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diff --git a/7649-h/7649-h.htm b/7649-h/7649-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7e0710e --- /dev/null +++ b/7649-h/7649-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,19359 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Ernest Maltravers, by Edward Bulwer Lytton + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's Ernest Maltravers, Complete, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Ernest Maltravers, Complete + +Author: Edward Bulwer-Lytton + +Release Date: March 16, 2009 [EBook #7649] +Last Updated: August 28, 2012 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ERNEST MALTRAVERS, COMPLETE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger and Dagny + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + ERNEST MALTRAVERS + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Edward Bulwer Lytton + </h2> + <h3> + (Lord Lytton) + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + +<div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> <img src="images/{0008}.jpg" alt="{0008}" width="100%" /><br /> </div> <h5> <a href="images/{0008}.jpg"> <img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> </h5> + + <p> + <br /> <br /> DEDICATION: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO + THE GREAT GERMAN PEOPLE, + A race of thinkers and of critics; + A foreign but familiar audience, + Profound in judgment, candid in reproof, generous in appreciation, + This work is dedicated + By an English Author. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1840. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> A WORD TO THE READER PREFIXED TO THE FIRST + EDITION OF 1837. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <b>ERNEST MALTRAVERS.</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> <b>BOOK I.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> <b>BOOK II.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> <b>BOOK III.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> BOOK IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> <b>BOOK V.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> <b>BOOK VI.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> <b>BOOK VII.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0058"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0059"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> <b>BOOK VIII.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0060"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0061"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0062"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0063"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0064"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0065"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0066"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0067"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0068"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> <b>BOOK IX.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0069"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0070"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0071"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0072"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0073"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0074"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0075"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0076"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE TO THE EDITION OF 1840. + </h2> + <p> + HOWEVER numerous the works of fiction with which, my dear Reader, I have + trespassed on your attention, I have published but three, of any account, + in which the plot has been cast amidst the events, and coloured by the + manner, of our own times. The first of these, <i>Pelham</i>, composed when + I was little more than a boy, has the faults, and perhaps the merits, + natural to a very early age,—when the novelty itself of life + quickens the observation,—when we see distinctly, and represent + vividly, what lies upon the surface of the world,—and when, half + sympathising with the follies we satirise, there is a gusto in our + paintings which atones for their exaggeration. As we grow older we observe + less, we reflect more; and, like Frankenstein, we dissect in order to + create. + </p> + <p> + The second novel of the present day,* which, after an interval of some + years, I submitted to the world, was one I now, for the first time, + acknowledge, and which (revised and corrected) will be included in this + series, viz., <i>Godolphin</i>;—a work devoted to a particular + portion of society, and the development of a peculiar class of character. + The third, which I now reprint, is <i>Ernest Maltravers</i>,** the most + mature, and, on the whole, the most comprehensive of all that I have + hitherto written. + </p> + <p> + * For <i>The Disowned</i> is cast in the time of our grandfathers, and <i>The + Pilgrims of the Rhine</i> had nothing to do with actual life, and is not, + therefore, to be called a novel. + </p> + <p> + ** At the date of this preface <i>Night and Morning</i> had not appeared. + </p> + <p> + For the original idea, which, with humility, I will venture to call the + philosophical design of a moral education or apprenticeship, I have left + it easy to be seen that I am indebted to Goethe’s <i>Wilhelm Meister</i>. + But, in <i>Wilhelm Meister</i>, the apprenticeship is rather that of + theoretical art. In the more homely plan that I set before myself, the + apprenticeship is rather that of practical life. And, with this view, it + has been especially my study to avoid all those attractions lawful in + romance, or tales of pure humour or unbridled fancy, attractions that, in + the language of reviewers, are styled under the head of “most striking + descriptions,” “scenes of extraordinary power,” etc.; and are derived from + violent contrasts and exaggerations pushed into caricature. It has been my + aim to subdue and tone down the persons introduced, and the general + agencies of the narrative, into the lights and shadows of life as it is. I + do not mean by “life as it is,” the vulgar and the outward life alone, but + life in its spiritual and mystic as well as its more visible and fleshly + characteristics. The idea of not only describing, but developing character + under the ripening influences of time and circumstance, is not confined to + the apprenticeship of Maltravers alone, but pervades the progress of + Cesarini, Ferrers, and Alice Darvil. + </p> + <p> + The original conception of Alice is taken from real life—from a + person I never saw but twice, and then she was no longer young—but + whose history made on me a deep impression. Her early ignorance and home—her + first love—the strange and affecting fidelity that she maintained, + in spite of new ties—her final re-meeting, almost in middle-age, + with one lost and adored almost in childhood—all this, as shown in + the novel, is but the imperfect transcript of the true adventures of a + living woman. + </p> + <p> + In regard to Maltravers himself, I must own that I have but inadequately + struggled against the great and obvious difficulty of representing an + author living in our own times, with whose supposed works or alleged + genius and those of any one actually existing, the reader can establish no + identification, and he is therefore either compelled constantly to humour + the delusion by keeping his imagination on the stretch, or lazily driven + to confound the Author <i>in</i> the Book with the Author <i>of</i> the + Book.