There was a terrible uncertainty in the future. What were the feelings
of Lady Montfort towards himself? Friendly, kind, affectionate, in a
certain sense, even devoted, no doubt; but all consistent with a deep
and determined friendship which sought and wished for no return more
ardent. But now she was free. Yes, but would she again forfeit her
freedom? And if she did, would it not be to attain some great end,
probably the great end of her life? Lady Montfort was a woman of
far-reaching ambition. In a certain degree, she had married to secure
her lofty aims; and yet it was only by her singular energy, and the
playfulness and high spirit of her temperament, that the sacrifice had
not proved a failure; her success, however, was limited, for the ally on
who she had counted rarely assisted and never sympathised with her. It
was true she admired and even loved her husband; her vanity, which was
not slight, was gratified by her conquest of one whom it had seemed no
one could subdue, and who apparently placed at her feet all the power
and magnificence which she appreciated.
Poor Endymion, who loved her passionately, over whom she exercised the
influence of a divinity, who would do nothing without consulting her,
and who was moulded, and who wished to be moulded, by her inspiring
will, was also a shrewd man of the world, and did not permit his
sentiment to cloud his perception of life and its doings. He felt that
Lady Montfort had fallen from a lofty position, and she was not of a
temperament that would quietly brook her fate. Instead of being the
mistress of castles and palaces, with princely means, and all the
splendid accidents of life at her command, she was now a dowager with
a jointure! Still young, with her charms unimpaired, heightened even by
the maturity of her fascinating qualities, would she endure this? She
might retain her friendship for one who, as his sister ever impressed
upon him, had no root in the land, and even that friendship, he felt
conscious, must yield much of its entireness and intimacy to the
influence of new ties; but for their lives ever being joined together,
as had sometimes been his wild dreams, his cheek, though alone, burned
with the consciousness of his folly and self-deception.
“He is one of our rising statesmen,” whispered the captain of the vessel
to a passenger, as Endymion, silent, lonely, and absorbed, walked, as
was his daily custom, the quarterdeck. “I daresay he has a good load
on his mind. Do you know, I would sooner be a captain of a ship than a
minister of state?”
Poor Endymion! Yes, he bore his burthen, but it was not secrets of state
that overwhelmed him. If his mind for a moment quitted the contemplation
of Lady Montfort, it was only to encounter the recollection of a
heart-rending separation from his sister, and his strange and now
perplexing relations with Adriana.
Lord Montfort had passed the summer, as he had announced, at Princedown,
and alone; that is to say, without Lady Montfort. She wrote to him
frequently, and if she omitted doing so for a longer interval than
usual, he would indite to her a little note, always courteous, sometimes
even almost kind, reminding her that her letters amused him, and that
of late they had been rarer than he wished. Lady Montfort herself made
Montfort Castle her home, paying sometimes a visit to her family in
the neighbourhood, and sometimes receiving them and other guests. Lord
Montfort himself did not live in absolute solitude. He had society
always at command. He always had a court about him; equerries, and
secretaries, and doctors, and odd and amusing men whom they found out
for him, and who were well pleased to find themselves in his
beautiful and magnificent Princedown, wandering in woods and parks and
pleasaunces, devouring his choice _entrees_, and quaffing his curious
wines. Sometimes he dined with them, sometimes a few dined with him,
sometimes he was not seen for weeks; but whether he were visible or not,
he was the subject of constant thought and conversation by all under his
roof.
Lord Montfort, it may be remembered, was a great fisherman. It was the
only sport which retained a hold upon him. The solitude, the charming
scenery, and the requisite skill, combined to please him. He had a love
for nature, and he gratified it in this pursuit. His domain abounded in
those bright chalky streams which the trout love. He liked to watch the
moor-hens, too, and especially a kingfisher.
Lord Montfort came home late one day after much wading. It had been a
fine day for anglers, soft and not too bright, and he had been tempted
to remain long in the water. He drove home rapidly, but it was in an
open carriage, and when the sun set there was a cold autumnal breeze.
He complained at night, and said he had been chilled. There was always
a doctor under the roof, who felt his patient’s pulse, ordered the usual
remedies, and encouraged him. Lord Montfort passed a bad night, and his
physician in the morning found fever, and feared there were symptoms of
pleurisy. He prescribed accordingly, but summoned from town two great
authorities. The great authorities did not arrive until the next day.
They approved of everything that had been done, but shook their heads.
“No immediate danger, but serious.”
Four-and-twenty hours afterwards they inquired of Lord Montfort whether
they should send for his wife. “On no account whatever,” he replied. “My
orders on this head are absolute.” Nevertheless, they did send for
Lady Montfort, and as there was even then a telegraph to the north,
Berengaria, who departed from her castle instantly, and travelled all
night, arrived in eight-and-forty hours at Princedown. The state of Lord
Montfort then was critical.
It was broken to Lord Montfort that his wife had arrived.
“I perceive then,” he replied, “that I am going to die, because I am
disobeyed.”
These were the last words he uttered. He turned in his bed as it were to
conceal his countenance, and expired without a sigh or sound.
There was not a single person at Princedown in whom Lady Montfort could
confide. She had summoned the family solicitor, but he could not arrive
until the next day, and until he came she insisted that none of her
late lord’s papers should be touched. She at first thought he had made a
will, because otherwise all his property would go to his cousin, whom
he particularly hated, and yet on reflection she could hardly fancy
his making a will. It was a trouble to him--a disagreeable trouble; and
there was nobody she knew whom he would care to benefit. He was not a
man who would leave anything to hospitals and charities. Therefore, on
the whole, she arrived at the conclusion he had not made a will, though
all the guests at Princedown were of a different opinion, and each was
calculating the amount of his own legacy.
At last the lawyer arrived, and he brought the will with him. It was
very short, and not very recent. Everything he had in the world except
the settled estates, Montfort Castle and Montfort House, he bequeathed
to his wife. It was a vast inheritance; not only Princedown, but great
accumulations of personal property, for Lord Montfort was fond of
amassing, and admired the sweet simplicity of the three per cents.
CHAPTER XCVII
When Endymion arrived in London he found among his letters two brief
notes from Lady Montfort; one hurriedly written at Montfort Castle at
the moment of her departure, and another from Princedown, with these
words only, “All is over.” More than a week had elapsed since the last
was written, and he had already learnt from the newspapers that the
funeral had taken place. It was a painful but still necessary duty to
fulfil, to write to her, which he did, but he received no answer to his
letter of sympathy, and to a certain degree, of condolence. Time flew
on, but he could not venture to write again, and without any absolute
cause for his discomfort, he felt harassed and unhappy. He had been so
accustomed all his life to exist under the genial influence of women
that his present days seemed lone and dark. His sister and Berengaria,
two of the most gifted and charming beings in the world, had seemed
to agree that their first duty had ever been to sympathise with his
fortunes and to aid them. Even his correspondence with Myra was changed.
There was a tone of constraint in their communications; perhaps it
was the great alteration in her position that occasioned it? His heart
assured him that such was not the case. He felt deeply and acutely what
was the cause. The subject most interesting to both of them could not be
touched on. And then he thought of Adriana, and contrasted his dull and
solitary home in Hill Street with what it might have been, graced by her
presence, animated by her devotion, and softened by the sweetness of her
temper.
