When L'Estrange and his sister arrived at Castello, on the morning after
the scene of our last chapter, it was to discover that the family had
gone off early to visit the mine of Lisconnor, where they were to dine,
and not return till late in the evening.
Colonel Bramleigh alone remained behind. A number of important letters
which had come by that morning's post detained him; but he had pledged
himself to follow the party, and join them at dinner, if he could finish
his correspondence in time.
George and Julia turned away from the door, and were slowly retracing
their road homeward, when a servant came running after them to say that
Colonel Bramleigh begged Mr. L'Estrange would come back for a moment;
that he had something of consequence to say to him.
“I'll stroll about the shrubberies, George, till you join me,” said
Julia. “Who knows it may not be a farewell look I may be taking of these
dear old scenes.”
George nodded, half mournfully, and followed the servant towards the
library.
In his ordinary and every-day look, no man ever seemed a more perfect
representative of worldly success and prosperity than Colonel Bramleigh.
He was personally what would be called handsome, had a high bold
forehead, and large gray eyes, well set and shaded by strong full
eyebrows, so regular in outline and so correctly defined as to give a
half-suspicion that art had been called to the assistance of nature.
He was ruddy and fresh-looking, with an erect carriage, and that air
of general confidence that seemed to declare he knew himself to be a
favorite of fortune, and gloried in the distinction.
“I can do scores of things others must not venture upon,” was a common
saying of his. “I can trust to my luck,” was almost a maxim with him.
And in reality, if the boast was somewhat vainglorious, it was not
without foundation; a marvellous, almost unerring, success attended him
through life. Enterprises that were menaced with ruin and bankruptcy
would rally from the hour that he joined them, and schemes of fortune
that men deemed half desperate would, under his guidance, grow into safe
and profitable speculations. Others might equal him in intelligence,
in skill, in ready resource and sudden expedient; but he had not one to
rival him in luck. It is strange enough that the hard business mind, the
men of realism _par excellence_, can recognize such a thing as fortune;
but so it is, there are none so prone to believe in this quality as the
people of finance. The spirit of the gambler is, in fact, the spirit of
commercial enterprise, and the “odds” are as carefully calculated in
the counting-house as in the betting-ring. Seen as he came into the
breakfast room of a morning, with the fresh flush of exercise on his
cheek, or as he appeared in the drawing-room, before dinner, with that
air of ease and enjoyment that marked all his courtesy, one would have
said, “There is one certainly with whom the world goes well.” There were
caustic, invidious people, who hinted that Bramleigh deserved but little
credit for that happy equanimity and that buoyant spirit which sustained
him. They said, “He has never had a reverse; wait till he be tried.”
And the world had waited and waited, and to all seeming the eventful
hour had not come; for there he was, a little balder, perhaps, a stray
gray hair in his whiskers, and somewhat portlier in his presence, but,
on the whole, pretty much what men had known him to be for fifteen or
twenty years back.
Upon none did the well-to-do, blooming, and prosperous rich man produce
a more powerful impression than on the young curate, who, young,
vigorous, handsome as he was, could yet never sufficiently emerge from
the _res angusto domi_ to feel the ease and confidence that come of
affluence.
What a shock was it then to L'Estrange, as he entered the library, to
see the man whom he had ever beheld as the type of till that was happy
and healthful and prosperous, haggard and careworn, his hand tremulous,
and his manner abrupt and uncertain, with a certain furtive dread at
moments, followed by outbursts of passionate defiance, as though he were
addressing himself to others besides him who was then before him.
Though on terms of cordial intimacy with the curate, and always
accustomed to call him by his name, he received him as he entered the
room with a cold and formal politeness, apologized for having taken the
liberty to send after and recall him, and ceremoniously requested him to
be seated.
“We were sorry you and Miss L'Estrange could not join the picnic
to-day,” said Bramleigh; “though, to be sure, it is scarcely the season
yet for such diversions.”
L'Estrange felt the awkwardness of saying that they had not been
invited, and muttered something not very intelligible about the
uncertainty of the weather.
