The patrons of the English chapel at Albano were the three great leaders
of society in Rome in winter, and at Albano during the summer. Of these
the first was Lady Augusta Bramleigh; next came Sir Marcus Cluff; and
last--not indeed, either in activity or zeal--was Mrs. Trumpler, a
widow lady of considerable fortune, and no small share of energy in her
nature.
To these George L'Estrange had brought formal letters of introduction,
which he was cautiously enjoined should be presented in the order of
their respective ranks--making his first approaches to the Lady Augusta.
To his request to know at what hour he might have the honor to wait on
her Ladyship, came a few lines on the back of his own card, saying,
“Two o'clock, and be punctual.” There did not seem to be any unnecessary
courtesy in this curt intimation; but he dressed himself carefully
for the interview, and with his cravat properly arranged by Julia, who
passed his whole appearance in review, he set out for the pretty Villa
of the Chestnuts, where her Ladyship lived.
“I don't suppose that I'm about to do anything very unworthy, Julia,”
said he, as he bade her good-bye; “but I assure you I feel lower in my
own esteem this morning than I have known myself since--since--”
“Since you tumbled over the sunk fence, perhaps,” said she, laughing,
and turned back into the house.
L'Estrange soon found himself at the gate of the villa, and was
conducted by a servant in deep mourning through a very beautiful garden
to a small kiosk, or summerhouse, where a breakfast-table was spread. He
was punctual to the moment; but as her Ladyship had not yet appeared he
had ample time to admire the beauty of the Sèvres cups of a pale blue,
and the rich carving of the silver service--evidently of antique mould,
and by a master hand. The rare exotics which were disposed on every
side, amongst which some birds of bright plumage were encaged, seemed to
fill up the measure of this luxurious spot, and impressed him with--he
knew not what exalted idea of her who should be its mistress.
He waited at first patiently enough--there was much to interest and
amuse him; but at last, as nigh an hour had elapsed, and she had not
appeared, a feeling, half of irritation at the thought of neglect, and
half doubt lest he should have mistaken what the servant said, began to
worry and distress him. A little pendule on a bracket played a few
bars of a waltz, and struck three. Should he wait any longer? was the
question he put to himself. His sense of shame on leaving home at the
thought of presenting himself before a patron came back upon him now
with redoubled force. He had often felt that the ministers who preached
for a call were submitting themselves to a very unworthy ordeal. The
being judged by those they were appointed to teach seemed in itself
little short of an outrage; but the part he was now playing was
infinitely worse; he had actually come to show himself, to see if, when
looked at and talked to, her Ladyship would condescend to be his patron,
and as it were to impress the indignity more strongly upon him he was
kept waiting like a lackey!
“I don't think I ought to stoop to this,” muttered he, bitterly, to
himself; and taking a card and a pencil from his pocket, he wrote: “The
Rev. George L'Estrange has waited from two to three o'clock in the hope
of seeing Lady Augusta Bramleigh; he regrets the disappointment, as well
as his inability to prolong his attendance.” “There,” cried he, aloud, “I
hope that will do!” and he placed the card conspicuously on the table.
“Do what, pray?” said a very soft voice, as a slight figure in deep
mourning swept noiselessly into the kiosk, and taking the card up sat
down without reading it.
One glance showed that the handsome woman before him was Lady Augusta,
and the bashful curate blushed deeply at the awkwardness of his
position.
“Mr. L'Estrange, I presume?” said she, waving her hand to him to be
seated. “And what is your card to do; not represent you, I hope, for I
'd rather see you in person?”
“In my despair of seeing your Ladyship I wrote a line to say--to
say”--and he blundered and stopped short.
“To say you 'd wait no longer,” said she, smiling; “but how touchy you
must be. Don't you know that women have the privilege of unpunctuality?
don't you know it is one of the few prerogatives you men have spared
them? Have you breakfasted?”
“Yes--some hours ago.”
“I forget whether I have not also. I rather think I did take some
coffee. I have been very impatient for your coming. Sit here, please,”
said she, pointing to an armchair beside her own sofa. “I have been
very impatient indeed to see you. I want to hear all about these poor
Bramleighs; you lived beside them, did n't you, and knew them all
intimately? What is this terrible story of their ruin? this claim to
their property? What does it mean? is there really anything in it?”