Endymion began to feel that the run of his good fortune was dried. His
sister, when he had a trouble, would never hear of this; she always held
that the misery and calamities of their early years had exhausted the
influence of their evil stars, and apparently she had been right, and
perhaps she would have always been right had he not been perverse, and
thwarted her in the most important circumstances of his life.
In this state of mind, there was nothing for him to do but to plunge
into business; and affairs of state are a cure for many cares and
sorrows. What are our petty annoyances and griefs when we have to guard
the fortunes and the honour of a nation?
The November cabinets had commenced, and this brought all the chiefs
to town, Sidney Wilton among them; and his society was always a great
pleasure to Endymion; the only social pleasure now left to him was a
little dinner at Mr. Wilton’s, and little dinners there abounded. Mr.
Wilton knew all the persons that he was always thinking about, but whom,
it might be noticed, they seemed to agree now rarely to mention. As for
the rest, there was nobody to call upon in the delightful hours between
official duties and dinner. No Lady Roehampton now, no brilliant
Berengaria, and not even the gentle Imogene with her welcome smile.
He looked in at the Coventry Club, a club of fashion, and also much
frequented by diplomatists. There were a good many persons there, and a
foreign minister immediately buttonholed the Under-Secretary of State.
“I called at the Foreign Office to-day,” said the foreign minister. “I
assure you it is very pressing.”
“I had the American with me,” said Endymion, “and he is very lengthy.
However, as to your business, I think we might talk it over here, and
perhaps settle it.” And so they left the room together.
“I wonder what is going to happen to that gentleman,” said Mr. Ormsby,
glancing at Endymion, and speaking to Mr. Cassilis.
“Why?” replied Mr. Cassilis, “is anything up?”
“Will he marry Lady Montfort?”
“Poh!” said Mr. Cassilis.
“You may poh!” said Mr. Ormsby, “but he was a great favourite.”
“Lady Montfort will never marry. She had always a poodle, and always
will have. She was never so _liee_ with Ferrars as with the Count of
Ferroll, and half a dozen others. She must have a slave.”
“A very good mistress with thirty thousand a year.”
“She has not that,” said Mr. Cassilis doubtingly.
“What do you put Princedown at?” said Mr. Ormsby.
“That I can tell you to a T,” replied Mr. Cassilis, “for it was offered
to me when old Rambrooke died. You will never get twelve thousand a year
out of it.”
“Well, I will answer for half a million consols,” said Ormsby, “for my
lawyer, when he made a little investment for me the other day, saw the
entry himself in the bank-books; our names are very near, you know--M,
and O. Then there is her jointure, something like ten thousand a year.”
“No, no; not seven.”
“Well, that would do.”
“And what is the amount of your little investment in consols altogether,
Ormsby?”
“Well, I believe I top Montfort,” said Mr. Ormsby with a complacent
smile, “but then you know, I am not a swell like you; I have no land.”
“Lady Montfort, thirty thousand a year,” said Mr. Cassilis musingly.
“She is only thirty. She is a woman who will set the Thames on fire,
but she will never marry. Do you dine to-day, by any chance, with Sidney
Wilton?”
When Endymion returned home this evening, he found a letter from Lady
Montfort. It was a month since he had written to her. He was so nervous
that he absolutely for a moment could not break the seal, and the
palpitation of his heart was almost overpowering.
Lady Montfort thanked him for his kind letter, which she ought to
have acknowledged before, but she had been very busy--indeed, quite
overwhelmed with affairs. She wished to see him, but was sorry she could
not ask him to come down to Princedown, as she was living in complete
retirement, only her aunt with her, Lady Gertrude, whom, she believed,
he knew. He was aware, probably, how good Lord Montfort had been to her.
Sincerely she could say, nothing could have been more unexpected. If she
could have seen her husband before the fatal moment, it would have been
a consolation to her. He had always been kind to Endymion; she really
believed sometimes that Lord Montfort was even a little attached to
him. She should like Endymion to have some souvenir of her late husband.
Would he choose something, or would he leave it to her?
One would rather agree, from the tone of this letter, that Mr. Cassilis
knew what he was talking about. It fell rather odd on Endymion’s heart,
and he passed a night of some disquietude; not one of those nights,
exactly, when we feel that the end of the world has at length arrived,
and that we are the first victim, but a night when you slumber rather
than sleep, and wake with the consciousness of some indefinable chagrin.
This was a dull Christmas for Endymion Ferrars. He passed it, as he had
passed others, at Gaydene, but what a contrast to the old assemblies
there! Every source of excitement that could make existence absolutely
fascinating seemed then to unite in his happy fate. Entrancing love and
the very romance of domestic affection, and friendships of honour
and happiness, and all the charms of an accomplished society, and
the feeling of a noble future, and the present and urgent interest in
national affairs--all gone, except some ambition which might tend to
consequences not more successful than those that had ultimately visited
his house with irreparable calamity.
The meeting of parliament was a great relief to Endymion. Besides his
office, he had now the House of Commons to occupy him. He was never
absent from his place; no little runnings up to Montfort House or Hill
Street just to tell them the authentic news, or snatch a hasty repast
with furtive delight, with persons still more delightful, and flattering
one’s self all the time that, so far as absence was concerned, the
fleetness of one’s gifted brougham horse really made it no difference
between Mayfair and Bellamy’s.
Endymion had replied, but not very quickly, to Lady Montfort’s letter,
and he had heard from her again, but her letter requiring no reply, the
correspondence had dropped. It was the beginning of March when she wrote
to him to say, that she was obliged to come to town to see her lawyer
and transact some business; that she would be “at papa’s in Grosvenor
Square,” though the house was shut up, on a certain day, that she much
wished to see Endymion, and begged him to call on her.
It was a trying moment when about noon he lifted the knocker to
Grosvenor Square. The door was not opened rapidly, and the delay made
him more nervous. He almost wished the door would never open. He
was shown into a small back room on the ground floor in which was a
bookcase, and which chamber, in the language of Grosvenor Square, is
called a library.
“Her ladyship will see you presently,” said the servant, who had come up
from Princedown.
Endymion was standing before the fire, and as nervous as a man could
well be. He sighed, and he sighed more than once. His breathing was
oppressed; he felt that life was too short to permit us to experience
such scenes and situations. He heard the lock of the door move, and it
required all his manliness to endure it.
She entered; she was in weeds, but they became her admirably; her
countenance was grave and apparently with an effort to command it. She
did not move hurriedly, but held out both her hands to Endymion and
retained his, and all without speaking. Her lips then seemed to move,
when, rather suddenly, withdrawing her right hand, and placing it on his
shoulder and burying her face in her arm, she wept.
He led her soothingly to a seat, and took a chair by her side. Not a
word had yet been spoken by either of them; only a murmur of sympathy on
the part of Endymion. Lady Montfort spoke first.
“I am weaker than I thought, but it is a great trial.” And then she said
how sorry she was, that she could not receive him at Princedown; but
she thought it best that he should not go there. “I have a great deal of
business to transact--you would not believe how much. I do not dislike
it, it occupies me, it employs my mind. I have led so active a life,
that solitude is rather too much for me. Among other business, I must
buy a town house, and that is the most difficult of all affairs. There
never was so great a city with such small houses. I shall feel the loss
of Montfort House, though I never used it half so much as I wished. I
want a mansion; I should think you could help me in this. When I return
to society, I mean to receive. There must be therefore good reception
rooms; if possible, more than good. And now let us talk about our
friends. Tell me all about your royal sister, and this new marriage;
it rather surprised me, but I think it excellent. Ah! you can keep
a secret, but you see it is no use having a secret with me. Even in
solitude everything reaches me.”