* But I own, also, I fancied, while aware of this objection, and in + spite of it, that so much not hitherto said might be conveyed with + advantage through the lips or in the life of an imaginary writer of our + own time, that I was contented, on the whole, either to task the + imagination, or submit to the suspicions of the reader. All that my own + egotism appropriates in the book are some occasional remarks, the natural + result of practical experience. With the life or the character, the + adventures or the humours, the errors or the good qualities, of Maltravers + himself, I have nothing to do, except as the narrator and inventor. + </p> + <p> + * In some foreign journal I have been much amused by a credulity of this + latter description, and seen the various adventures of Mr. Maltravers + gravely appropriated to the embellishment of my own life, including the + attachment to the original of poor Alice Darvil; who now, by the way, must + be at least seventy years of age, with a grandchild nearly as old as + myself. + </p> + <p> + E. B. L. <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WORD TO THE READER PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF 1837. + </h2> + <p> + THOU must not, my old and partial friend, look into this work for that + species of interest which is drawn from stirring adventures and a + perpetual variety of incident. To a Novel of the present day are + necessarily forbidden the animation, the excitement, the bustle, the pomp, + and the stage effect which History affords to Romance. Whatever merits, in + thy gentle eyes, <i>Rienzi</i>, or <i>The Last Days of Pompeii</i>, may + have possessed, this Tale, if it please thee at all, must owe that happy + fortune to qualities widely different from those which won thy favour to + pictures of the Past. Thou must sober down thine imagination, and prepare + thyself for a story not dedicated to the narrative of extraordinary events—nor + the elucidation of the characters of great men. Though there is scarcely a + page in this work episodical to the main design, there may be much that + may seem to thee wearisome and prolix, if thou wilt not lend thyself, in a + kindly spirit, and with a generous trust, to the guidance of the Author. + In the hero of this tale thou wilt find neither a majestic demigod, nor a + fascinating demon. He is a man with the weaknesses derived from humanity, + with the strength that we inherit from the soul; not often obstinate in + error, more often irresolute in virtue; sometimes too aspiring, sometimes + too despondent; influenced by the circumstances to which he yet struggles + to be superior, and changing in character with the changes of time and + fate; but never wantonly rejecting those great principles by which alone + we can work the Science of Life—a desire for the Good, a passion for + the Honest, a yearning after the True. From such principles, Experience, + that severe Mentor, teaches us at length the safe and practical philosophy + which consists of Fortitude to bear, Serenity to enjoy, and Faith to look + beyond! + </p> + <p> + It would have led, perhaps, to more striking incidents, and have furnished + an interest more intense, if I had cast Maltravers, the Man of Genius, + amidst those fierce but ennobling struggles with poverty and want to which + genius is so often condemned. But wealth and lassitude have their + temptations as well as penury and toil. And for the rest—I have + taken much of my tale and many of my characters from real life, and would + not unnecessarily seek other fountains when the Well of Truth was in my + reach. + </p> + <p> + The Author has said his say, he retreats once more into silence and into + shade; he leaves you alone with the creations he has called to life—the + representatives of his emotions and his thoughts—the intermediators + between the individual and the crowd. Children not of the clay, but of the + spirit, may they be faithful to their origin!—so should they be + monitors, not loud but deep, of the world into which they are cast, + struggling against the obstacles that will beset them, for the heritage of + their parent—the right to survive the grave! + </p> + <p> + LONDON, August 12th, 1837. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + ERNEST MALTRAVERS. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Youth pastures in a valley of its own: + The glare of noon—the rains and winds of heaven + Mar not the calm yet virgin of all care. + But ever with sweet joys it buildeth up + The airy halls of life.” + SOPH. <i>Trachim</i>. 144-147. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My meaning in’t, I protest, was very honest in the behalf of the + maid * * * * yet, who would have suspected an ambush where I was + taken?” + <i>All’s Well that Ends Well</i>, Act iv. Sc. 3. +</pre> + <p> + SOME four miles distant from one of our northern manufacturing towns, in + the year 18—, was a wide and desolate common; a more dreary spot it + is impossible to conceive—the herbage grew up in sickly patches from + the midst of a black and stony soil. Not a tree was to be seen in the + whole of the comfortless expanse. Nature herself had seemed to desert the + solitude, as if scared by the ceaseless din of the neighbouring forges; + and even Art, which presses all things into service, had disdained to cull + use or beauty from these unpromising demesnes. There was something weird + and primeval in the aspect of the place; especially when in the long + nights of winter you beheld the distant fires and lights which give to the + vicinity of certain manufactories so preternatural an appearance, + streaming red and wild over the waste. So abandoned by man appeared the + spot, that you found it difficult to imagine that it was only from human + fires that its bleak and barren desolation was illumined. For miles along + the moor you detected no vestige of any habitation; but as you approached + the verge nearest to the town, you could just perceive at a little + distance from the main road, by which the common was intersected, a small, + solitary, and miserable hovel. + </p> + <p> + Within this lonely abode, at the time in which my story opens, were seated + two persons. The one was a man of about fifty years of age, and in a + squalid and wretched garb, which was yet relieved by an affectation of + ill-assorted finery. A silk handkerchief, which boasted the ornament of a + large brooch of false stones, was twisted jauntily round a muscular but + meagre throat; his tattered breeches were also decorated by buckles, one + of pinchbeck, and one of steel. His frame was lean, but broad and sinewy, + indicative of considerable strength. His countenance was prematurely + marked by deep furrows, and his grizzled hair waved over a low, rugged, + and forbidding brow, on which there hung an everlasting frown that no + smile from the lips (and the man smiled often) could chase away. It was a + face that spoke of long-continued and hardened vice—it was one in + which the Past had written indelible characters. The brand of the hangman + could not have stamped it more plainly, nor have more unequivocally warned + the suspicion of honest or timid men. + </p> + <p> + He