“I meant to have gone over myself,” said Bramleigh, hurriedly; “but all
these,”--and he swept his hand, as he spoke, through a mass of letters
on the table,--“all these have come since morning, and I am not half
through them yet. What 's that the moralist says about calling no man
happy till he dies? I often think one cannot speculate upon a pleasant
day till after the post-hour.”
“I know very little of either the pains or pleasures of the letter-bag.
I have almost no correspondence.”
“How I envy you!” cried he, fervently.
“I don't imagine that mine is a lot many would be found to envy,” said
L'Estrange, with a gentle smile.
“The old story, of course. 'Qui fit, Maecenas, ut Nemo'--I forget my
Horace--'ut Nemo; how does it go?”
“Yes, sir. But I never said I was discontented with my lot in my life. I
only remarked that I did n't think that others would envy it.”
“I have it,--I have it,” continued Bramleigh, following out his
own train of thought,--“I have it. 'Ut Nemo, quam sibi sortem sit
coutentus.' It's a matter of thirty odd years since I saw that passage,
L'Estrange, and I can't imagine what could have brought it so forcibly
before me to-day.”
“Certainly it could not have been any application to yourself,” said
the curate, politely.
“How do you mean, sir?” cried Bramleigh, almost fiercely. “How do you
mean?”
“I mean, sir, that few men have less cause for discontent with
fortune.”
“How can _you_--how can any man, presume to say that of another!” said
Bramleigh, in a loud and defiant tone, as he arose and paced the room.
“Who can tell what passes in his neighbor's house, still less in his
heart or his head? What do I know, as I listen to your discourse on a
Sunday, of the terrible conflict of doubts that have beset you during
the week--heresies that have swarmed around you like the vipers and
hideous reptiles that gathered around St. Anthony, and that, banished in
one shape, came back in another? How do I know what compromises you
may have made with your conscience before you come to utter to me your
eternal truths; and how you may have said, 'If he can believe all this,
so much the better for him'--eh?”
He turned fiercely round, as if to demand an answer; and the curate
modestly said, “I hope it is not so that men preach the gospel.”
“And yet many must preach in that fashion,” said Bramleigh, with a
deep but subdued earnestness. “I take it that no man's convictions are
without a flaw somewhere, and it is not by parading that flaw he will
make converts.”
L'Estrange did not feel disposed to follow him into this thesis, and sat
silent and motionless.
“I suppose,” muttered Bramleigh, as he folded his arms and walked the
room with slow steps, “it's all expediency,--all! We do the best we can,
and hope it may be enough. You are a good man, L'Estrange--”
“Far from it, sir. I feel, and feel very bitterly, too, my own
unworthiness,” said the curate, with an intense sincerity of voice.
“I think you so far good that you are not worldly. You would not do a
mean thing, an ignoble, a dishonest thing; you would n't take what was
not your own, nor defraud another of what was his,--would you?”
“Perhaps not; I hope not.”
“And yet that is saying a great deal. I may have my doubts whether
that penknife be mine or not. Some one may come to-morrow or next day to
claim it as his, and describe it, Heaven knows how rightly or wrongly.
No matter, he 'll say he owns it. Would you, sir,--I ask you now simply
as a Christian man, I am not speaking to a casuist or a lawyer,--would
you, sir, at once, just as a measure of peace to your own conscience,
say, 'Let him take,' rather than burden your heart with a discussion for
which you had no temper nor taste? That's the question I 'd like to ask
you. Can you answer it? I see you cannot,” cried he, rapidly. “I see at
once how you want to go off into a thousand subtleties, and instead of
resolving my one doubt, surround me with a legion of others.”
“If I know anything about myself I 'm not much of a casuist; I haven't
the brains for it,” said L'Estrange, with a sad smile.
“Ay, there it is. That 's the humility of Satan's own making; that's the
humility that exclaims, 'I'm only honest. I 'm no genius. Heaven has not
made me great or gifted. I 'm simply a poor creature, right-minded and
pure-hearted.' As if there was anything,--as if there could be anything
so exalted as this same purity.”
