviable of positions. His
rank gave him social influence, and his seat in the House of Commons
that power which all aspire to obtain. The cynosure of the banquet,
however, was a gentleman who had, about a year before, been the
president of a republic for nearly six weeks, and who being master of a
species of rhapsodical rhetoric, highly useful in troubled times, when
there is no real business to transact, and where there is nobody to
transact it, had disappeared when the treasury was quite empty, and
there were no further funds to reward the enthusiastic citizens who had
hitherto patriotically maintained order at wages about double in amount
to what they had previously received in their handicrafts. This great
reputation had been brought over by Mr. Tremaine Bertie, now introducing
him into English political society. Mr. Tremaine Bertie hung upon
the accents of the oracle, every word of which was intended to be
picturesque or profound, and then surveyed his friends with a glance of
appreciating wonder. Sensible Englishmen, like Endymion and Trenchard,
looked upon the whole exhibition as fustian, and received the
revelations with a smile of frigid courtesy.
The presence, however, of this celebrity of six weeks gave occasionally
a tone of foreign politics to the conversation, and the association of
ideas, which, in due course, rules all talk, brought them, among other
incidents and instances, to the remarkable career of King Florestan.
“And yet he has his mortifications,” said a sensible man. “He wants a
wife, and the princesses of the world will not furnish him with one.”
“What authority have you for saying so?” exclaimed the fiery
Waldershare. “The princesses of the world would be great fools if they
refused such a man, but I know of no authentic instance of such denial.”
“Well, it is the common rumour.”
“And, therefore, probably a common falsehood.”
“Were he wise,” said Mr. Bertie Tremaine, “King Florestan would not
marry. Dynasties are unpopular; especially new ones. The present age is
monarchical, but not dynastic. The king, who is a man of reach, and who
has been pondering such circumstances all his life, is probably well
aware of this, and will not be such a fool as to marry.”
“How is the monarchy to go on, if there is to be no successor?” inquired
Trenchard. “You would not renew the Polish constitution?”
“The Polish constitution, by the by, was not so bad a thing,” said Mr.
Bertie Tremaine. “Under it a distinguished Englishman might have mixed
with the crowned heads of Europe, as Sir Philip Sidney nearly did. But I
was looking to something superior to the Polish constitution, or
perhaps any other; I was contemplating a monarchy with the principle
of adoption. That would give you all the excellence of the Polish
constitution, and the order and constancy in which it failed. It would
realise the want of the age; monarchical, not dynastical, institutions,
and it would act independent of the passions and intrigues of the
multitude. The principle of adoption was the secret of the strength and
endurance of Rome. It gave Rome alike the Scipios and the Antonines.”
“A court would be rather dull without a woman at its head.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Bertie Tremaine. “It was Louis Quatorze who
made the court; not his queen.”
“Well,” said Waldershare, “all the same, I fear King Florestan will
adopt no one in this room, though he has several friends here, and I am
one; and I believe that he will marry, and I cannot help fancying that
the partner of this throne will not be as insignificant as Louis the
Fourteenth’s wife, or Catherine of Braganza.”
Jawett dined this day with Mr. Bertie Tremaine. He was a frequent guest
there, and still was the editor of the “Precursor,” though it sometimes
baffled all that lucidity of style for which he was celebrated to
reconcile the conduct of the party, of which the “Precursor” was
alike the oracle and organ, with the opinions with which that now
well-established journal first attempted to direct and illuminate the
public mind. It seemed to the editor that the “Precursor” dwelt more
on the past than became a harbinger of the future. Not that Mr. Bertie
Tremaine ever for a moment admitted that there was any difficulty in any
case. He never permitted any dogmas that he had ever enunciated to be
surrendered, however contrary at their first aspect.
“All are but parts of one stupendous whole,”
and few things were more interesting than the conference in which Mr.
Bertie Tremaine had to impart his views and instructions to the master
of that lucid style, which had the merit of making everything so very
clear when the master himself was, as at present, extremely perplexed
and confused. Jawett lingered after the other guests, that he might
have the advantage of consulting the great leader on the course which
he ought to take in advocating a measure which seemed completely at
variance with all the principles they had ever upheld.
“I do not see your difficulty,” wound up the host. “Your case is clear.
You have a principle which will carry you through everything. That is
the charm of a principle. You have always an answer ready.”
“But in this case,” somewhat timidly inquired Mr. Jawett, “what would be
the principle on which I should rest?”
“You must show,” said Mr. Bertie Tremaine, “that democracy is
aristocracy in disguise; and that aristocracy is democracy in disguise.
It will carry you through everything.”