was employed in counting some few and paltry coins, which, though an + easy matter to ascertain their value, he told and retold, as if the act + could increase the amount. “There must be some mistake here, Alice,” he + said in a low and muttered tone: “we can’t be so low—you know I had + two pounds in the drawer but Monday, and now—Alice, you must have + stolen some of the money—curse you.” + </p> + <p> + The person thus addressed sat at the opposite side of the smouldering and + sullen fire; she now looked quietly up, and her face singularly contrasted + that of the man. + </p> + <p> + She seemed about fifteen years of age, and her complexion was remarkably + pure and delicate, even despite the sunburnt tinge which her habits of + toil had brought it. Her auburn hair hung in loose and natural curls over + her forehead, and its luxuriance was remarkable even in one so young. Her + countenance was beautiful, nay, even faultless, in its small and + child-like features, but the expression pained you—it was so vacant. + In repose it was almost the expression of an idiot—but when she + spoke or smiled, or even moved a muscle, the eyes, colour, lips, kindled + into a life, which proved that the intellect was still there, though but + imperfectly awakened. + </p> + <p> + “I did not steal any, father,” she said in a quiet voice; “but I should + like to have taken some, only I knew you would beat me if I did.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you want money for?” + </p> + <p> + “To get food when I’m hungered.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing else?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + The girl paused.—“Why don’t you let me,” she said, after a while, + “why don’t you let me go and work with the other girls at the factory? I + should make money there for you and me both.” + </p> + <p> + The man smiled—such a smile—it seemed to bring into sudden + play all the revolting characteristics of his countenance. “Child,” he + said, “you are just fifteen, and a sad fool you are: perhaps if you went + to the factory, you would get away from me; and what should I do without + you? No, I think, as you are so pretty, you might get more money another + way.” + </p> + <p> + The girl did not seem to understand this allusion: but repeated, vacantly, + “I should like to go to the factory.” + </p> + <p> + “Stuff!” said the man, angrily; “I have three minds to—” + </p> + <p> + Here he was interrupted by a loud knock at the door of the hovel. + </p> + <p> + The man grew pale. “What can that be?” he muttered. “The hour is late—near + eleven. Again—again! Ask who knocks, Alice.” + </p> + <p> + The girl stood for a moment or so at the door; and as she stood, her form, + rounded yet slight, her earnest look, her varying colour, her tender + youth, and a singular grace of attitude and gesture, would have inspired + an artist with the very ideal of rustic beauty. + </p> + <p> + After a pause, she placed her lips to a chink in the door, and repeated + her father’s question. + </p> + <p> + “Pray pardon me,” said a clear, loud, yet courteous voice, “but seeing a + light at your window, I have ventured to ask if any one within will + conduct me to ———; I will pay the service handsomely.” + </p> + <p> + “Open the door, Alley,” said the owner of the hut. + </p> + <p> + The girl drew a large wooden bolt from the door; and a tall figure crossed + the threshold. + </p> + <p> + The new-comer was in the first bloom of youth, perhaps about eighteen + years of age, and his air and appearance surprised both sire and daughter. + Alone, on foot, at such an hour, it was impossible for any one to mistake + him for other than a gentleman; yet his dress was plain and somewhat + soiled by dust, and he carried a small knapsack on his shoulder. As he + entered, he lifted his hat with somewhat of foreign urbanity, and a + profusion of fair brown hair fell partially over a high and commanding + forehead. His features were handsome, without being eminently so, and his + aspect was at once bold and prepossessing. + </p> + <p> + “I am much obliged by your civility,” he said, advancing carelessly and + addressing the man, who surveyed him with a scrutinising eye; “and trust, + my good fellow, that you will increase the obligation by accompanying me + to ———.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t miss well your way,” said the man surlily: “the lights will + direct you.” + </p> + <p> + “They have rather misled me, for they seem to surround the whole common, + and there is no path across it that I can see; however, if you will put me + in the right road, I will not trouble you further.” + </p> + <p> + “It is very late,” replied the churlish landlord, equivocally. + </p> + <p> + “The better reason why I should be at ———. Come, my good + friend, put on your hat, and I will give you half a guinea for your + trouble.” + </p> + <p> + The man advanced, then halted; again surveyed his guest, and said, “Are + you quite alone, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably you are known at ———?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I. But what matters that to you? I am a stranger in these parts.” + </p> + <p> + “It is full four miles.” + </p> + <p> + “So far, and I am fearfully tired already!” exclaimed the young man with + impatience. As he spoke he drew out his watch. “Past eleven too!” + </p> + <p> + The watch caught the eye of the cottager; that evil eye sparkled. He + passed his hand over his brow. “I am thinking, sir,” he said in a more + civil tone than he had yet assumed, “that as you are so tired and the hour + is so late, you might almost as well—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” exclaimed the stranger, stamping somewhat petulantly. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like to mention it; but my poor roof is at your service, and I + would go with you to ——— at daybreak to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger stared at the cottager, and then at the dingy walls of the + hut. He was about, very abruptly, to reject the hospitable proposal, when + his eye rested suddenly on the form of Alice, who stood eager-eyed and + open-mouthed, gazing on the handsome intruder. As she caught his eye, she + blushed deeply and turned aside. The view seemed to change the intentions + of the stranger. He hesitated a moment, then muttered between his teeth: + and sinking his knapsack on the ground, he cast himself into a chair + beside the fire, stretched his limbs, and cried gaily, “So be it, my host: + shut up your house again. Bring me a cup of beer, and a crust of bread, + and so much for supper! As for bed, this chair will do vastly well.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we can manage better for you than that chair,” answered the host. + “But our best accommodation must seem bad enough to a gentleman: we are + very poor people—hard-working, but very poor.