“But I never said that; I never presumed to say so,” said the other,
modestly.
“And if you rail against riches, and tell me that wealth is a snare and
a pitfall, what do you mean by telling me that my reverse of fortune
is a chastisement? Why, sir, by your own theory it ought to be a
blessing,--a positive blessing; so that if I were turned out of this
princely house to-morrow, branded as a pretender and an impostor, I
should go forth better,--not only better, but happier. Ay, that's the
point; happier than I ever was as the lord of these broad acres!” As he
spoke he tore his cravat from his throat, as though it were strangling
him by its pressure, and now walked the room, carrying the neckcloth in
his hand, while the veins in his throat stood out full and swollen like
a tangled cordage.
L'Estrange was so much frightened by the wild voice and wilder gesture
of the man, that he could not utter a word in reply.
Bramleigh now came over, and leaning his hand on the other's shoulder,
in a tone of kind and gentle meaning, said,--
“It is not your fault, my dear friend, that you are illogical and
unreasonable. You are obliged to defend a thesis you do not understand,
by arguments you cannot measure. The armory of the Church has not a
weapon that has not figured in the Middle Ages; and what are you to do
with halberds and cross-bows in a time of rifles and revolvers! If a
man, like myself, burdened with a heavy weight on his heart, had gone to
his confessor in olden times, he would probably have heard, if not words
of comfort, something to enlighten, to instruct, and to guide him. Now
what can you give me? tell me that? I want to hear by what subtleties
the Church can reconcile me not to do what I ought to do, and yet not
quarrel with my own conscience. Can you help me to that?”
L'Estrange shook his head in dissent.
“I suppose it is out of some such troubles as mine that men come to
change their religion.” He paused; and then bursting into a laugh, said,
“You hear that the other bank deals more liberally,--asks a smaller
commission, and gives you a handsomer interest,--and you accordingly
transfer your account. I believe that's the whole of it.”
“I will not say you have stated the case fairly,” said. L'Estrange;
but so faintly as to show that he was far from eager to continue the
discussion, and he arose to take his leave.
“You are going already? and I have not spoken to you one word
about,--what was it? Can you remember what it was? Something that
related personally to yourself.”
“Perhaps I can guess, sir. It was the mine at Liscon-nor, probably? You
were kind enough the other day to arrange my securing some shares in the
undertaking. Since that, however, I have heard a piece of news which may
affect my whole future career. There has been some report made by the
Commissioner about the parish.”
“That's it, that 's it. They 're going to send you off, L'Estrange. They
're going to draft you to a cathedral, and make a prebendary of you.
You are to be on the staff of an archbishop,--a sort of Christian
unattached. Do you like the prospect?”
“Not at all, sir. To begin, I am a very poor man, and could ill bear the
cost of life this might entail.”
“Your sister would probably be pleased with the change; a gayer place,
more life, more movement.”
“I suspect my sister reconciles herself to dulness even better than
myself.”
“Girls do that occasionally; patience is a female virtue.”
There was a slight pause; and now L'Estrange, drawing a long breath, as
if preparing himself for a great effort, said,--
“It was to speak to you, sir, about that very matter, and to ask your
assistance, that I came up here this day.”
“I wish I were a bishop, for your sake, my dear friend.”
“I know well, sir, I can count upon your kind interest in me, and I
believe that an opportunity now offers--”
“What is it? where is it?”
“At Rome, sir; or rather near Rome,--a place called Albano. They want a
chaplain there.”
“But you're not a Catholic priest, L'Estrange.”
“No, sir. It is an English community that wants a parson.”
“I see; and you think this would suit you?”
“There are some great attractions about it; the country, the climate,
and the sort of life, all have a certain fascination for me, and Julia
is most eager about it.”
“The young lady has ambition,” muttered Bramleigh to himself. “But what
can _I_ do, L'Estrange? _I_ don't own a rood of land at Albano. I have
n't a villa,--not even a fig-tree there. I could subscribe to the church
fund, if there be such a thing; I could qualify for the franchise, and
give you a vote, if that would be of service.”