“It is somewhat of a long story,” began L'Estrange.
“Then don't tell it, I entreat you. Are you married, Mr. L'Estrange?”
“No, madam, I have not that happiness,” said he, smiling at the strange
abruptness of her manner.
“Oh, I am so glad,” she cried; “so glad! I 'm not afraid of a parson,
but I positively dread a parson's wife. The parson has occasionally a
little tolerance for a number of things he does n't exactly like; his
wife never forgives them; and then a woman takes such exact measure of
another woman's meanings, and a man knows nothing about them at all:
that on the whole I 'm delighted you are single, and I fervently trust
you will remain so. Will you promise me as much? will you give me your
word not to marry till I leave this?”
“I need scarcely pledge myself, madam, to that; my narrow fortune binds
me, whether I would or not.”
“And you have your mother with you, haven't you?”
“No, madam; my sister has accompanied me.”
“I wish it had been your mother. I do so like the maternal pride of a
dear old lady in her fine, handsome son. Is n't she vain of you? By
the way, how did your choice fall upon the Church? You look more like a
cavalry officer. I'm certain you ride well.”
“It is, perhaps, the only accomplishment I possess in the world,” said
he, with some warmth of manner.
“I 'm delighted to hear that you 're a horseman. There 's a mare of
mine become perfectly impossible. A stupid creature I took as groom hurt
her mouth with a severe bit, and she rears now at the slightest touch.
Could n't you do something with her? Pray do; and in return I'll
take you some charming rides over the Campagna. There's a little
valley--almost a glen--near this, which I may say I discovered myself.
You mustn't be afraid of bad tongues because you ride out with me. Mrs.
Trumpler will of course take it up. She's odious--perfectly odious. You
have n't seen her yet, but you 'll have to call on her; she contributes
a thousand francs a year to the Church, and must not be neglected. And
then there's old Sir Marcus Cluff--don't forget him; and take care to
remember that his mother was Lady Marion Otley, and don't remember that
his father was Cluff and Gosier, the famous fishmonger. I protest I'm
becoming as scandalous as Mrs. Trumpler herself. And mind that you come
back and tell when you 've seen these people what they said to you, and
what you said to them, and whether they abused me. Come to tea, or, if
you like better, come and dine to-morrow at six, and I 'll call on your
mother in the mean while and ask her--though I 'd rather you 'd come
alone.”
“It is my sister, madam, that is with me,” said he, with great
difficulty refraining from a burst of laughter.
“Well, and I 've said I 'd visit her, though I 'm not fond of women,
and I believe they never like me.”
L'Estrange blundered out some stupid compliment about her having in
recompense abundant admiration from the other sex, and she laughed, and
said, “Perhaps so. Indeed, I believe I am rather a favorite; but with
clever men--not with the fools. You 'll see that _they_ avoid me. And
so,” said she, drawing a deep sigh, “you really can tell me nothing
about these Bramleighs? And all this time I have been reckoning on your
coming to hear everything, and to know about the will. Up to this hour,
I am totally ignorant as to how I am left. Is n't that very dreadful?”
“It is very distressing indeed, madam.”
“The Colonel always said he 'd insert a clause or a something or other
against my marrying again. Can you imagine anything so ungenerous? It's
unchristian, actually unchristian--isn't it?”
A slight gesture seemed to say that he agreed with her; but she was for
once determined to be answered more definitely, and she said, “I'm sure,
as a clergyman, you can say if there's anything in the Bible against my
having another husband?”
“I 'm certain there is not, madam.”
“How nice it is in the Church of Rome that when there 's anything
you want to do, and it's not quite right to do it, you can have a
dispensation--that is, the Pope can make it perfectly moral and proper,
and legal besides. Protestantism is so narrow--terribly narrow. As the
dear Monsignore Balbi said to me the other night, it is a long 'Act of
Parliament against sin.' Was n't that neat? They are so clever!”
“I am so new to Italy, madam, that I have no acquaintance with these
gentlemen.”