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind me,” answered the stranger, busying himself in stirring the + fire; “I am tolerably well accustomed to greater hardships than sleeping + on a chair in an honest man’s house; and though you are poor, I will take + it for granted you are honest.” + </p> + <p> + The man grinned: and turning to Alice, bade her spread what their larder + would afford. Some crusts of bread, some cold potatoes, and some tolerably + strong beer, composed all the fare set before the traveller. + </p> + <p> + Despite his previous boasts, the young man made a wry face at these + Socratic preparations, while he drew his chair to the board. But his look + grew more gay as he caught Alice’s eye; and as she lingered by the table, + and faltered out some hesitating words of apology, he seized her hand, and + pressing it tenderly—“Prettiest of lasses,” said he—and while + he spoke he gazed on her with undisguised admiration—“a man who has + travelled on foot all day, through the ugliest country within the three + seas, is sufficiently refreshed at night by the sight of so fair a face.” + </p> + <p> + Alice hastily withdrew her hand, and went and seated herself in a corner + of the room, when she continued to look at the stranger with her usual + vacant gaze, but with a half-smile upon her rosy lips. + </p> + <p> + Alice’s father looked hard first at one, then at the other. + </p> + <p> + “Eat, sir,” said he, with a sort of chuckle, “and no fine words; poor + Alice is honest, as you said just now.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure,” answered the traveller, employing with great zeal a set of + strong, even, and dazzling teeth at the tough crusts; “to be sure she is. + I did not mean to offend you; but the fact is, that I am half a foreigner; + and abroad, you know, one may say a civil thing to a pretty girl without + hurting her feelings, or her father’s either.” + </p> + <p> + “Half a foreigner! why, you talk English as well as I do,” said the host, + whose intonation and words were, on the whole, a little above his station. + </p> + <p> + The stranger smiled. “Thank you for the compliment,” said he. “What I + meant was, that I have been a great deal abroad; in fact, I have just + returned from Germany. But I am English born.” + </p> + <p> + “And going home?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Far from hence?” + </p> + <p> + “About thirty miles, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “You are young, sir, to be alone.” + </p> + <p> + The traveller made no answer, but finished his uninviting repast and drew + his chair again to the fire. He then thought he had sufficiently + ministered to his host’s curiosity to be entitled to the gratification of + his own. + </p> + <p> + “You work at the factories, I suppose?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “I do, sir. Bad times.” + </p> + <p> + “And your pretty daughter?” + </p> + <p> + “Minds the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you no other children?” + </p> + <p> + “No; one mouth besides my own is as much as I can feed, and that scarcely. + But you would like to rest now; you can have my bed, sir; I can sleep + here.” + </p> + <p> + “By no means,” said the stranger, quickly; “just put a few more coals on + the fire, and leave me to make myself comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + The man rose, and did not press his offer, but left the room for a supply + of fuel. Alice remained in her corner. + </p> + <p> + “Sweetheart,” said the traveller, looking round and satisfying himself + that they were alone: “I should sleep well if I could get one kiss from + those coral lips.” + </p> + <p> + Alice hid her face with her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Do I vex you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, sir.” + </p> + <p> + At this assurance the traveller rose, and approached Alice softly. He drew + away her hands from her face, when she said gently, “Have you much money + about you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the mercenary baggage!” said the traveller to himself; and then + replied aloud, “Why, pretty one? Do you sell your kisses so high then?” + </p> + <p> + Alice frowned and tossed the hair from her brow. “If you have money,” she + said, in a whisper, “don’t say so to father. Don’t sleep if you can help + it. I’m afraid—hush—he comes!” + </p> + <p> + The young man returned to his seat with an altered manner. And as his host + entered, he for the first time surveyed him closely. The imperfect glimmer + of the half-dying and single candle threw into strong lights and shades + the marked, rugged, and ferocious features of the cottager; and the eye of + the traveller, glancing from the face to the limbs and frame, saw that + whatever of violence the mind might design, the body might well execute. + </p> + <p> + The traveller sank into a gloomy reverie. The wind howled—the rain + beat—through the casement shone no solitary star—all was dark + and sombre. Should he proceed alone—might he not suffer a greater + danger upon that wide and desert moor—might not the host follow—assault + him in the dark? He had no weapon save a stick. But within he had at least + a rude resource in the large kitchen poker that was beside him. At all + events it would be better to wait for the present. He might at any time, + when alone, withdraw the bolt from the door, and slip out unobserved. Such + was the fruit of his meditations while his host plied the fire. + </p> + <p> + “You will sleep sound to-night,” said his entertainer, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Humph! Why, I am <i>over</i>-fatigued; I dare say it will be an hour or + two before I fall asleep; but when I once am asleep, I sleep like a rock!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Alice,” said her father, “let us leave the gentleman. Goodnight, + sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night—good night,” returned the traveller, yawning. + </p> + <p> + The father and daughter disappeared through a door in the corner of the + room. The guest heard them ascend the creaking stairs—all was still. + </p> + <p> + “Fool that I am,” said the traveller to himself, “will nothing teach me + that I am no longer a student at Gottingen, or cure me of these pedestrian + adventures? Had it not been for that girl’s big blue eyes, I should be + safe at ——— by this time, if, indeed, the grim father + had not murdered me by the road. However, we’ll baulk him yet: another + half-hour, and I am on the moor: we must give him time. And in the + meanwhile here is the poker. At the worst it is but one to one; but the + churl is strongly built.” + </p> + <p> + Although the traveller thus endeavoured to cheer his courage, his heart + beat more loudly than its wont. He kept his eyes stationed on the door by + which the cottagers had vanished, and his hand on the massive poker. + </p> + <p> + While the stranger was thus employed below, Alice, instead of turning to + her own narrow cell, went into her father’s room. + </p> + <p> + The cottager was seated at the foot of his bed muttering to himself, and + with eyes fixed on the ground. + </p> + <p> + The girl stood before him, gazing on his face, and with her arms lightly + crossed above her bosom. + </p> + <p> + “It must be worth twenty guineas,” said the host, abruptly to himself. + </p> + <p> + “What is it to you, father, what the gentleman’s watch is worth?” + </p> + <p> + The man started. + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” continued Alice, quietly, “you mean to do some injury to that + young man; but you shall not.” + </p> + <p> + The cottager’s face grew black as night. “How,” he began in a loud voice, + but suddenly dropped the tone into a deep growl—“how dare you talk + to me so?