“I assure you most seriously, that I can annex no meaning to what you
are saying.”
“Then I can hardly think it true; and yet it came from high authority,
and it was not told me as a real secret.”
“A marriage, and whose?”
“Miss Neuchatel’s,--Adriana.”
“And to whom?” inquired Endymion, changing colour.
“To Lord Waldershare.”
“To Lord Waldershare!”
“And has not your sister mentioned it to you?”
“Not a word; it cannot be true.”
“I will give to you my authority,” said Lady Montfort. “Though I came
here in the twilight of a hired brougham, and with a veil, I was caught
before I could enter the house by, of all people in the world, Mrs.
Rodney. And she told me this in what she called ‘real confidence,’ and
it was announced to her in a letter from her sister, Lady Beaumaris.
They seem all delighted with the match.”
CHAPTER XCVIII
The marriage of Adriana was not an event calculated to calm the
uneasy and dissatisfied temperament of Endymion. The past rendered it
impossible that this announcement should not in some degree affect him.
Then the silence of his sister on such a subject was too significant;
the silence even of Waldershare. Somehow or other, it seemed that all
these once dear and devoted friends stood in different relations to him
and to each other from what they once filled. They had become more
near and intimate together, but he seemed without the pale; he, that
Endymion, who once seemed the prime object, if not the centre, of all
their thoughts and sentiment. And why was this? What was the influence
that had swayed him to a line contrary to what was once their hopes and
affections? Had he an evil genius? And was it she? Horrible thought!
The interview with Lady Montfort had been deeply interesting--had for a
moment restored him to himself. Had it not been for this news, he might
have returned home, soothed, gratified, even again indulging in dreams.
But this news had made him ponder; had made him feel what he had lost,
and forced him to ask himself what he had gained.
There was one thing he had gained, and that was the privilege of calling
on Lady Montfort the next day. That was a fact that sometimes dissipated
all the shadows. Under the immediate influence of her presence, he
became spell-bound as of yore, and in the intoxication of her beauty,
the brightness of her mind, and her ineffable attraction, he felt
he would be content with any lot, provided he might retain her kind
thoughts and pass much of his life in her society.
She was only staying three or four days in town, and was much engaged
in the mornings; but Endymion called on her every afternoon, and sate
talking with her till dinner-time, and they both dined very late. As
he really on personal and domestic affairs never could have any reserve
with her, he told her, in that complete confidence in which they always
indulged, of the extraordinary revelation which his sister had made
to him about the parliamentary qualification. Lady Montfort was deeply
interested in this; she was even agitated, and looked very grave.
“I am sorry,” she said, “we know this. Things cannot remain now as they
are. You cannot return the money, that would be churlish; besides, you
cannot return all the advantages which it gained for you, and they must
certainly be considered part of the gift, and the most precious; and
then, too, it would betray what your sister rightly called a ‘sacred
confidence.’ And yet something must be done--you must let me think. Do
not mention it again.” And then they talked a little of public affairs.
Lady Montfort saw no one, and heard from no one now; but judging from
the journals, she thought the position of the government feeble. “There
cannot be a Protectionist government,” she said; “and yet that is the
only parliamentary party of importance. Things will go on till some
blow, and perhaps a slight one, will upset you all. And then who is
to succeed? I think some queer _melange_ got up perhaps by Mr. Bertie
Tremaine.”
The last day came. She parted from Endymion with kindness, but not
with tenderness. He was choking with emotion, and tried to imitate her
calmness.
“Am I to write to you?” he asked in a faltering voice.
“Of course you are,” she said, “every day, and tell me all the news.”
The Hainaults, and the Beaumaris, and Waldershare, did not return to
England until some time after Easter. The marriage was to take place
in June--Endymion was to be Waldershare’s best man. There were many
festivities, and he was looked upon as an indispensable guest in all.
Adriana received his congratulations with animation, but with affection.
She thanked him for a bracelet which he had presented to her; “I value
it more,” she said, “than all my other presents together, except
what dear Waldershare has given to me.” Even with that exception, the
estimate was high, for never a bride in any land ever received the
number of splendid offerings which crowded the tables of Lord Hainault’s
new palace, which he had just built in Park Lane. There was not a
Neuchatel in existence, and they flourished in every community, who did
not send her, at least, a riviere of brilliants. King Florestan and
his queen sent offerings worthy of their resplendent throne and their
invaluable friendship. But nothing surpassed, nothing approached,
the contents of a casket, which, a day before the wedding, arrived
at Hainault House. It came from a foreign land, and Waldershare
superintended the opening of the case, and the appearance of a casket of
crimson velvet, with genuine excitement. But when it was opened! There
was a coronet of brilliants; a necklace of brilliants and emeralds,
and all the stones more than precious; gems of Golconda no longer
obtainable, and lustrous companions which only could have been created
in the hot earth of Asia. From whom? Not a glimpse of meaning. All that
was written, in a foreign handwriting on a sheet of notepaper, was, “For
the Lady Viscountess Waldershare.”
“When the revolution comes,” said Lord Hainault, “Lord Waldershare and
my daughter must turn jewellers. Their stock in trade is ready.”
The correspondence between Lady Montfort and Endymion had resumed its
ancient habit. They wrote to each other every day, and one day she told
him that she had purchased a house, and that she must come up to town to
examine and to furnish it. She probably should be a month in London,
and remaining there until the end of the season, in whose amusements
and business, of course, she could not share. She should “be at papa’s,”
though he and his family were in town; but that was no reason why
Endymion should not call on her. And he came, and called every day. Lady
Montfort was full of her new house; it was in Carlton Gardens, the house
she always wished, always intended to have. There is nothing like will;
everybody can do exactly what they like in this world, provided they
really like it. Sometimes they think they do, but in general, it is a
mistake. Lady Montfort, it seemed, was a woman who always could do what
she liked. She could do what she liked with Endymion Ferrars; that
was quite certain. Supposed by men to have a strong will and a calm
judgment, he was a nose of wax with this woman. He was fascinated by
her, and he had been fascinated now for nearly ten years. What would be
the result of this irresistible influence upon him? Would it make or
mar those fortunes that once seemed so promising? The philosophers
of White’s and the Coventry were generally of opinion that he had no
chance.
Lady Montfort was busy every morning with her new house, but she never
asked Endymion to accompany her, though it seemed natural to do so.
But he saw her every day, and “papa,” who was a most kind and courtly
gentleman, would often ask him, “if he had nothing better to do,” to
dine there, and he dined there frequently; and if he were engaged, he
was always of opinion that he had nothing better to do.
At last, however, the season was over; the world had gone to Goodwood,
and Lady Montfort was about to depart to Princedown. It was a dreary
prospect for Endymion, and he could not conceal his feelings. He could
not help saying one day, “Do you know, now that you are going I almost
wish to die.”
Alas! she only laughed. But he looked grave. “I am very unhappy,” he
sighed rather than uttered.