Even Jawett looked a little amazed.
“But”--he was beginning, when Mr. Bertie Tremaine arose. “Think of what
I have said, and if on reflection any doubt or difficulty remain in your
mind, call on me to-morrow before I go to the House. At present, I must
pay my respects to Lady Beaumaris. She is the only woman the Tories can
boast of; but she is a first-rate woman, and is a power which I must
secure.”
CHAPTER XCII
A month had nearly elapsed since the Montfort ball; the season was over
and the session was nearly finished. The pressure of parliamentary life
for those in office is extreme during this last month, yet Endymion
would have contrived, were it only for a day, to have visited his
sister, had Lady Roehampton much encouraged his appearance. Strange as
it seemed to him, she did not, but, on the contrary, always assumed that
the prorogation of parliament would alone bring them together again.
When he proposed on one occasion to come down for four-and-twenty hours,
she absolutely, though with much affection, adjourned the fulfilment of
the offer. It seemed that she was not yet quite settled.
Lady Montfort lingered in London even after Goodwood. She was rather
embarrassed, as she told Endymion, about her future plans. Lord Montfort
was at Princedown, where she wished to join him, but he did not respond
to her wishes; on the contrary, while announcing that he was indisposed,
and meant to remain at Princedown for the summer, he suggested that she
should avail herself of the opportunity, and pay a long visit to her
family in the north. “I know what he means,” she observed; “he wants the
world to believe that we are separated. He cannot repudiate me--he is
too great a gentleman to do anything coarsely unjust; but he thinks, by
tact and indirect means, he may achieve our virtual separation. He has
had this purpose for years, I believe now ever since our marriage, but
hitherto I have baffled him. I ought to be with him; I really believe
he is indisposed, his face has become so pale of late; but were I to
persist in going to Princedown I should only drive him away. He would
go off into the night without leaving his address, and something would
happen--dreadful or absurd. What I had best do, I think, is this. You
are going at last to pay your visit to your sister; I will write to my
lord and tell him that as he does not wish me to go to Princedown, I
propose to go to Montfort Castle. When the flag is flying at Montfort,
I can pay a visit of any length to my family. It will only be a
neighbouring visit from Montfort to them; perhaps, too, they might
return it. At any rate, then they cannot say my lord and I are
separated. We need not live under the same roof, but so long as I live
under his roof the world considers us united. It is a pity to have to
scheme in this manner, and rather degrading, particularly when one might
be so happy with him. But you know, my dear Endymion, all about our
affairs. Your friend is not a very happy woman, and if not a very
unhappy one, it is owing much to your dear friendship, and a little to
my own spirit which keeps me up under what is frequent and sometimes
bitter mortification. And now adieu! I suppose you cannot be away less
than a week. Probably on your return you will find me here. I cannot go
to Montfort without his permission. But he will give it. I observe that
he will always do anything to gain his immediate object. His immediate
object is, that I shall not go to Princedown, and so he will agree that
I shall go to Montfort.”
For the first time in his life, Endymion felt some constraint in
the presence of Myra. There was something changed in her manner. No
diminution of affection, for she threw her arms around him and pressed
him to her heart; and then she looked at him anxiously, even sadly, and
kissed both his eyes, and then she remained for some moments in
silence with her face hid on his shoulder. Never since the loss of Lord
Roehampton had she seemed so subdued.
“It is a long separation,” she at length said, with a voice and smile
equally faint, “and you must be a little wearied with your travelling.
Come and refresh yourself, and then I will show you my boudoir I have
made here; rather pretty, out of nothing. And then we will sit down and
have a long talk together, for I have much to tell you, and I want your
advice.”
“She is going to marry Sidney Wilton,” thought Endymion; “that is
clear.”
The boudoir was really pretty, “made out of nothing;” a gay chintz, some
shelves of beautiful books, some fanciful chairs, and a portrait of Lord
Roehampton.
It was a long interview, very long, and if one could judge by the
countenance of Endymion, when he quitted the boudoir and hastened to his
room, of grave import. Sometimes his face was pale, sometimes scarlet;
the changes were rapid, but the expression was agitated rather than one
of gratification.
He sent instantly for his servant, and then penned this telegram to Lady
Montfort: “My visit here will be short. I am to see you immediately.
Nothing must prevent your being at home when I call to-morrow, about
four o’clock. Most, most important.”
CHAPTER XCIII
“Well, something has happened at last,” said Lady Montfort with a
wondering countenance; “it is too marvellous.”