—go to bed—go to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “No, father.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + “I will not stir from this room until daybreak.” + </p> + <p> + “We will soon see that,” said the man, with an oath. + </p> + <p> + “Touch me, and I will alarm the gentleman, and tell him that—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + The girl approached her father, placed her lips to his ear, and whispered, + “That you intend to murder him.” + </p> + <p> + The cottager’s frame trembled from head to foot; he shut his eyes, and + gasped painfully for breath. “Alice,” said he, gently, after a pause—“Alice, + we are often nearly starving.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> am—<i>you</i> never!” + </p> + <p> + “Wretch, yes, if I do drink too much one day, I pinch for it the next. But + go to bed, I say—I mean no harm to the young man. Think you I would + twist myself a rope?—no, no; go along, go along.” + </p> + <p> + Alice’s face, which had before been earnest and almost intelligent, now + relapsed into its wonted vacant stare. + </p> + <p> + “To be sure, father, they would hang you if you cut his throat. Don’t + forget that;—good night;” and so saying, she walked to her own + opposite chamber. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, the host pressed his hand tightly to his forehead, and + remained motionless for nearly half an hour. + </p> + <p> + “If that cursed girl would but sleep,” he muttered at last, turning round, + “it might be done at once. And there’s the pond behind, as deep as a well; + and I might say at daybreak that the boy had bolted. He seems quite a + stranger here—nobody’ll miss him. He must have plenty of blunt to + give half a guinea to a guide across a common! I want money, and I won’t + work—if I can help it, at least.” + </p> + <p> + While he thus soliloquised the air seemed to oppress him; he opened the + window, he leant out—the rain beat upon him. He closed the window + with an oath; took off his shoes, stole to the threshold, and, by the + candle, which he shaded with his hand, surveyed the opposite door. It was + closed. He then bent anxiously forward and listened. + </p> + <p> + “All’s quiet,” thought he, “perhaps he sleeps already. I will steal down. + If Jack Walters would but come tonight, the job would be done charmingly.” + </p> + <p> + With that he crept gently down the stairs. In a corner, at the foot of the + staircase, lay sundry matters, a few faggots, and a cleaver. He caught up + the last. “Aha,” he muttered; “and there’s the sledge-hammer somewhere for + Walters.” Leaning himself against the door, he then applied his eye to a + chink which admitted a dim view of the room within, lighted fitfully by + the fire. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “What have we here? + A carrion death!” + <i>Merchant of Venice</i>, Act ii. Sc. 7. +</pre> + <p> + IT was about this time that the stranger deemed it advisable to commence + his retreat. The slight and suppressed sound of voices, which at first he + had heard above in the conversation of the father and child, had died + away. The stillness at once encouraged and warned him. He stole to the + front door, softly undid the bolt, and found the door locked, and the key + missing. He had not observed that during his repast, and ere his + suspicions had been aroused, his host, in replacing the bar, and relocking + the entrance, had abstracted the key. His fears were now confirmed. His + next thought was the window—the shutter only protected it half-way, + and was easily removed; but the aperture of the lattice, which only opened + in part like most cottage casements, was far too small to admit his + person. His only means of escape was in breaking the whole window; a + matter not to be effected without noise and consequent risk. + </p> + <p> + He paused in despair. He was naturally of a strong-nerved and gallant + temperament, nor unaccustomed to those perils of life and limb which + German students delight to brave; but his heart well-nigh failed him at + that moment. The silence became distinct and burdensome to him, and a + chill moisture gathered to his brow. While he stood irresolute and in + suspense, striving to collect his thoughts, his ear, preternaturally + sharpened by fear, caught the faint muffled sound of creeping footsteps—he + heard the stairs creak. The sound broke the spell. The previous vague + apprehension gave way, when the danger became actually at hand. His + presence of mind returned at once. He went back quickly to the fireplace, + seized the poker, and began stirring the fire, and coughing loud, and + indicating as vigorously as possible that he was wide awake. + </p> + <p> + He felt that he was watched—he felt that he was in momently peril. + He felt that the appearance of slumber would be the signal for a mortal + conflict. Time passed, all remained silent; nearly half an hour had + elapsed since he had heard the steps upon the stairs. His situation began + to prey upon his nerves, it irritated them—it became intolerable. It + was not now fear that he experienced, it was the overwrought sense of + mortal enmity—the consciousness that a man may feel who knows that + the eye of a tiger is on him, and who, while in suspense he has regained + his courage, foresees that sooner or later the spring must come; the + suspense itself becomes an agony, and he desires to expedite the deadly + struggle he cannot shun. + </p> + <p> + Utterly incapable any longer to bear his own sensations, the traveller + rose at last, fixed his eyes upon the fatal door, and was about to cry + aloud to the listener to enter, when he heard a slight tap at the window; + it was twice repeated; and at the third time a low voice pronounced the + name of Darvil. It was clear, then, that accomplices had arrived; it was + no longer against one man that he would have to contend. He drew his + breath hard, and listened with throbbing ears. He heard steps without upon + the plashing soil; they retired—all was still. + </p> + <p> + He paused a few minutes, and walked deliberately and firmly to the inner + door, at which he fancied his host stationed; with a steady hand he + attempted to open the door; it was fastened on the opposite side. “So!” + said he, bitterly, and grinding his teeth, “I must die like a rat in a + cage. Well, I’ll die biting.” + </p> + <p> + He returned to his former post, drew himself up to his full height, and + stood grasping his homely weapon, prepared for the worst, and not + altogether unelated with a proud consciousness of his own natural + advantages of activity, stature, strength and daring. Minutes rolled on; + the silence was broken by some one at the inner door; he heard the bolt + gently withdrawn. He raised his weapon with both hands; and started to + find the intruder was only Alice. She came in with bare feet, and pale as + marble, her finger on her lips. + </p> + <p> + She approached—she touched him. + </p> + <p> + “They are in the shed behind,” she whispered, “looking for the + sledge-hammer—they mean to murder you; get you gone—quick.” + </p> + <p> + “How?—the door is locked.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay. I have taken the key from his room.” + </p> + <p> + She gained the door, applied the key—the door yielded. The traveller + threw his knapsack once more over his shoulder, and made but one stride to + the threshold. The girl stopped him. “Don’t say anything about it; he is + my father, they would hang him.