She looked at him with seriousness. “I do not think our separation need
be very long. Papa and all my family are coming to me in September to
pay me a very long visit. I really do not see why you should not come
too.”
Endymion’s countenance mantled with rapture. “If I might come, I think I
should be the happiest of men!”
The month that was to elapse before his visit, Endymion was really, as
he said, the happiest of men; at least, the world thought him so.
He seemed to walk upon tip-toe. Parliament was prorogued, office was
consigned to permanent secretaries, and our youthful statesman seemed
only to live to enjoy, and add to, the revelry of existence. Now
at Cowes, now stalking in the Highlands, dancing at balls in the
wilderness, and running races of fantastic feats, full of health, and
frolic, and charm; he was the delight of society, while, the whole time,
he had only one thought, and that was the sacred day when he should
again see the being whom he adored, and that in her beautiful home,
which her presence made more lovely.
Yes! he was again at Princedown, in the bosom of her family; none others
there; treated like one of themselves. The courtly father pressed his
hand; the amiable and refined mother smiled upon him; the daughters,
pretty, and natural as the air, treated him as if they were sisters, and
even the eldest son, who generally hates you, after a little stiffness,
announced in a tone never questioned under the family roof, that
“Ferrars was a first-rate shot.”
And so a month rolled on; immensely happy, as any man who has loved,
and loved in a beautiful scene, alone can understand. One morning Lady
Montfort said to him, “I must go up to London about my house. I want
to go and return the same day. Do you know, I think you had better come
with me? You shall give me a luncheon in Hill Street, and we shall
be back by the last train. It will be late, but we shall wake in the
morning in the country, and that I always think a great thing.”
And so it happened; they rose early and arrived in town in time to give
them a tolerably long morning. She took him to her house in Carlton
Gardens, and showed to him exactly how it was all she wanted;
accommodation for a first-rate establishment; and then the reception
rooms, few houses in London could compare with them; a gallery and three
saloons. Then they descended to the dining-room. “It is a dining-room,
not a banqueting hall,” she said, “which we had at Montfort House, but
still it is much larger than most dining-rooms in London. But, I think
this room, at least I hope you do, quite charming,” and she took him to
a room almost as large as the dining-room, and looking into the garden.
It was fitted up with exquisite taste; calm subdued colouring, with
choice marble busts of statesmen, ancient and of our times, but the
shelves were empty.
“They are empty,” she said, “but the volumes to fill them are already
collected. Yes,” she added in a tremulous voice, and slightly pressing
the arm on which she leant. “If you will deign to accept it, this is the
chamber I have prepared for you.”
“Dearest of women!” and he took her hand.
“Yes,” she murmured, “help me to realise the dream of my life;” and she
touched his forehead with her lips.
CHAPTER XCIX
The marriage of Mr. Ferrars with Lady Montfort surprised some, but, on
the whole, pleased everybody. They were both of them popular, and no one
seemed to envy them their happiness and prosperity. The union took place
at a season of the year when there was no London world to observe and to
criticise. It was a quiet ceremony; they went down to Northumberland
to Lady Montfort’s father, and they were married in his private chapel.
After that they went off immediately to pay a visit to King Florestan
and his queen; Myra had sent her a loving letter.
“Perhaps it will be the first time that your sister ever saw me with
satisfaction,” remarked Lady Montfort, “but I think she will love me
now! I always loved her; perhaps because she is so like you.”
It was a happy meeting and a delightful visit. They did not talk much of
the past. The enormous change in the position of their host and hostess
since the first days of their acquaintance, and, on their own part, some
indefinite feeling of delicate reserve, combined to make them rather
dwell on a present which was full of novelty so attractive and so
absorbing. In his manner, the king was unchanged; he was never a
demonstrative person, but simple, unaffected, rather silent; with a
sweet temper and a tender manner, he seemed to be gratified that he had
the power of conferring happiness on those around him. His feeling to
his queen was one of idolatry, and she received Berengaria as a sister
and a much-loved one. Their presence and the season of the year made
their life a festival, and when they parted, there were entreaties and
promises that the visit should be often repeated.
“Adieu! my Endymion,” said Myra at the last moment they were alone. “All
has happened for you beyond my hopes; all now is safe. I might wish we
were in the same land, but not if I lost my husband, whom I adore.”
The reason that forced them to curtail their royal visit was the state
of politics at home, which had suddenly become critical. There were
symptoms, and considerable ones, of disturbance and danger when
they departed for their wedding tour, but they could not prevail on
themselves to sacrifice a visit on which they had counted so much,
and which could not be fulfilled on another occasion under the same
interesting circumstances. Besides, the position of Mr. Ferrars, though
an important, was a subordinate one, and though cabinet ministers were
not justified in leaving the country, an under-secretary of state and
a bridegroom might, it would seem, depart on his irresponsible holiday.
Mr. Sidney Wilton, however, shook his head; “I do not like the state of
affairs,” he said, “I think you will have to come back sooner than you
imagine.”
“You are not going to be so foolish as to have an early session?”
inquired Lady Montfort.
He only shrugged his shoulders, and said, “We are in a mess.”
What mess? and what was the state of affairs?
This had happened. At the end of the autumn, his Holiness the Pope had
made half a dozen new cardinals, and to the surprise of the world, and
the murmurs of the Italians, there appeared among them the name of an
Englishman, Nigel Penruddock, archbishop _in partibus_. Shortly after
this, a papal bull, “given at St. Peter’s, Rome, under the seal of the
fisherman,” was issued, establishing a Romish hierarchy in England. This
was soon followed by a pastoral letter by the new cardinal “given out of
the Appian Gate,” announcing that “Catholic England had been restored to
its orbit in the ecclesiastical firmament.”
The country at first was more stupefied than alarmed. It was conscious
that something extraordinary had happened, and some great action taken
by an ecclesiastical power, which from tradition it was ever inclined to
view with suspicion and some fear. But it held its breath for a while.
It so happened that the prime minister was a member of a great house
which had become illustrious by its profession of Protestant principles,
and even by its sufferings in a cause which England had once looked
on as sacred. The prime minister, a man of distinguished ability,
not devoid even of genius, was also a wily politician, and of almost
unrivalled experience in the management of political parties. The
ministry was weak and nearly worn out, and its chief, influenced partly
by noble and historical sentiments, partly by a conviction that he had
a fine occasion to rally the confidence of the country round himself
and his friends, and to restore the repute of his political connection,
thought fit, without consulting his colleagues, to publish a manifesto
denouncing the aggression of the Pope upon our Protestantism as insolent
and insidious, and as expressing a pretension of supremacy over the
realm of England which made the minister indignant.
A confused public wanted to be led, and now they were led. They
sprang to their feet like an armed man. The corporation of London, the
universities of Oxford and Cambridge had audiences of the Queen; the
counties met, the municipalities memorialised; before the first of
January there had been held nearly seven thousand public meetings,
asserting the supremacy of the Queen and calling on Her Majesty’s
Government to vindicate it by stringent measures.
Unfortunately, it was soon discovered by the minister that there had
been nothing illegal in the conduct of the Pope or the Cardinal, and
a considerable portion of the Liberal party began to express the
inconvenient opinion, that the manifesto of their chief was opposed
to those principles of civil and religious liberty of which he was the
hereditary champion. Some influential members of his own cabinet did
not conceal their disapprobation of a step on which they had not been
consulted.