“I know you 'll like them when you do know them; they are so gentle and
so persuasive--I might say so fascinating. I assure you, Mr. L'Estrange,
I ran a very great risk of going over, as it is called. Indeed,
the 'Osservatore Romano' said I had gone over; but that is at least
premature. These are things one cannot do without long and deep
reflection, and intense self-examination--don't you think so? And
the dear old Cardinal Bottesini, who used to come to us every Friday
evening, warned me himself against my impulsiveness; and then poor
Colonel Bramleigh”--here she raised her handkerchief to her eyes--“he
would n't hear of it at all; he was so devotedly attached to me--it was
positive love in a man of his mould--that the thought of my being lost
to him, as he called it, was maddening; and in fact he--he made it
downright impossible--impossible!” And at last she paused, and a very
painful expression in her face showed that her thoughts at the moment
were far from pleasurable. “Where was I? what was it I was going to
say?” resumed she, hurriedly. “Oh, I remember, I was going to tell
you that you must on no account 'go over,' and therefore, avoid of all
things what they call the 'controversy' here; don't read their little
books, and never make close friendships with the Monsignori. You're
a young man, and naturally enough would feel flattered at their
attentions, and all the social attractions they 'd surround you with.
Of course you know nothing of life, and that is the very thing they do
understand; and perhaps it is not right of me to say it--it's like
a treason--but the women, the great leaders of society, aid them
powerfully. They 'd like to bring you over,” said she, raising her glass
and looking at him. “You'd really look remarkably well in a chasuble and
a cope. They 'd positively fight for you as a domestic chaplain”--and
the thought so amused her that she laughed outright, and L'Estrange
himself joined her. “I hope I have not wearied you with my cautions and
my warnings; but really, when I thought how utterly alone and friendless
you must be here, nobody to consult with, none to advise you--for,
after all, your mother could scarcely be an efficient guide in such
difficulties--I felt it would be cruel not to come to your aid. Have
you got a watch? I don't trust that little pendule, though it plays a
delicious 'Ave Maria' of Rossini's. What hour is it?”
“Half-past four, madam. I am really shocked at the length of my visit.”
“Well, I must go away. Perhaps you 'll come and see my sister--she's
charming, I assure you, and she 'd like to know you?”
“If you will vouchsafe to present me on any other day, I shall be
but too grateful; but Sir Marcus Cluff gave me a rendezvous for four
o'clock.”
“And you 'll be with him at five,” cried she, laughing. “Don't say it
was I that made you break your appointment, for he hates me, and would
never forgive you. By-by. Tell your mother I 'll call on her to-morrow,
and hope you 'll both dine with me.” And without waiting for a word in
reply, she tripped out of the summer-house, and hastened away to the
villa.
L'Estrange had little time to think over this somewhat strange interview
when he reached the entrance-gate to the grounds of Sir Marcus Cluff,
and was scarcely admitted within the precincts when a phaeton and a pair
of very diminutive ponies drove up, and a thin, emaciated man, carefully
swathed in shawls and wrappers, who held the reins, called out, “Is that
Mr. L'Estrange?”
The young parson came forward with his excuses for being late, and
begged that he might not interrupt Sir Marcus in his intended drive.
“Will you take a turn with me?” said Sir Marcus, in a whining voice,
that sounded like habitual complaint. “I 'm obliged to do this every
day; it 's the doctor's order. He says, 'Take the air and distract
yourself;' and I do so.” L'Estrange had now seated himself, and they
drove away.
“I'm glad you've come,” said Sir Marcus. “It will stop all this plotting
and intriguing. If you had delayed much longer, I think they 'd have
had a dozen here--one of them a converted Jew, a very dirty fellow. Oh,
dear, how fatiguing it is! that little crop-eared pony pulls so he can't
be held, and we call him John Bright; but don't mention it. I hope you
have no family, sir?”
“I have my sister only.”
“A sister isn't so bad. A sister may marry, or she may--” What was the
other alternative did not appear, for John Bright bolted at this moment,
and it was full five minutes ere he could be pulled up again. “This is
the distraction I 'm promised,” said the sick man. “If it was n't for
Mr. Needham--I call the near-sider Mr. Needham, as I bought him of
that gentleman--I 'd have too much distraction; but Needham never runs
away--he falls; he comes down as if he was shot!” cried he, with a
joyous twinkle of the eye, “and I bought him for that. There's no drag
ever was invented like a horse on his belly--the most inveterate runaway
can't escape against that.” If the little cackle that followed this
speech did not sound exactly like a laugh, it was all of that emotion
that Sir Marcus ever permitted himself.