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. But you?—are safe, I trust?—depend on my gratitude.—I + shall be at ——— to-morrow—the best inn—seek + me if you can. Which way now?” + </p> + <p> + “Keep to the left.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger was already several paces distant; through the darkness, and + in the midst of the rain, he fled on with the speed of youth. The girl + lingered an instant, sighed, then laughed aloud; closed and re-barred the + door, and was creeping back, when from the inner entrance advanced the + grim father, and another man, of broad, short, sinewy frame, his arms + bare, and wielding a large hammer. + </p> + <p> + “How?” asked the host; “Alice here, and—hell and the devil! have you + let him go?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you that you should not harm him.” + </p> + <p> + With a violent oath the ruffian struck his daughter to the ground, sprang + over her body, unbarred the door, and, accompanied by his comrade, set off + in vague pursuit of his intended victim. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You knew—none so well, of my daughter’s flight.” + <i>Merchant of Venice</i>, Act iii. Sc. 1. +</pre> + <p> + THE day dawned; it was a mild, damp, hazy morning; the sod sank deep + beneath the foot, the roads were heavy with mire, and the rain of the past + night lay here and there in broad shallow pools. Towards the town, + waggons, carts, pedestrian groups were already moving; and, now and then, + you caught the sharp horn of some early coach, wheeling its be-cloaked + outside and be-nightcapped inside passengers along the northern + thoroughfare. + </p> + <p> + A young man bounded over a stile into the road just opposite to the + milestone, that declared him to be one mile from ———. + </p> + <p> + “Thank Heaven!” he said, almost aloud. “After spending the night wandering + about morasses like a will-o’-the-wisp, I approach a town at last. Thank + Heaven again, and for all its mercies this night! I breathe freely. I AM + SAFE.” + </p> + <p> + He walked on somewhat rapidly; he passed a slow waggon—-he passed a + group of mechanics—he passed a drove of sheep, and now he saw + walking leisurely before him a single figure. It was a girl, in a worn and + humble dress, who seemed to seek her weary way with pain and languor. He + was about also to pass her, when he heard a low cry. He turned, and beheld + in the wayfarer his preserver of the previous night. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens! is it indeed you? Can I believe my eyes?” + </p> + <p> + “I was coming to seek you, sir,” said the girl, faintly. “I too have + escaped; I shall never go back to father; I have no roof to cover my head + now.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor child! but how is this? Did they ill use you for releasing me?” + </p> + <p> + “Father knocked me down, and beat me again when he came back; but that is + not all,” she added, in a very low tone. + </p> + <p> + “What else?” + </p> + <p> + The girl grew red and white by turns. She set her teeth rigidly, stopped + short, and then walking on quicker than before, replied: “It don’t matter; + I will never go back—I’m alone now. What, what shall I do?” and she + wrung her hands. + </p> + <p> + The traveller’s pity was deeply moved. “My good girl,” said he, earnestly, + “you have saved my life, and I am not ungrateful. Here” (and he placed + some gold in her hand), “get yourself a lodging, food and rest; you look + as if you wanted them; and see me again this evening when it is dark and + we can talk unobserved.” + </p> + <p> + The girl took the money passively, and looked up in his face while he + spoke; the look was so unsuspecting, and the whole countenance was so + beautifully modest and virgin-like, that had any evil passion prompted the + traveller’s last words, it must have fled scared and abashed as he met the + gaze. + </p> + <p> + “My poor girl,” said he, embarrassed, and after a short pause; “you are + very young, and very, very pretty. In this town you will be exposed to + many temptations: take care where you lodge; you have, no doubt, friends + here?” + </p> + <p> + “Friends?—what are friends?” answered Alice. + </p> + <p> + “Have you no relations?—no <i>mother’s kin</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where to ask shelter?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; for I can’t go where father goes, lest he should find me out.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, seek some quiet inn, and meet me this evening just here, half + a mile from the town, at seven. I will try and think of something for you + in the meanwhile. But you seem tired, you walk with pain; perhaps it will + fatigue you to come—I mean, you had rather perhaps rest another + day.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, no! it will do me good to see you again, sir.” + </p> + <p> + The young man’s eyes met hers, and hers were not withdrawn; their soft + blue was suffused with tears—they penetrated his soul. He turned + away hastily, and saw that they were already the subject of curious + observation to the various passengers that overtook them. “Don’t forget!” + he whispered, and strode on with a pace that soon brought him to the town. + </p> + <p> + He inquired for the principal hotel—entered it with an air that + bespoke that nameless consciousness of superiority which belongs to those + accustomed to purchase welcome wherever welcome is bought and sold—and + before a blazing fire and no unsubstantial breakfast, forgot all the + terrors of the past night, or rather felt rejoiced to think he had added a + new and strange hazard to the catalogue of adventures already experienced + by Ernest Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Con una Dama tenia + Un galan conversacion.” * + MORATIN: <i>El Teatro Espanol</i>.—Num. 15. +</pre> + <p> + * With a dame he held a gallant conversation. + </p> + <p> + MALTRAVERS was first at the appointed place. His character was in most + respects singularly energetic, decided, and premature in its development; + but not so in regard to women: with them he was the creature of the + moment; and, driven to and fro by whatever impulse, or whatever passion, + caught the caprice of a wild, roving, and all-poetical imagination, + Maltravers was, half unconsciously, a poet—a poet of action, and + woman was his muse. + </p> + <p> + He had formed no plan of conduct towards the poor girl he was to meet. He + meant no harm to her. If she had been less handsome, he would have been + equally grateful; and her dress, and youth, and condition, would equally + have compelled him to select the hour of dusk for an interview. + </p> + <p> + He arrived at the spot. The winter night had already descended; but a + sharp frost had set in: the air was clear, the stars were bright, and the + long shadows slept, still and calm, along the broad road, and the whitened + fields beyond. + </p> + <p> + He walked briskly to and fro, without much thought of the interview, or + its object, half chanting old verses, German and English, to himself, and + stopping to gaze every moment at the silent stars. + </p> + <p> + At length he saw Alice approach: she came up to him timidly and gently. + His heart beat more quickly; he felt that he was young and alone with + beauty. “Sweet girl,” he said, with involuntary and mechanical compliment, + “how well this light becomes you. How shall I thank you for not forgetting + me?” + </p> + <p> + Alice surrendered her hand to his without a struggle. + </p> + <p> + “What is your name?” said he, bending his face down to hers. + </p> + <p> + “Alice Darvil.” + </p> + <p> + “And your terrible father,—<i>is</i> he, in truth, your father?