Immediately after Christmas, Endymion and Lady Montfort settled in
London. She was anxious to open her new mansion as soon as parliament
met, and to organise continuous receptions. She looked upon the ministry
as in a critical state, and thought it was an occasion when social
influences might not inconsiderably assist them.
But though she exhibited for this object her wonted energy and high
spirit, a fine observer--Mr. Sidney Wilton, for example--might have
detected a change in the manner of Berengaria. Though the strength of
her character was unaltered, there was an absence of that restlessness,
it might be said, that somewhat feverish excitement, from which formerly
she was not always free. The truth is, her heart was satisfied, and that
brought repose. Feelings of affection, long mortified and pent up, were
now lavished and concentrated on a husband of her heart and adoration,
and she was proud that his success and greatness might be avowed as the
objects of her life.
The campaign, however, for which such preparations were made, ended
almost before it began. The ministry, on the meeting of parliament,
found themselves with a discontented House of Commons, and discordant
counsels among themselves. The anti-papal manifesto was the secret cause
of this evil state, but the prime minister, to avoid such a mortifying
admission, took advantage of two unfavourable divisions on other
matters, and resigned.
Here was a crisis--another crisis! Could the untried Protectionists,
without men, form an administration? It was whispered that Lord Derby
had been sent for, and declined the attempt. Then there was another
rumour, that he was going to try. Mr. Bertie Tremaine looked mysterious.
The time for the third party had clearly arrived. It was known that he
had the list of the next ministry in his breast-pocket, but it was only
shown to Mr. Tremaine Bertie, who confided in secrecy to the initiated
that it was the strongest government since “All the Talents.”
Notwithstanding this great opportunity, “All the Talents” were not
summoned. The leader of the Protectionists renounced the attempt in
despair, and the author of the anti-papal manifesto was again sent
for, and obliged to introduce the measure which had already destroyed a
government and disorganised a party.
“Sidney Wilton,” said Lady Montfort to her husband, “says that they are
in the mud, and he for one will not go back--but he will go. I know him.
He is too soft-hearted to stand an appeal from colleagues in distress.
But were I you, Endymion, I would not return. I think you want a little
rest, or you have got a great deal of private business to attend to,
or something of that kind. Nobody notices the withdrawal of an
under-secretary except those in office. There is no necessity why you
should be in the mud. I will continue to receive, and do everything
that is possible for our friends, but I think my husband has been an
under-secretary long enough.”
Endymion quite agreed with his wife. The minister offered him preferment
and the Privy Council, but Lady Montfort said it was really not so
important as the office he had resigned. She was resolved that he should
not return to them, and she had her way. Ferrars himself now occupied a
rather peculiar position, being the master of a great fortune and of an
establishment which was the headquarters of the party of which he was
now only a private member; but, calm and collected, he did not lose his
head; always said and did the right thing, and never forgot his early
acquaintances. Trenchard was his bosom political friend. Seymour Hicks,
who, through Endymion’s kindness, had now got into the Treasury, and
was quite fashionable, had the run of the House, and made himself
marvellously useful, while St. Barbe, who had become by mistake a member
of the Conservative Club, drank his frequent claret cup every Saturday
evening at Lady Montfort’s receptions with many pledges to the welfare
of the Liberal administration.
The flag of the Tory party waved over the magnificent mansion of which
Imogene Beaumaris was the graceful life. As parties were nearly equal,
and the ministry was supposed to be in decay, the rival reception was as
well attended as that of Berengaria. The two great leaders were friends,
intimate, but not perhaps quite so intimate as a few years before. “Lady
Montfort is very kind to me,” Imogene would say, “but I do not think
she now quite remembers we are cousins.” Both Lord and Lady Waldershare
seemed equally devoted to Lady Beaumaris. “I do not think,” he would
say, “that I shall ever get Adriana to receive. It is an organic gift,
and very rare. What I mean to do is to have a first-rate villa and give
the party strawberries. I always say Adriana is like Nell Gwyn, and she
shall go about with a pottle. One never sees a pottle of strawberries
now. I believe they went out, like all good things, with the Stuarts.”
And so, after all these considerable events, the season rolled on and
closed tranquilly. Lord and Lady Hainault continued to give banquets,
over which the hostess sighed; Sir Peter Vigo had the wisdom to retain
his millions, which few manage to do, as it is admitted that it is
easier to make a fortune than to keep one. Mrs. Rodney, supremely
habited, still drove her ponies, looking younger and prettier than ever,
and getting more fashionable every day, and Mr. Ferrars and Berengaria,
Countess of Montfort, retired in the summer to their beautiful and
beloved Princedown.
CHAPTER C
Although the past life of Endymion had, on the whole, been a happy life,
and although he was destined also to a happy future, perhaps the four
years which elapsed from the time he quitted office, certainly in his
experience had never been exceeded, and it was difficult to imagine
could be exceeded, in felicity. He had a great interest, and even
growing influence in public life without any of its cares; he was
united to a woman whom he had long passionately loved, and who had every
quality and a fortune which secured him all those advantages which are
appreciated by men of taste and generosity. He became a father, and a
family name which had been originally borne by a courtier of the elder
Stuarts was now bestowed on the future lord of Princedown.
Lady Montfort herself had no thought but her husband. His happiness, his
enjoyment of existence, his success and power in life, entirely absorbed
her. The anxiety which she felt that in everything he should be master
was touching. Once looked upon as the most imperious of women, she would
not give a direction on any matter without his opinion and sanction. One
would have supposed from what might be observed under their roof, that
she was some beautiful but portionless maiden whom Endymion had raised
to wealth and power.
All this time, however, Lady Montfort sedulously maintained that
commanding position in social politics for which she was singularly
fitted. Indeed, in that respect, she had no rival. She received the
world with the same constancy and splendour, as if she were the wife of
a minister. Animated by Waldershare, Lady Beaumaris maintained in this
respect a certain degree of rivalry. She was the only hope and refuge of
the Tories, and rich, attractive, and popular, her competition could not
be disregarded. But Lord Beaumaris was a little freakish. Sometimes he
would sail in his yacht to odd places, and was at Algiers or in Egypt
when, according to Tadpole, he ought to have been at Piccadilly Terrace.
Then he occasionally got crusty about his hunting. He would hunt,
whatever were the political consequences, but whether he were in Africa
or Leicestershire, Imogene must be with him. He could not exist without
her constant presence. There was something in her gentleness, combined
with her quick and ready sympathy and playfulness of mind and manner,
which alike pleased and soothed his life.
The Whigs tottered on for a year after the rude assault of Cardinal
Penruddock, but they were doomed, and the Protectionists were called
upon to form an administration. As they had no one in their ranks who
had ever been in office except their chief, who was in the House of
Lords, the affair seemed impossible. The attempt, however, could not be
avoided. A dozen men, without the slightest experience of official life,
had to be sworn in as privy councillors, before even they could receive
the seals and insignia of their intended offices. On their knees,
according to the constitutional custom, a dozen men, all in the act
of genuflexion at the same moment, and headed, too, by one of the most
powerful peers in the country, the Lord of Alnwick Castle himself,
humbled themselves before a female Sovereign, who looked serene and
imperturbable before a spectacle never seen before, and which, in all
probability, will never be seen again.