“I can't ask you if you like this place. You 're too newly come to
answer that question,” resumed he; “but I may ask what is the sort of
society you prefer?”
“I 've seen next to nothing of the world since I left the University.
I have been living these last four or five years in one of the least
visited spots in Great Britain, and only since the arrival of the
Bramleigh family had a neighbor to speak to.”
“Ah, then, you know these Bramleighs?” said the other with more
animation than he had yet displayed. “Overbearing people, I 've heard
they were--very rich, and insolent to a degree.”
“I must say I have found them everything that was kind and considerate,
hospitable neighbors, and very warmhearted friends.”
“That 's not the world's judgment on them, my dear sir--far from it.
They are a proverb for pretension and impertinence. As for Lady Augusta
here--to be sure she 's only one of them by marriage--but there's not
a soul in the place she has not outraged. She goes nowhere--of course,
_that_ she has a right to do--but she never returns a call, never even
sends a card. She went so far as to tell Mr. Pemberton, your predecessor
here, that she liked Albano for its savagery; that there was no one to
know was its chief charm for her.”
“I saw her for the first time this morning,” said L'Estrange, not liking
to involve himself in this censure.
“And she fascinated you, of course? I 'm told she does that with
every good-looking young fellow that comes in her way. She's a finished
coquette, they say. I don't know what that means, nor do I believe it
would have much success with me if I did know. All the coquetry she
bestows upon me is to set my ponies off in full gallop whenever she
overtakes me driving. She starts away in a sharp canter just behind
me, and John Bright fancies it a race, and away he goes too, and if Mr.
Needham was of the same mettle I don't know what would become of us. I'm
afraid, besides, she's a connection of mine. My mother, Lady Marion, was
cousin to one of the Delahunts of Kings Cromer. Would you mind taking
the reins for a while, John is fearfully rash to-day? Just sit where
you are, the near-side gives you the whip-hand for Needham. Ah! that's a
relief! Turn down the next road on your left. And so she never asked you
about your tenets--never inquired whether you were High Church or Low
Church or no church at all?”
“Pardon me, Sir Marcus; she was particularly anxious that I should
guard myself against Romish fascinations and advances.”
“Ah, she knows them all! They thought they had secured her--indeed they
were full sure of it; but as she said to poor Mr. Pemberton, they found
they had hatched a duck. She was only flirting with Rome. The woman
would flirt with the Holy Father, sir, if she had a chance. There's
nothing serious, nothing real, nothing honest about her; but she
charmed _you_, for all that--I see it. I see it all; and you 're to take
moonlight rides with her over the Campagna. Ha, ha, ha! Haven't I
hit it? Poor old Pemberton--fifty-eight if he was an hour--got a bad
bronchitis with these same night excursions. Worse than that, he made
the place too hot for him. Mrs. Trumpler--an active woman Mrs. T., and
the eye of a hawk--would n't stand the 'few sweet moments,' as poor
Pemberton in his simplicity called them. She threatened him with a
general meeting, and a vote of censure, and a letter to the Bishop of
Gibraltar; and she frightened him so that he resigned. I was away at
the time at the baths at Ischia, or I 'd have tried to patch up matters.
Indeed, as I told Mrs. T., I'd have tried to get rid of my Lady, instead
of banishing poor Pemberton, as kind-hearted a creature as ever I met,
and a capital whist-player. Not one of your new-fangled fellows, with
the 'call for trumps' and all the last devices of the Portland, but a
steady player, who never varied--did n't go chopping about, changing
his suits, and making false leads, but went manfully through his hearts
before he opened his spades. We were at Christ Church together. I knew
him for a matter of six-and-thirty years, Mr. L'Estrange, and I
pledge you my word of honor”--here his voice grew tremulous with
agitation--“and in all that time I never knew him revoke!” He drew
his hat over his eyes as he spoke, and leaning back in the seat seemed
almost overcome by his emotions.