“She goes to Osborne to-day,” continued Endymion, “and I suppose after
that, in due course, it will be generally known. I should think the
formal announcement would be made abroad. It has been kept wonderfully
close. She wished you to know it first, at least from her. I do not
think she ever hesitated about accepting him. There was delay from
various causes; whether there should be a marriage by proxy first in
this country, and other points; about religion, for example.”
“Well?”
“She enters the Catholic Church, the Archbishop of Tyre has received
her. There is no difficulty and no great ceremonies in such matters. She
was re-baptized, but only by way of precaution. It was not necessary,
for our baptism, you know, is recognised by Rome.”
“And that was all!”
“All, with a first communion and confession. It is all consummated now;
as you say, ‘It is too wonderful.’ A first confession, and to Nigel
Penruddock, who says life is flat and insipid!”
“I shall write to her: I must write to her. I wonder if I shall see her
before she departs.”
“That is certain if you wish it; she wishes it.”
“And when does she go? And who goes with her?”
“She will be under my charge,” said Endymion. “It is fortunate that it
should happen at a time when I am free. I am personally to deliver her
to the king. The Duke of St. Angelo, Baron Sergius, and the archbishop
accompany her, and Waldershare, at the particular request of his
Majesty.”
“And no lady?”
“She takes Adriana with her.”
“Adriana!” repeated Lady Montfort, and a cloud passed over her brow.
There was a momentary pause, and then Lady Montfort said, “I wish she
would take me.”
“That would be delightful,” said Endymion, “and most becoming--to have
for a companion the greatest lady of our court.”
“She will not take me with her,” said Lady Montfort, sorrowfully but
decisively, and shaking her head. “Dear woman! I loved her always,
often most when I seemed least affectionate--but there was between us
something”--and she hesitated. “Heigho! I may be the greatest lady of
our court, but I am a very unhappy woman, Endymion, and what annoys and
dispirits me most, sometimes quite breaks me down, is that I cannot see
that I deserve my lot.”
It happened as Endymion foresaw; the first announcement came from
abroad. King Florestan suddenly sent a message to his parliament, that
his Majesty was about to present them with a queen. She was not the
daughter of a reigning house, but she came from the land of freedom and
political wisdom, and from the purest and most powerful court in Europe.
His subjects soon learnt that she was the most beautiful of women, for
the portrait of the Countess of Roehampton, as it were by magic, seemed
suddenly to fill every window in every shop in the teeming and brilliant
capital where she was about to reign.
It was convenient that these great events should occur when everybody
was out of town. Lady Montfort alone remained, the frequent, if not
constant, companion of the new sovereign. Berengaria soon recovered her
high spirits. There was much to do and prepare in which her hints
and advice were invaluable. Though she was not to have the honour of
attending Myra to her new home, which, considering her high place in the
English court, was perhaps hardly consistent with etiquette, for so she
now cleverly put it, she was to pay her Majesty a visit in due time. The
momentary despondency that had clouded her brilliant countenance had not
only disappeared, but she had quite forgotten, and certainly would not
admit, that she was anything but the most sanguine and energetic of
beings, and rallied Endymion unmercifully for his careworn countenance
and too frequent air of depression. The truth is, the great change that
was impending was one which might well make him serious, and sometimes
sad.
The withdrawal of a female influence, so potent on his life as that of
his sister, was itself a great event. There had been between them from
the cradle, which, it may be said, they had shared, a strong and perfect
sympathy. They had experienced together vast and strange vicissitudes of
life. Though much separated in his early youth, there had still been a
constant interchange of thought and feeling between them. For the last
twelve years or so, ever since Myra had become acquainted with the
Neuchatel family, they may be said never to have separated--at least
they had maintained a constant communication, and generally a personal
one. She had in a great degree moulded his life. Her unfaltering, though
often unseen, influence had created his advancement. Her will was more
powerful than his. He was more prudent and plastic. He felt this keenly.
He was conscious that, left to himself, he would probably have achieved
much less. He remembered her words when they parted for the first time
at Hurstley, “Women will be your best friends in life.” And that brought
his thoughts to the only subject on which they had ever differed--her
wished-for union between himself and Adriana. He felt he had crossed her
there--that he had prevented the fulfilment of her deeply-matured plans.
Perhaps, had that marriage taken place, she would never have quitted
England. Perhaps; but was that desirable? Was it not fitter that so
lofty a spirit should find a seat as exalted as her capacity? Myra was
a sovereign! In this age of strange events, not the least strange.
No petty cares and griefs must obtrude themselves in such majestic
associations. And yet the days at Hainault were very happy, and the
bright visits to Gaydene, and her own pleasant though stately home. His
heart was agitated, and his eyes were often moistened with emotion.