One of this band, a gentleman without any official experience whatever,
was not only placed in the cabinet, but was absolutely required to
become the leader of the House of Commons, which had never occurred
before, except in the instance of Mr. Pitt in 1782. It has been said
that it was unwise in the Protectionists assuming office when, on this
occasion and on subsequent ones, they were far from being certain of
a majority in the House of Commons. It should, however, be remembered,
that unless they had dared these ventures, they never could have formed
a body of men competent, from their official experience and their
practice in debate, to form a ministry. The result has rather proved
that they were right. Had they continued to refrain from incurring
responsibility, they must have broken up and merged in different
connections, which, for a party numerically so strong as the
Protectionists, would have been a sorry business, and probably have led
to disastrous results.
Mr. Bertie Tremaine having been requested to call on the Protectionist
prime minister, accordingly repaired to headquarters with the list
of his colleagues in his pocket. He was offered for himself a post of
little real importance, but which secured to him the dignity of the
privy council. Mr. Tremaine Bertie and several of his friends had
assembled at his house, awaiting with anxiety his return. He had to
communicate to them that he had been offered a privy councillor’s post,
and to break to them that it was not proposed to provide for any other
member of his party. Their indignation was extreme; but they naturally
supposed that he had rejected the offer to himself with becoming scorn.
Their leader, however, informed them that he had not felt it his duty
to be so peremptory. They should remember that the recognition of their
political status by such an offer to their chief was a considerable
event. For his part, he had for some time been painfully aware that the
influence of the House of Commons in the constitutional scheme was fast
waning, and that the plan of Sir William Temple for the reorganisation
of the privy council, and depositing in it the real authority of the
State, was that to which we should be obliged to have recourse. This
offer to him of a seat in the council was, perhaps, the beginning of
the end. It was a crisis; they must look to seats in the privy council,
which, under Sir William Temple’s plan, would be accompanied with
ministerial duties and salaries. What they had all, at one time, wished,
had not exactly been accomplished, but he had felt it his duty to
his friends not to shrink from responsibility. So he had accepted the
minister’s offer.
Mr. Bertie Tremaine was not long in the busy enjoyment of his easy post.
Then the country was governed for two years by all its ablest men, who,
by the end of that term, had succeeded, by their coalesced genius, in
reducing that country to a state of desolation and despair. “I did not
think it would have lasted even so long,” said Lady Montfort; “but then
I was acquainted with their mutual hatreds and their characteristic
weaknesses. What is to happen now? Somebody must be found of commanding
private character and position, and with as little damaged a public one
as in this wreck of reputations is possible. I see nobody but Sidney
Wilton. Everybody likes him, and he is the only man who could bring
people together.”
And everybody seemed to be saying the same thing at the same time. The
name of Sidney Wilton was in everybody’s mouth. It was unfortunate that
he had been a member of a defunct ministry, but then it had always been
understood that he had always disapproved of all their measures. There
was not the slightest evidence of this, but everybody chose to believe
it.
Sidney Wilton was chagrined with life, and had become a martyr to the
gout, which that chagrin had aggravated; but he was a great gentleman,
and too chivalric to refuse a royal command when the Sovereign was
in distress. Sidney Wilton became Premier, and the first colleague
he recommended to fill the most important post after his own, the
Secretaryship of State for Foreign Affairs, was Mr. Ferrars.
“It ought to last ten years,” said Lady Montfort. “I see no danger
except his health. I never knew a man so changed. At his time of life
five years ought to make no difference in a man. I cannot believe he
is the person who used to give us those charming parties at Gaydene.
Whatever you may say, Endymion, I feel convinced that something must
have passed between your sister and him. Neither of them ever gave me a
hint of such a matter, or of the possibility of its ever happening, but
feminine instinct assures me that something took place. He always had
the gout, and his ancestors have had the gout for a couple of centuries;
and all prime ministers have the gout. I dare say you will not escape,
darling, but I hope it will never make you look as if you had just lost
paradise, or, what would be worst, become the last man.”
Lady Montfort was right. The ministry was strong and it was popular.
There were no jealousies in it; every member was devoted to his chief,
and felt that he was rightly the chief, whereas, as Lady Montfort said,
the Whigs never had a ministry before in which there were not at least a
couple of men who had been prime ministers, and as many more who thought
they ought to be.
There were years of war, and of vast and critical negotiations. Ferrars
was equal to the duties, for he had much experience, and more thought,
and he was greatly aided by the knowledge of affairs, and the clear and
tranquil judgment of the chief minister. There was only one subject on
which there was not between them that complete and cordial unanimity
which was so agreeable and satisfactory. And even in this case, there
was no difference of opinion, but rather of sentiment and feeling.
It was when Prince Florestan expressed his desire to join the
grand alliance, and become our active military ally. It was perhaps
impossible, under any circumstances, for the Powers to refuse such
an offer, but Endymion was strongly in favour of accepting it. It
consolidated our interests in a part of Europe where we required
sympathy and support, and it secured for us the aid and influence of the
great Liberal party of the continent as distinguished from the secret
societies and the socialist republicans. The Count of Ferroll, also,
whose opinion weighed much with Her Majesty’s Government, was decidedly
in favour of the combination. The English prime minister listened to
their representations frigidly; it was difficult to refute the arguments
which were adverse to his own feelings, and to resist the unanimous
opinion not only of his colleagues, but of our allies. But he was cold
and silent, or made discouraging remarks.
“Can you trust him?” he would say. “Remember he himself has been, and
still is, a member of the very secret societies whose baneful influence
we are now told he will neutralise or subdue. Whatever the cabinet
decides, and I fear that with this strong expression of opinion on the
part of our allies we have little option left, remember I gave you my
warning. I know the gentleman, and I do not trust him.”
After this, the prime minister had a most severe attack of the gout,
remained for weeks at Gaydene, and saw no one on business except
Endymion and Baron Sergius.
While the time is elapsing which can alone decide whether the distrust
of Mr. Wilton were well-founded or the reverse, let us see how the world
is treating the rest of our friends.
Lord Waldershare did not make such a pattern husband as Endymion, but
he made a much better one than the world ever supposed he would. Had he
married Berengaria, the failure would have been great; but he was united
to a being capable of deep affection and very sensitive, yet grateful
for kindness from a husband to a degree not easily imaginable. And
Waldershare had really a good heart, though a bad temper, and he was
a gentleman. Besides, he had a great admiration and some awe of his
father-in-law, and Lord Hainault, with his good-natured irony, and
consummate knowledge of men and things, quite controlled him. With
Lady Hainault he was a favourite. He invented plausible theories and
brilliant paradoxes for her, which left her always in a state of charmed
wonder, and when she met him again, and adopted or refuted them, for her
intellectual power was considerable, he furnished her with fresh dogmas
and tenets, which immediately interested her intelligence, though she
generally forgot to observe that they were contrary to the views and
principles of the last visit. Between Adriana and Imogene there was
a close alliance, and Lady Beaumaris did everything in her power to
develop Lady Waldershare advantageously before her husband; and so,
not forgetting that Waldershare, with his romance, and imagination, and
fancy, and taste, and caprice, had a considerable element of worldliness
in his character, and that he liked to feel that, from living in
lodgings, he had become a Monte Cristo, his union with Adriana may be
said to be a happy and successful one.