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed he is my father and mother too!” + </p> + <p> + “What made you suspect his intention to murder me? Has he ever attempted + the like crime?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but lately he has often talked of robbery. He is very poor, sir. And + when I saw his eye, and when afterwards, while your back was turned, he + took the key from the door, I felt that—that you were in danger.” + </p> + <p> + “Good girl—go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I told him so when we went up-stairs. I did not know what to believe, + when he said he would not hurt you; but I stole the key of the front door, + which he had thrown on the table, and went to my room. I listened at my + door; I heard him go down the stairs—he stopped there for some time; + and I watched him from above. The place where he was opened to the field + by the back-way. After some time, I heard a voice whisper him; I knew the + voice, and then they both went out by the back-way; so I stole down, and + went out and listened; and I knew the other man was John Walters. I’m + afraid of <i>him</i>, sir. And then Walters said, says he, ‘I will get the + hammer, and, sleep or wake, we’ll do it.’ And father said, ‘It’s in the + shed.’ So I saw there was no time to be lost, sir, and—and—but + you know all the rest.” + </p> + <p> + “But how did you escape?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my father, after talking to Walters, came to my room, and beat and—and—frightened + me; and when he was gone to bed, I put on my clothes, and stole out; it + was just light; and I walked on till I met you.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor child, in what a den of vice you have been brought up!” + </p> + <p> + “Anan, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “She don’t understand me. Have you been taught to read and write?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no!” + </p> + <p> + “But I suppose you have been taught, at least, to say your catechism—and + you pray sometimes?” + </p> + <p> + “I have prayed to father not to beat me.” + </p> + <p> + “But to God?” + </p> + <p> + “God, sir—what is that?” * + </p> + <p> + * This ignorance—indeed the whole sketch of Alice—is from the + life; nor is such ignorance, accompanied by what almost seems an + instinctive or intuitive notion of right or wrong, very uncommon, as our + police reports can testify. In the <i>Examiner</i> for, I think, the year + 1835, will be found the case of a young girl ill-treated by her father, + whose answers to the interrogatories of the magistrate are very similar to + those of Alice to the questions of Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers drew back, shocked and appalled. Premature philosopher as he + was, this depth of ignorance perplexed his wisdom. He had read all the + disputes of schoolmen, whether or not the notion of a Supreme Being is + innate; but he had never before been brought face to face with a living + creature who was unconscious of a God. + </p> + <p> + After a pause, he said: “My poor girl, we misunderstand each other. You + know that there is a God?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Did no one ever tell you who made the stars you now survey—the + earth on which you tread?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “And have you never thought about it yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I? What has that to do with being cold and hungry?” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers looked incredulous. “You see that great building, with the + spire rising in the starlight?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, sure.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it called?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, a church.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you never go into it?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “What do people do there?” + </p> + <p> + “Father says one man talks nonsense, and the other folk listen to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Your father is—no matter. Good heavens! what shall I do with this + unhappy child?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, I am very unhappy,” said Alice, catching at the last words; and + the tears rolled silently down her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers never was more touched in his life. Whatever thoughts of + gallantry might have entered his young head, had he found Alice such as he + might reasonably have expected, he now felt that there was a kind of + sanctity in her ignorance; and his gratitude and kindly sentiment towards + her took almost a brotherly aspect.—“You know, at least, what school + is?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have talked with girls who go to school.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to go there, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, sir, pray not!” + </p> + <p> + “What should you like to do, then? Speak out, child. I owe you so much, + that I should be too happy to make you comfortable and contented in your + own way.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to live with you, sir.” Maltravers started, and half + smiled, and coloured. But looking on her eyes, which were fixed earnestly + on his, there was so much artlessness in their soft, unconscious gaze, + that he saw she was wholly ignorant of the interpretation that might be + put upon so candid a confession. + </p> + <p> + I have said that Maltravers was a wild, enthusiastic, odd being—he + was, in fact, full of strange German romance and metaphysical + speculations. He had once shut himself up for months to study astrology—and + been even suspected of a serious hunt after the philosopher’s stone; + another time he had narrowly escaped with life and liberty from a frantic + conspiracy of the young republicans of his university, in which, being + bolder and madder than most of them, he had been an active ringleader; it + was, indeed, some such folly that had compelled him to quit Germany sooner + than himself or his parents desired. He had nothing of the sober + Englishman about him. Whatever was strange and eccentric had an + irresistible charm for Ernest Maltravers. And agreeably to this + disposition, he now revolved an idea that enchanted his mobile and + fantastic philosophy. He himself would educate this charming girl—he + would write fair and heavenly characters upon this blank page—he + would act the Saint Preux to this Julie of Nature. Alas, he did not think + of the result which the parallel should have suggested. At that age, + Ernest Maltravers never damped the ardour of an experiment by the + anticipation of consequences. + </p> + <p> + “So,” he said, after a short reverie, “so you would like to live with me? + But, Alice, we must not fall in love with each other.