“You could do better, sir. You could give me a letter to Lady Augusta,
whose influence, I believe, is all powerful.”
For a moment Bramleigh stared at him fixedly, and then sinking slowly
into a chair, he leaned his head on his hand, and seemed lost in
thought. The name of Lady Augusta had brought up before him a long train
of events and possible consequences, which soon led him far away from
the parson and all his cares. From her debts, her extravagances, her
change of religion, and her suggestion of separation, he went back to
his marriage with her, and even to his first meeting. Strange chain of
disasters from beginning to end. A bad investment in every way. It paid
nothing. It led to nothing.
“I hope, sir,” said L'Estrange, as he gazed at the strange expression
of preoccupation in the other's face,--“I hope, sir, I have not been
indiscreet in my request?”
“What _was_ your request?” asked Colonel Bramleigh, bluntly, and with a
look of almost sternness.
“I had asked you, sir, for a letter to Lady Augusta,” said the curate,
half offended at the manner of the last question.
“A letter to Lady Augusta?” repeated Bramleigh, dwelling on each word,
as though by the effort he could recall to his mind something that had
escaped him.
“I mean, sir, with reference to this appointment,--the chaplaincy,”
interposed L'Estrange; for he was offended at the hesitation, which
he thought implied reluctance or disinclination on Colonel Bramleigh's
part, and he hastened to show that it was not any claim he was
preferring to her ladyship's acquaintance, but simply his desire to
obtain her interest in his behalf.
“Influence! influence!” repeated Bramleigh to himself. “I have no doubt
she has influence; such persons generally have. It is one of the
baits that catch them. This little glimpse of power has a marvellous
attraction--and these churchmen know so well how to display all their
seductive arts before the eager eyes of the newly won convert. Yes, I
am sure you are right, sir; Lady Augusta is one most likely to have
influence--you shall have the letter you wish for. I do not say I will
write it to-day, for I have a heavy press of correspondence before me;
but if you will come up to-morrow, by luncheon time, or to dinner--why
not dine here?”
“I think I 'd rather come up early, sir.”
“Well, then, early be it. I 'll have the letter for you. I wish I could
remember something I know I had to say to you. What was it? What was it?
Nothing of much consequence, perhaps; but still I feel as if--eh--don't
you feel so too?”
“I have not the slightest clew, sir, to what you mean.”
“It wasn't about the mine,--no. I think you see your way _there_ clearly
enough. It may be a good thing, or it may not. Cutbill is like the rest
of them; not a greater rogue, perhaps, nor need he be. They _are_ such
shrewd fellows; and as the money is your sister's,--trust money, too,--I
declare, I'd be cautious.”
L'Estrange mumbled some words of assent; he saw that Bramleigh's manner
betokened exhaustion and weariness, and he was eager to be gone. “Till
to-morrow, then, sir,” said he, moving to the door.
“You 'll not dine with us? I think you might, though,” muttered
Bramleigh, half to himself. “I'm sure Culduff would make no show of
awkwardness, nor would your sister, either--women never do. But do just
what you like; my head is aching so, I believe I must lie down for an
hour or two. Do you pass Belton's?”
“I could without any inconvenience. Do you want him?”
“I fancy I 'd do well to see him; he said something of cupping me the
last day he was here,--would you mind telling him to give me a call?”
“May I come up in the evening, sir, and see how you are?”
“In the evening? this evening?” cried Bramleigh, in a harsh, discordant
voice. “Why, good heavens, sir! have a little, a very little discretion.
You have been here since eleven. I marked the clock. It was not full
five minutes after eleven, when you came in,--it's now past one. Two
mortal hours, and you ask me if you may return this evening; and I
reply, sir, distinctly--No! Is that intelligible? I say no!” As he
spoke he turned away, and the curate, covered with shame and confusion,
hastened out of the room, and down the stairs, and out into the open
air, dreading lest he should meet any one, and actually terrified at the
thought of being seen. He plunged into the thickest of the shrubberies,
and it was with a sense of relief he heard from a child that his sister
had gone home some time before, and left word for him to follow her.