The friendship between Sir Peter Vigo and his brother M.P., Mr.
Rodney, never diminished, and Mr. Rodney became richer every year. He
experienced considerable remorse at sitting in opposition to the son
of his right honourable friend, the late William Pitt Ferrars, and
frequently consulted Sir Peter on his embarrassment and difficulty. Sir
Peter, who never declined arranging any difficulty, told his friend
to be easy, and that he, Sir Peter, saw his way. It became gradually
understood, that if ever the government was in difficulties, Mr.
Rodney’s vote might be counted on. He was peculiarly situated, for, in a
certain sense, his friend the Right Honourable William Pitt Ferrars had
entrusted the guardianship of his child to his care. But whenever the
ministry was not in danger, the ministry must not depend upon his vote.
Trenchard had become Secretary of the Treasury in the Wilton
administration, had established his reputation, and was looked upon as
a future minister. Jawett, without forfeiting his post and promotion
at Somerset House, had become the editor of a new periodical magazine,
called the “Privy Council.” It was established and maintained by Mr.
Bertie Tremaine, and was chiefly written by that gentleman himself. It
was full of Greek quotations, to show that it was not Grub Street, and
written in a style as like that of Sir William Temple, as a paper in
“Rejected Addresses” might resemble the classic lucubrations of the
statesman-sage who, it is hoped, will be always remembered by a grateful
country for having introduced into these islands the Moor Park apricot.
What the pages of the “Privy Council” meant no human being had the
slightest conception except Mr. Tremaine Bertie.
Mr. Thornberry remained a respected member of the cabinet. It was
thought his presence there secured the sympathies of advanced Liberalism
throughout the country; but that was a tradition rather than a fact.
Statesmen in high places are not always so well acquainted with the
changes and gradations of opinion in political parties at home as they
are with those abroad. We hardly mark the growth of the tree we see
every day. Mr. Thornberry had long ceased to be popular with his former
friends, and the fact that he had become a minister was one of the
causes of this change of feeling. That was unreasonable, but in politics
unreasonable circumstances are elements of the problem to be solved.
It was generally understood that, on the next election, Mr. Thornberry
would have to look out for another seat; his chief constituents, those
who are locally styled the leaders of the party, were still faithful to
him, for they were proud of having a cabinet minister for their member,
to be presented by him at court, and occasionally to dine with him; but
the “masses,” who do not go to court, and are never asked to dinner,
required a member who would represent their whims, and it was quite
understood that, on the very first occasion, this enlightened community
had resolved to send up to Westminster--Mr. Enoch Craggs.
It is difficult to say, whether in his private life Job found affairs
altogether more satisfactory than in his public. His wife had joined the
Roman Communion. An ingrained perverseness which prevented his son
from ever willingly following the advice or example of his parents, had
preserved John Hampden in the Anglican faith, but he had portraits of
Laud and Strafford over his mantelpiece, and embossed in golden letters
on a purple ground the magical word “THOROUGH.” His library chiefly
consisted of the “Tracts for the Times,” and a colossal edition of
the Fathers gorgeously bound. He was a very clever fellow, this young
Thornberry, a natural orator, and was leader of the High Church party in
the Oxford Union. He brought home his friends occasionally to Hurstley,
and Job had the opportunity of becoming acquainted with a class and
school of humanity--with which, notwithstanding his considerable
experience of life, he had no previous knowledge--young gentlemen,
apparently half-starved and dressed like priests, and sometimes an
enthusiastic young noble, in much better physical condition, and in
costume becoming a cavalier, ready to raise the royal standard at
Edgehill. What a little annoyed Job was that his son always addressed
him as “Squire,” a habit even pedantically followed by his companions.
He was, however, justly entitled to this ancient and reputable honour,
for Job had been persuaded to purchase Hurstley, was a lord of several
thousand acres, and had the boar’s head carried in procession at
Christmas in his ancient hall. It is strange, but he was rather
perplexed than annoyed by all these marvellous metamorphoses in his life
and family. His intelligence was as clear as ever, and his views on all
subjects unchanged; but he was, like many other men, governed at home by
his affections. He preferred the new arrangement, if his wife and
family were happy and contented, to a domestic system founded on his own
principles, accompanied by a sullen or shrewish partner of his own life
and rebellious offspring.
What really vexed him, among comparatively lesser matters, was
the extraordinary passion which in time his son exhibited for
game-preserving. He did at last interfere on this matter, but in vain.
John Hampden announced that he did not value land if he was only to look
at it, and that sport was the patriotic pastime of an English gentleman.
“You used in old days never to be satisfied with what I got out of the
land,” said the old grandfather to Job, with a little amiable malice;
“there is enough, at any rate now for the hares and rabbits, but I doubt
for anybody else.”
We must not forget our old friend St. Barbe. Whether he had written
himself out or had become lazy in the luxurious life in which he now
indulged, he rarely appealed to the literary public, which still admired
him. He was, by way of intimating that he was engaged in a great work,
which, though written in his taking prose, was to be really the epogee
of social life in this country. Dining out every day, and ever arriving,
however late, at those “small and earlies,” which he once despised;
he gave to his friends frequent intimations that he was not there for
pleasure, but rather following his profession; he was in his studio,
observing and reflecting on all the passions and manners of mankind, and
gathering materials for the great work which was eventually to enchant
and instruct society, and immortalise his name.
“The fact is, I wrote too early,” he would say. “I blush when I read my
own books, though compared with those of the brethren, they might still
be looked on as classics. They say no artist can draw a camel, and I say
no author ever drew a gentleman. How can they, with no opportunity of
ever seeing one? And so with a little caricature of manners, which
they catch second-hand, they are obliged to have recourse to outrageous
nonsense, as if polished life consisted only of bigamists, and that
ladies of fashion were in the habit of paying black mail to returned
convicts. However, I shall put an end to all this. I have now got the
materials, or am accumulating them daily. You hint that I give myself up
too much to society. You are talking of things you do not understand. A
dinner party is a chapter. I catch the Cynthia of the minute, sir, at
a _soiree_. If I only served a grateful country, I should be in the
proudest position of any of its sons; if I had been born in any country
but this, I should have been decorated, and perhaps made secretary of
state like Addison, who did not write as well as I do, though his style
somewhat resembles mine.”
Notwithstanding these great plans, it came in time to Endymion’s ear,
that poor St. Barbe was in terrible straits. Endymion delicately helped
him and then obtained for him a pension, and not an inconsiderable one.
Relieved from anxiety, St. Barbe resumed his ancient and natural vein.
He passed his days in decrying his friend and patron, and comparing his
miserable pension with the salary of a secretary of state, who, so
far as his experience went, was generally a second-rate man. Endymion,
though he knew St. Barbe was always decrying him, only smiled, and
looked upon it all as the necessary consequence of his organisation,
which involved a singular combination of vanity and envy in the
highest degree. St. Barbe was not less a guest in Carlton Terrace than
heretofore, and was even kindly invited to Princedown to profit by the
distant sea-breeze. Lady Montfort, whose ears some of his pranks had
reached, was not so tolerant as her husband. She gave him one day her
views of his conduct. St. Barbe was always a little afraid of her,
and on this occasion entirely lost himself; vented the most solemn
affirmations that there was not a grain of truth in these charges;
that he was the victim, as he had been all his life, of slander and
calumny--the sheer creatures of envy, and then began to fawn upon his
hostess, and declared that he had ever thought there was something
godlike in the character of her husband.