He seemed to think that all the thrones of Christendom could be no
compensation for the loss of this beloved genius of his life, whom
he might never see again. Sometimes, when he paid his daily visit to
Berengaria, she who knew him by heart, who studied every expression of
his countenance and every tone of his voice, would say to him, after a
few minutes of desultory and feeble conversation, “You are thinking of
your sister, Endymion?”
He did not reply, but gave a sort of faint mournful smile.
“This separation is a trial, a severe one, and I knew you would feel
it,” said Lady Montfort. “I feel it; I loved your sister, but she did
not love me. Nobody that I love ever does love me.”
“Oh! do not say that, Lady Montfort.”
“It is what I feel. I cannot console you. There is nothing I can do for
you. My friendship, if you value it, which I will not doubt you do,
you fully possessed before your sister was a Queen. So that goes for
nothing.”
“I must say, I feel sometimes most miserable.”
“Nonsense, Endymion; if anything could annoy your sister more than
another, it would be to hear of such feelings on your part. I must say
she has courage. She has found her fitting place. Her brother ought to
do the same. You have a great object in life, at least you had, but I
have no faith in sentimentalists. If I had been sentimental, I should
have gone into a convent long ago.”
“If to feel is to be sentimental, I cannot help it.”
“All feeling which has no object to attain is morbid and maudlin,” said
Lady Montfort. “You say you are very miserable, and at the same time you
do not know what you want. Would you have your sister dethroned? And if
you would, could you accomplish your purpose? Well, then, what nonsense
to think about her except to feel proud of her elevation, and prouder
still that she is equal to it!”
“You always have the best of every argument,” said Endymion.
“Of course,” said Lady Montfort. “What I want you to do is to exert
yourself. You have now a strong social position, for Sidney Wilton tells
me the Queen has relinquished to you her mansion and the whole of her
income, which is no mean one. You must collect your friends about you.
Our government is not too strong, I can tell you. We must brush up in
the recess. What with Mr. Bertie Tremaine and his friends joining the
Protectionists, and the ultra-Radicals wanting, as they always do,
something impossible, I see seeds of discomfiture unless they are
met with energy. You stand high, and are well spoken of even by our
opponents. Whether we stand or fall, it is a moment for you to increase
your personal influence. That is the element now to encourage in your
career, because you are not like the old fogies in the cabinet, who,
if they go out, will never enter another again. You have a future, and
though you may not be an emperor, you may be what I esteem more, prime
minister of this country.”
“You are always so sanguine.”
“Not more sanguine than your sister. Often we have talked of this. I
wish she were here to help us, but I will do my part. At present let us
go to luncheon.”
CHAPTER XCIV
There was a splendid royal yacht, though not one belonging to our
gracious Sovereign, lying in one of Her Majesty’s southern ports, and
the yacht was convoyed by a smart frigate. The crews were much ashore,
and were very popular, for they spent a great deal of money. Everybody
knew what was the purpose of their bright craft, and every one was
interested in it. A beautiful Englishwoman had been selected to fill a
foreign and brilliant throne occupied by a prince, who had been educated
in our own country, who ever avowed his sympathies with “the inviolate
island of the sage and free.” So in fact there was some basis for
the enthusiasm which was felt on this occasion by the inhabitants of
Nethampton. What every one wanted to know was when she would sail. Ah!
that was a secret that could hardly be kept for the eight-and-forty
hours preceding her departure, and therefore, one day, with no formal
notice, all the inhabitants of Nethampton were in gala; streets and
ships dressed out with the flags of all nations; the church bells
ringing; and busy little girls running about with huge bouquets.
At the very instant expected, the special train was signalled, and drove
into the crimson station amid the thunder of artillery, the blare of
trumpets, the beating of drums, and cheers from thousands even louder
and longer than the voices of the cannon. Leaning on the arm of her
brother, and attended by the Princess of Montserrat, and the Honourable
Adriana Neuchatel, Baron Sergius, the Duke of St. Angelo, the Archbishop
of Tyre, and Lord Waldershare, the daughter of William Ferrars,
gracious, yet looking as if she were born to empire, received the
congratulatory address of the mayor and corporation and citizens
of Nethampton, and permitted her hand to be kissed, not only by his
worship, but by at least two aldermen.
They were on the waters, and the shores of Albion, fast fading away, had
diminished to a speck. It is a melancholy and tender moment, and Myra
was in her ample and splendid cabin and alone. “It is a trial,” she
felt, “but all that I love and value in this world are in this vessel,”
and she thought of Endymion and Adriana. The gentlemen were on deck,
chiefly smoking or reconnoitring their convoy through their telescopes.