“Will you turn in there at the small gate? It is a private entrance
to my grounds. I 'll not ask you to come in to-day, sir. I'm a little
flurried and nervous; but if you 'll join a sick man's dinner at two
o'clock to-morrow--some rice and a chicken and a bit of fish--nothing
more, I promise you. Well, well, I see it does not tempt you. My best
thanks for your pleasant company. Let me see you soon. Take care of
yourself, beware of my Lady, and avoid the moonlight!”
Apparently this little sally seemed to revive the invalid, for he
stepped up the approach to his house with a lively air and waved his
hand pleasantly as he said adieu.
“There's another still!” muttered L'Estrange as he inquired the way to
Mrs. Trumpler's; “and I wish with all my heart it was over.”
L'Estrange found Mrs. Trumpler at tea. She was an early diner, and took
tea about six o'clock, after which she went out for an evening drive
over the Campagna. In aspect, the lady was not prepossessing. She was
very red-faced, with large grizzly curls arranged in a straight line
across her forehead, and she wore spectacles of such a size as to give
her somewhat the look of an owl. In figure, she was portly and stout,
and had a stand-up sort of air, that, to a timid or bashful man like the
curate, was the reverse of reassuring.
“I perceive, sir, I am the last on your list,” said she, looking at her
watch as he entered. “It is past six.”
“I regret, madam, if I have come at an inconvenient hour. Will you
allow me to wait on you to-morrow?”
“No, sir. We will, with your permission, avail ourselves of the present
to make acquaintance with each other.” She rang the bell after this
speech, and ordered that the carriage should be sent away. “I shall not
drive, Giacomo,” said she; “and I do not receive if any one calls.”
“You brought me a letter, sir, from the Reverend Silas Smallwood,” said
she, very much in the tone of a barrister cross-examining a troublesome
witness.
“Yes, madam; that gentleman kindly offered a friend of mine to be the
means of presenting me to you.”
“So that you are not personally acquainted, sir?”
“We have never, so far as I know, even seen each other.”
“It is as well, sir, fully as well. Mr. Smallwood is a person for whose
judgment or discrimination I would have the very humblest opinion, and I
have therefore, from what you tell me, the hope that you are not of his
party in the Church.”
“I am unable to answer you, madam, knowing nothing whatever of Mr.
Smallwood's peculiar views.”
“This is fencing, sir; and I don't admire fencing. Let us understand
each other. What have you come here to preach? I hope my question is a
direct one?”
“I am an ordained minister of the Church of England, madam; and when I
have said so, I have answered you.”
“What, sir? do you imagine your reply is sufficient. In an age when not
alone every doctrine is embraced within the Church, but that there is a
very large and increasing party who are prepared to have no doctrine at
all? I perceive, sir, I must make my approaches to you in a different
fashion. Are you a man of vestments, gesticulations, and glass windows?
Do you dramatize your Christianity?”
“I believe I can say no, madam, to all these.”
“Are you a Literalist, then? What about Noah, sir? Let me hear what you
have to say about the Flood. Have you ever calculated what forty days'
rainfall would amount to? Do you know that in Assam, where the rains
are the heaviest in that part of the world, and in Colon, in Central
America, no twelve hours' rain ever passed five inches and three
quarters? You are, I am sure, acquainted with Esch-schormes' book on the
Nile deposits? If not, sir, it is yonder--at your service. Now, sir, we
shall devote this evening to the Deluge, and, so far as time permits,
the age of the earth. To-morrow evening we'll take Moses, on Staub's
suggestion that many persons were included under that name. We'll keep
the Pentateuch for Friday, for I expect the Rabbi Bensi will be here by
that time.”
“Will you pardon me, madam,” said L'Estrange, rising, “if I decline
entering upon all discussion of these momentous questions with you? I
have no such scholarship as would enable me to prove instructive, and
I have conviction sufficiently strong, in my faith in other men's
learning, to enable me to reject quibbles and be unmoved by subtleties.
Besides,” added he, in a sharper tone, “I have come here to have the
honor of making your acquaintance, and not to submit myself to an
examination. May I wish you a good evening?”
How he took his leave, how he descended the stairs, and rushed into the
street, and found his way to the little inn where his sister wearily was
waiting dinner for him, the poor curate never knew to the last day of
his life.