“And what is there in yours, Mr. St. Barbe?” asked Lady Montfort.
The ministry had lasted several years; its foreign policy had been
successful; it had triumphed in war and secured peace. The military
conduct of the troops of King Florestan had contributed to these
results, and the popularity of that sovereign in England was for a
foreigner unexampled. During this agitated interval, Endymion and Myra
had met more than once through the providential medium of those favoured
spots of nature--German baths.
There had arisen a public feeling, that the ally who had served us so
well should be invited to visit again a country wherein he had so long
sojourned, and where he was so much appreciated. The only evidence that
the Prime Minister gave that he was conscious of this feeling was an
attack of gout. Endymion himself, though in a difficult and rather
painful position in this matter, did everything to shield and protect
his chief, but the general sentiment became so strong, sanctioned too,
as it was understood, in the highest quarter, that it could no longer
be passed by unnoticed; and, in due time, to the great delight and
satisfaction of the nation, an impending visit from our faithful ally
King Florestan and his beautiful wife, Queen Myra, was authoritatively
announced.
Every preparation was made to show them honour. They were the guests of
our Sovereign; but from the palace which they were to inhabit, to the
humblest tenement in the meanest back street, there was only one feeling
of gratitude, and regard, and admiration. The English people are the
most enthusiastic people in the world; there are other populations which
are more excitable, but there is no nation, when it feels, where the
sentiment is so profound and irresistible.
The hour arrived. The season and the weather were favourable. From the
port where they landed to their arrival at the metropolis, the whole
country seemed poured out into the open air; triumphal arches, a way
of flags and banners, and bits of bunting on every hovel. The King and
Queen were received at the metropolitan station by Princes of the blood,
and accompanied to the palace, where the great officers of state and
the assembled ministry were gathered together to do them honour. A great
strain was thrown upon Endymion throughout these proceedings, as the
Prime Minister, who had been suffering the whole season, and rarely
present in his seat in parliament, was, at this moment, in his worst
paroxysm. He could not therefore be present at the series of balls
and banquets, and brilliant public functions, which greeted the royal
guests. Their visit to the City, when they dined with the Lord Mayor,
and to which they drove in royal carriages through a sea of population
tumultuous with devotion, was the most gratifying of all these splendid
receptions, partly from the associations of mysterious power and
magnificence connected with the title and character of LORD MAYOR.
The Duke of St. Angelo, the Marquis of Vallombrosa, and the Prince of
Montserrat, quite lost their presence of mind. Even the Princess of
Montserrat, with more quarterings on her own side than any house in
Europe, confessed that she trembled when Her Serene Highness courtesied
before the Lady Mayoress. Perhaps, however, the most brilliant, the most
fanciful, infinitely the most costly entertainment that was given on
this memorable occasion, was the festival at Hainault. The whole route
from town to the forest was lined with thousands, perhaps hundreds
of thousands, of spectators; a thousand guests were received at the
banquet, and twelve palaces were raised by that true magician, Mr.
Benjamin Edgington, in the park, for the countless visitors in the
evening. At night the forest was illuminated. Everybody was glad except
Lady Hainault, who sighed, and said, “I have no doubt the Queen would
have preferred her own room, and that we should have had a quiet dinner,
as in old days, in the little Venetian parlour.”
When Endymion returned home at night, he found a summons to Gaydene; the
Prime Minister being, it was feared, in a dangerous state.
The next day, late in the afternoon, there was a rumour that the Prime
Minister had resigned. Then it was authoritatively contradicted, and
then at night another rumour rose that the minister had resigned, but
that the resignation would not be accepted until after the termination
of the royal visit. The King and Queen had yet to remain a short week.
The fact is, the resignation had taken place, but it was known only
to those who then could not have imparted the intelligence. The public
often conjectures the truth, though it clothes its impression or
information in the vague shape of a rumour. In four-and-twenty hours
the great fact was authoritatively announced in all the journals,
with leading articles speculating on the successor to the able and
accomplished minister of whose services the Sovereign and the country
were so unhappily deprived. Would his successor be found in his own
cabinet? And then several names were mentioned; Rawchester, to Lady
Montfort’s disgust. Rawchester was a safe man, and had had much
experience, which, as with most safe men, probably left him as wise
and able as before he imbibed it. Would there be altogether a change of
parties? Would the Protectionists try again? They were very strong, but
always in a minority, like some great continental powers, who have the
finest army in the world, and yet get always beaten. Would that band of
self-admiring geniuses, who had upset every cabinet with whom they were
ever connected, return on the shoulders of the people, as they always
dreamed, though they were always the persons of whom the people never
seemed to think?
Lady Montfort was in a state of passive excitement. She was quite pale,
and she remained quite pale for hours. She would see no one. She sat
in Endymion’s room, and never spoke, while he continued writing and
transacting his affairs. She thought she was reading the “Morning
Post,” but really could not distinguish the advertisements from leading
articles.
There was a knock at the library door, and the groom of the chambers
brought in a note for Endymion. He glanced at the handwriting of the
address, and then opened it, as pale as his wife. Then he read it again,
and then he gave it to her. She threw her eyes over it, and then her
arms around his neck.
“Order my brougham at three o’clock.”
CHAPTER CI
Endymion was with his sister.
“How dear of you to come to me,” she said, “when you cannot have a
moment to yourself.”
“Well, you know,” he replied, “it is not like forming a government. That
is an affair. I have reason to think all my colleagues will remain with
me. I shall summon them for this afternoon, and if we agree, affairs
will go on as before. I should like to get down to Gaydene to-night.”
“To-night!” said the queen musingly. “We have only one day left, and I
wanted you to do something for me.”
“It shall be done, if possible; I need not say that.”
“It is not difficult to do, if we have time--if we have to-morrow
morning, and early. But if you go to Gaydene you will hardly return
to-night, and I shall lose my chance,--and yet it is to me a business
most precious.”
“It shall be managed; tell me then.”
“I learnt that Hill Street is not occupied at this moment. I want to
visit the old house with you, before I leave England, probably for
ever. I have only got the early morn to-morrow, but with a veil and your
brougham, I think we might depart unobserved, before the crowd begins to
assemble. Do you think you could be here at nine o’clock?”
So it was settled, and being hurried, he departed.
And next morning he was at the palace before nine o’clock; and the
queen, veiled, entered his brougham. There were already some loiterers,
but the brother and sister passed through the gates unobserved.
They reached Hill Street. The queen visited all the principal rooms, and
made many remarks appropriate to many memories. “But,” she said, “it
was not to see these rooms I came, though I was glad to do so, and
the corridor on the second story whence I called out to you when you
returned, and for ever, from Eton, and told you there was bad news. What
I came for was to see our old nursery, where we lived so long together,
and so fondly! Here it is; here we are. All I have desired, all I have
dreamed, have come to pass. Darling, beloved of my soul, by all our
sorrows, by all our joys, in this scene of our childhood and bygone
days, let me give you my last embrace.”