“I must say,” said Waldershare, “it was a grand idea of our kings making
themselves sovereigns of the sea. The greater portion of this planet is
water; so we at once became a first-rate power. We owe our navy entirely
to the Stuarts. King James the Second was the true founder and hero of
the British navy. He was the worthy son of his admirable father, that
blessed martyr, the restorer at least, if not the inventor, of ship
money; the most patriotic and popular tax that ever was devised by man.
The Nonconformists thought themselves so wise in resisting it, and they
have got the naval estimates instead!”
The voyage was propitious, the weather delightful, and when they had
entered the southern waters Waldershare confessed that he felt the
deliciousness of life. If the scene and the impending events, and their
own fair thoughts, had not been adequate to interest them, there were
ample resources at their command; all the ladies were skilled musicians,
their concerts commenced at sunset, and the sweetness of their voices
long lingered over the moonlit waters.
Adriana, one evening, bending over the bulwarks of the yacht, was
watching the track of phosphoric light, struck into brilliancy from the
dark blue waters by the prow of their rapid vessel. “It is a fascinating
sight, Miss Neuchatel, and it seems one might gaze on it for ever.”
“Ah! Lord Waldershare, you caught me in a reverie.”
“What more sweet?”
“Well, that depends on its subject. To tell the truth, I was thinking
that these lights resembled a little your conversation; all the wondrous
things you are always saying or telling us.”
The archbishop was a man who never recurred to the past. One could never
suppose that Endymion and himself had been companions in their early
youth, or, so far as their intercourse was concerned, that there was
such a place in the world as Hurstley. One night, however, as they were
pacing the deck together, he took the arm of Endymion, and said, “I
trace the hand of Providence in every incident of your sister’s life.
What we deemed misfortunes, sorrows, even calamities, were forming a
character originally endowed with supreme will, and destined for the
highest purposes. There was a moment at Hurstley when I myself was
crushed to the earth, and cared not to live; vain, short-sighted mortal!
Our great Master was at that moment shaping everything to His ends, and
preparing for the entrance into His Church of a woman who may be, who
will be, I believe, another St. Helena.”
“We have not spoken of this subject before,” said Endymion, “and I
should not have cared had our silence continued, but I must now tell you
frankly, the secession of my sister from the Church of her fathers was
to me by no means a matter of unmixed satisfaction.”
“The time will come when you will recognise it as the consummation of a
Divine plan,” said the archbishop.
“I feel great confidence that my sister will never be the slave of
superstition,” said Endymion. “Her mind is too masculine for that; she
will remember that the throne she fills has been already once lost by
the fatal influence of the Jesuits.”
“The influence of the Jesuits is the influence of Divine truth,”
said his companion. “And how is it possible for such influence not to
prevail? What you treat as defeats, discomfitures, are events which you
do not comprehend. They are incidents all leading to one great end--the
triumph of the Church--that is, the triumph of God.”
“I will not decide what are great ends; I am content to ascertain what
is wise conduct. And it would not be wise conduct, in my opinion, for
the King to rest upon the Jesuits.”
“The Jesuits never fell except from conspiracy against them. It is never
the public voice that demands their expulsion or the public effort that
accomplishes it. It is always the affair of sovereigns and statesmen, of
politicians, of men, in short, who feel that there is a power at
work, and that power one not favourable to their schemes or objects of
government.”
“Well, we shall see,” said Endymion; “I candidly tell you, I hope the
Jesuits will have as little influence in my brother-in-law’s kingdom as
in my own country.”
“As little!” said Nigel, somewhat sarcastically; “I should be almost
content if the holy order in every country had as much influence as they
now have in England.”
“I think your Grace exaggerates.”
“Before two years are past,” said the archbishop, speaking very slowly,
“I foresee that the Jesuits will be privileged in England, and the
hierarchy of our Church recognised.”
It was a delicious afternoon; it had been sultry, but the sun had now
greatly declined, when the captain of the yacht came down to announce to
the Queen that they were in sight of her new country, and she hastened
on deck to behold the rapidly nearing shore. A squadron of ships of war
had stood out to meet her, and in due time the towers and spires of a
beautiful city appeared, which was the port of the capital, and itself
almost worthy of being one. A royal barge, propelled by four-and-twenty
rowers, and bearing the lord chamberlain, awaited the queen, and the
moment her Majesty and the Princess of Montserrat had taken their seats,
salutes thundered from every ship of war, responded to by fort and
battery ashore.
When they landed, they were conducted by chief officers of the court to
a pavilion which faced the western sky, now glowing like an opal with
every shade of the iris, and then becoming of a light green colour
varied only by some slight clouds burnished with gold. A troop of
maidens brought flowers as bright as themselves, and then a company
of pages advanced, and kneeling, offered to the Queen chocolate in a
crystal cup.
According to the programme drawn up by the heralds, and every tittle of
it founded on precedents, the King and the royal carriages were to have
met the travellers on their arrival at the metropolis; but there are
feelings which heralds do not comprehend, and which defy precedents.
Suddenly there was a shout, a loud cheer, and a louder salute. Some one
had arrived unexpectedly. A young man, stately but pale, moved through
the swiftly receding crowd, alone and unattended, entered the pavilion,
advanced to the Queen, kissed her hand, and then both her cheeks, just
murmuring, “My best beloved, this, this indeed is joy.”
The capital was fortified, and the station was without the walls; here
the royal carriages awaited them. The crowd was immense; the ramparts on
this occasion were covered with people. It was an almost sultry night,
with every star visible, and clear and warm and sweet. As the royal
carriage crossed the drawbridge and entered the chief gates, the
whole city was in an instant suddenly illuminated--in a flash. The
architectural lines of the city walls, and of every street, were
indicated, and along the ramparts at not distant intervals were tripods,
each crowned with a silver flame, which cast around the radiance of day.
He held and pressed her hand as in silence she beheld the wondrous
scene. They had to make a progress of some miles; the way was kept
throughout by soldiery and civic guards, while beyond them was an
infinite population, all cheering and many of them waving torches. They
passed through many streets, and squares with marvellous fountains,
until they arrived at the chief and royal street, which has no equal in
the world. It is more than a mile long, never swerving from a straight
line, broad, yet the houses so elevated that they generally furnish the
shade this ardent clime requires. The architecture of this street is
so varied that it never becomes monotonous, some beautiful church, or
palace, or ministerial hotel perpetually varying the effect. All the
windows were full on this occasion, and even the roofs were crowded.
Every house was covered with tapestry, and the line of every building
was marked out by artificial light. The moon rose, but she was not
wanted; it was as light as day.
They were considerate enough not to move too rapidly through this heart
of the metropolis, and even halted at some stations, where bands of
music and choirs of singers welcomed and celebrated them. They moved
on more quickly afterwards, made their way through a pretty suburb,
and then entered a park. At the termination of a long avenue was the
illumined and beautiful palace of the Prince of Montserrat, where Myra
was to reside and repose until the momentous morrow, when King Florestan
was publicly to place on the brow of his affianced bride the crown which
to his joy she had consented to share.
CHAPTER XCV
There are very few temperaments that can resist an universal
and unceasing festival in a vast and beautiful metropolis. It is
inebriating, and the most wonderful of all its accidents is how the
population can ever calm and recur to the monotony of ordinary life.
When all this happens, too, in a capital blessed with purple skies,
where the moonlight is equal to our sunshine, and where half the
population sleep in the open air and wish for no roof but the heavens,
existence is a dream of phantasy and perpetual loveliness, and one is
at last forced to believe that there is some miraculous and supernatural
agency that provides the ever-enduring excitement and ceaseless
incidents of grace and beauty.
After the great ceremony of the morrow in the cathedral, and when Myra,
kneeling at the altar with her husband, received, under a canopy of
silver brocade, the blessings of a cardinal and her people, day followed
day with court balls and municipal banquets, state visits to operas, and
reviews of sumptuous troops. At length the end of all this pageantry and
enthusiasm approached, and amid a blaze of fireworks, the picturesque
population of this fascinating city tried to return to ordinary feeling
and to common sense.
If amid this graceful hubbub and this glittering riot any one could
have found time to remark the carriage and conduct of an individual, one
might have observed, and perhaps been surprised at, the change in those
of Miss Neuchatel. That air of pensive resignation which distinguished
her seemed to have vanished. She never wore that doleful look for which
she was too remarkable in London saloons, and which marred a countenance
favoured by nature and a form intended for gaiety and grace. Perhaps it
was the influence of the climate, perhaps the excitement of the scene,
perhaps some rapture with the wondrous fortunes of the friend whom she
adored, but Adriana seemed suddenly to sympathise with everybody and to
appreciate everything; her face was radiant, she was in every dance,
and visited churches and museums, and palaces and galleries, with keen
delight. With many charms, the intimate friend of their sovereign,
and herself known to be noble and immensely rich, Adriana became the
fashion, and a crowd of princes were ever watching her smiles, and
sometimes offering her their sighs.
“I think you enjoy our visit more than any one of us,” said Endymion to
her one day, with some feeling of surprise.
“Well, one cannot mope for ever,” said Miss Neuchatel; “I have passed my
life in thinking of one subject, and I feel now it made me very stupid.”
Endymion felt embarrassed, and, though generally ready, had no repartee
at command. Lord Waldershare, however, came to his relief, and claimed
Adriana for the impending dance.
This wondrous marriage was a grand subject for “our own correspondents,”
and they abounded. Among them were Jawett and St. Barbe. St. Barbe hated
Jawett, as indeed he did all his brethren, but his appointment in this
instance he denounced as an infamous job. “Merely to allow him to
travel in foreign parts, which he has never done, without a single
qualification for the office! However, it will ruin his paper, that is
some consolation. Fancy sending here a man who has never used his
pen except about those dismal statistics, and what he calls first
principles! I hate his style, so neat and frigid. No colour, sir. I hate
his short sentences, like a dog barking; we want a word-painter here,
sir. My description of the wedding sold one hundred and fifty thousand,
and it is selling now. If the proprietors were gentlemen, they would
have sent me an unlimited credit, instead of their paltry fifty pounds
a day and my expenses; but you never meet a liberal man now,--no such
animal known. What I want you to do for me, Lord Waldershare, is to get
me invited to the Villa Aurea when the court moves there. It will be
private life there, and that is the article the British public want now.
They are satiated with ceremonies and festivals. They want to know what
the royal pair have for dinner when they are alone, how they pass their
evenings, and whether the queen drives ponies.”
“So far as I am concerned,” said Waldershare, “they shall remain state
secrets.”
“I have received no special favours here,” rejoined St. Barbe, “though,
with my claims, I might have counted on the uttermost. However, it is
always so. I must depend on my own resources. I have a retainer, I can
tell you, my lord, from the ‘Rigdum Funidos,’ in my pocket, and it is in
my power to keep up such a crackling of jokes and sarcasms that a very
different view would soon be entertained in Europe of what is going
on here than is now the fashion. The ‘Rigdum Funidos’ is on the
breakfast-table of all England, and sells thousands in every capital of
the world. You do not appreciate its power; you will now feel it.”
“I also am a subscriber to the ‘Rigdum Funidos,’” said Waldershare,
“and tell you frankly, Mr. St. Barbe, that if I see in its columns the
slightest allusion to any persons or incident in this country, I will
take care that you be instantly consigned to the galleys; and, this
being a liberal government, I can do that without even the ceremony of a
primary inquiry.”
“You do not mean that?” said St. Barbe; “of course, I was only jesting.
It is not likely that I should say or do anything disagreeable to those
whom I look upon as my patrons--I may say friends--through life. It
makes me almost weep when I remember my early connection with Mr.
Ferrars, now an under-secretary of state, and who will mount higher. I
never had a chance of being a minister, though I suppose I am not more
incapable than others who get the silver spoon into their mouths. And
then his divine sister! Quite an heroic character! I never had a sister,
and so I never had even a chance of being nearly related to royalty. But
so it has been throughout my life. No luck, my lord; no luck. And
then they say one is misanthropical. Hang it! who can help being
misanthropical when he finds everybody getting on in life except
himself?”
The court moved to their favourite summer residence, a Palladian palace
on a blue lake, its banks clothed with forests abounding with every
species of game, and beyond them loftier mountains. The king was devoted
to sport, and Endymion was always among his companions. Waldershare
rather attached himself to the ladies, who made gay parties floating in
gondolas, and refreshed themselves with picnics in sylvan retreats. It
was supposed Lord Waldershare was a great admirer of the Princess
of Montserrat, who in return referred to him as that “lovable
eccentricity.” As the autumn advanced, parties of guests of high
distinction, carefully arranged, periodically arrived. Now, there was
more ceremony, and every evening the circle was formed, while the king
and queen exchanged words, and sometimes ideas, with those who were
so fortunate as to be under their roof. Frequently there were dramatic
performances, and sometimes a dance. The Princess of Montserrat was
invaluable in these scenes; vivacious, imaginative, a consummate mimic,
her countenance, though not beautiful, was full of charm. What was
strange, Adriana took a great fancy to her Highness, and they were
seldom separated. The only cloud for Endymion in this happy life was,
that every day the necessity of his return to England was more urgent,
and every day the days vanished more quickly. That return to England,
once counted by weeks, would soon be counted by hours. He had conferred
once or twice with Waldershare on the subject, who always turned
the conversation; at last Endymion reminded him that the time of his
departure was at hand, and that, originally, it had been agreed they
should return together.
“Yes, my dear Ferrars, we did so agree, but the agreement was
permissive, not compulsory. My views are changed. Perhaps I shall never
return to England again; I think of being naturalised here.”
The queen was depressed at the prospect of being separated from her
brother. Sometimes she remonstrated with him for his devotion to sport
which deprived her of his society; frequently in a morning she sent for
him to her boudoir, that they might talk together as in old times. “The
king has invited Lord and Lady Beaumaris to pay us a visit, and they
are coming at once. I had hoped the dear Hainaults might have visited us
here. I think she would have liked it. However, they will certainly pass
the winter with us. It is some consolation to me not to lose Adriana.”
“The greatest,” said Endymion, “and she seems so happy here. She seems
quite changed.”
“I hope she is happier,” said the queen, “but I trust she is not
changed. I think her nearly perfection. So pure, even so exalted a mind,
joined with so sweet a temper, I have never met. And she is very much
admired too, I can tell you. The Prince of Arragon would be on his knees
to her to-morrow, if she would only give a single smile. But she smiles
enough with the Princess of Montserrat. I heard her the other day
absolutely in uncontrollable laughter. That is a strange friendship; it
amuses me.”
“The princess has immense resource.”
The queen suddenly rose from her seat; her countenance was disturbed.
“Why do we talk of her, or of any other trifler of the court, when there
hangs over us so great a sorrow, Endymion, as our separation? Endymion,
my best beloved,” and she threw her arms round his neck, “my heart! my
life! Is it possible that you can leave me, and so miserable as I am?”
“Miserable!”
“Yes! miserable when I think of your position--and even my own. Mine own
has risen like a palace in a dream, and may vanish like one. But that
would not be a calamity if you were safe. If I quitted this world
to-morrow, where would you be? It gives me sleepless nights and anxious
days. If you really loved me as you say, you would save me this. I am
haunted with the perpetual thought that all this glittering prosperity
will vanish as it did with our father. God forbid that, under any
circumstances, it should lead to such an end--but who knows? Fate is
terribly stern; ironically just. O Endymion! if you really love me, your
twin, half of your blood and life, who have laboured for you so much,
and thought for you so much, and prayed for you so much--and yet I
sometimes feel have done so little--O Endymion! my adored, my own
Endymion, if you wish to preserve my life--if you wish me not only to
live, but really to be happy as I ought to be and could be, but for one
dark thought, help me, aid me, save me--you can, and by one single act.”
“One single act!”
“Yes! marry Adriana.”
“Ah!” and he sighed.
“Yes, Adriana, to whom we both of us owe everything. Were it not for
Adriana, you would not be here, you would be nothing,” and she whispered
some words which made him start, and alternately blush and look pale.
“Is it possible?” he exclaimed. “My sister, my beloved sister, I have
tried to keep my brain cool in many trials. But I feel, as it were, as
if life were too much for me. You counsel me to that which we should all
repent.”
“Yes, I know it; you may for a moment think it a sacrifice, but believe
me, that is all phantasy. I know you think your heart belongs to
another. I will grant everything, willingly grant everything you could
say of her. Yes, I admit, she is beautiful, she has many charms, has
been to you a faithful friend, you delight in her society; such things
have happened before to many men, to every man they say they happen, but
that has not prevented them from being wise, and very happy too. Your
present position, if you persist in it, is one most perilous. You have
no root in the country; but for an accident you could not maintain
the public position you have nobly gained. As for the great crowning
consummation of your life, which we dreamed over at unhappy Hurstley,
which I have sometimes dared to prophesy, that must be surrendered. The
country at the best will look upon you only as a reputable adventurer
to be endured, even trusted and supported, in some secondary post,
but nothing more. I touch on this, for I see it is useless to speak of
myself and my own fate and feelings; only remember, Endymion, I have
never deceived you. I cannot endure any longer this state of affairs.
When in a few days we part, we shall never meet again. And all the
devotion of Myra will end in your destroying her.”
“My own, my beloved Myra, do with me what you like. If ----”
At this moment there was a gentle tap at the door, and the king entered.
“My angel,” he said, “and you too, my dear Endymion. I have some news
from England which I fear may distress you. Lord Montfort is dead.”
CHAPTER XCVI
There was ever, when separated, an uninterrupted correspondence between
Berengaria and Endymion. They wrote to each other every day, so
that when they met again there was no void in their lives and mutual
experience, and each was acquainted with almost every feeling and
incident that had been proved, or had occurred, since they parted. The
startling news, however, communicated by the king had not previously
reached Endymion, because he was on the eve of his return to England,
and his correspondents had been requested to direct their future letters
to his residence in London.