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” said Maltravers, a little disconcerted. + </p> + <p> + “I always wished to go into service.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” + </p> + <p> + “And you would be a kind master.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was half disenchanted. + </p> + <p> + “No very flattering preference,” thought he: “so much the safer for us. + Well, Alice, it shall be as you wish. Are you comfortable where you are, + in your new lodgings?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, they do not insult you?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but they make a noise, and I like to be quiet to think of you.” + </p> + <p> + The young philosopher was reconciled again to his scheme. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Alice—go back—I will take a cottage to-morrow, and you + shall be my servant, and I will teach you to read and write and say your + prayers, and know that you have a Father above who loves you better than + he below. Meet me again at the same hour to-morrow. Why do you cry, Alice? + why do you cry?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—because,” sobbed the girl, “I am so happy, and I shall live + with you and see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Go, child—go, child,” said Maltravers, hastily; and he walked away + with a quicker pulse than became his new character of master and + preceptor. + </p> + <p> + He looked back, and saw the girl gazing at him; he waved his hand, and she + moved on and followed him slowly back to the town. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers, though not an elder son, was the heir of affluent fortunes; he + enjoyed a munificent allowance that sufficed for the whims of a youth who + had learned in Germany none of the extravagant notions common to young + Englishmen of similar birth and prospects. He was a spoiled child, with no + law but his own fancy,—his return home was not expected,—there + was nothing to prevent the indulgence of his new caprice. The next day he + hired a cottage in the neighbourhood, which was one of those pretty + thatched edifices, with verandas and monthly roses, a conservatory and a + lawn, which justify the English proverb about a cottage and love. It had + been built by a mercantile bachelor for some Fair Rosamond, and did credit + to his taste. An old woman, let with the house, was to cook and do the + work. Alice was but a nominal servant. Neither the old woman nor the + landlord comprehended the Platonic intentions of the young stranger. But + he paid his rent in advance, and they were not particular. He, however, + thought it prudent to conceal his name. It was one sure to be known in a + town not very distant from the residence of his father, a wealthy and + long-descended country gentleman. He adopted, therefore, the common name + of Butler; which, indeed, belonged to one of his maternal connections, and + by that name alone was he known in the neighbourhood and to Alice. From + her he would not have sought concealment,—but somehow or other no + occasion ever presented itself to induce him to talk much to her of his + parentage or birth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thought would destroy their Paradise.”—GRAY. +</pre> + <p> + MALTRAVERS found Alice as docile a pupil as any reasonable preceptor might + have desired. But still, reading and writing—they are very + uninteresting elements! Had the groundwork been laid, it might have been + delightful to raise the fairy palace of knowledge; but the digging the + foundations and the constructing the cellars is weary labour. Perhaps he + felt it so; for in a few days Alice was handed over to the very oldest and + ugliest writing-master that the neighbouring town could afford. The poor + girl at first wept much at the exchange; but the grave remonstrances and + solemn exhortations of Maltravers reconciled her at last, and she promised + to work hard and pay every attention to her lessons. I am not sure, + however, that it was the tedium of the work that deterred the idealist—perhaps + he felt its danger—and at the bottom of his sparkling dreams and + brilliant follies lay a sound, generous, and noble heart. He was fond of + pleasure, and had been already the darling of the sentimental German + ladies. But he was too young and too vivid, and too romantic, to be what + is called a sensualist. He could not look upon a fair face, and a + guileless smile, and all the ineffable symmetry of a woman’s shape, with + the eye of a man buying cattle for base uses. He very easily fell in love, + or fancied he did, it is true,—but then he could not separate desire + from fancy, or calculate the game of passion without bringing the heart or + the imagination into the matter. And though Alice was very pretty and very + engaging, he was not yet in love with her, and he had no intention of + becoming so. + </p> + <p> + He felt the evening somewhat long, when for the first time Alice + discontinued her usual lesson; but Maltravers had abundant resources in + himself. He placed Shakespeare and Schiller on his table, and lighted his + German meerschaum—he read till he became inspired, and then he wrote—and + when he had composed a few stanzas he was not contented till he had set + them to music, and tried their melody with his voice. For he had all the + passion of a German for song, and music—that wild Maltravers!—and + his voice was sweet, his taste consummate, his science profound. As the + sun puts out a star, so the full blaze of his imagination, fairly kindled, + extinguished for the time his fairy fancy for his beautiful pupil. + </p> + <p> + It was late that night when Maltravers went to bed—and as he passed + through the narrow corridor that led to his chamber he heard a light step + flying before him, and caught the glimpse of a female figure escaping + through a distant door. “The silly child,” thought he, at once divining + the cause; “she has been listening to my singing. I shall scold her.” But + he forgot that resolution. + </p> + <p> + The next day, and the next, and many days passed, and Maltravers saw but + little of the pupil for whose sake he had shut himself up in a country + cottage, in the depth of winter. Still he did not repent his purpose, nor + was he in the least tired of his seclusion—he would not inspect + Alice’s progress, for he was certain he should be dissatisfied with its + slowness—and people, however handsome, cannot learn to read and + write in a day. But he amused himself, notwithstanding. He was glad of an + opportunity to be alone with his own thoughts, for he was at one of those + periodical epochs of life when we like to pause and breathe a while, in + brief respite from that methodical race in which we run to the grave. He + wished to re-collect the stores of his past experience, and repose on his + own mind, before he started afresh upon the active world. The weather was + cold and inclement; but Ernest Maltravers was a hardy lover of nature, and + neither snow nor frost could detain him from his daily rambles. So, about + noon, he regularly threw aside books and papers, took his hat and staff, + and went whistling or humming his favourite airs through the dreary + streets, or along the bleak waters, or amidst the leafless woods, just as + the humour seized him; for he was not an Edwin or Harold, who reserved + speculation only for lonely brooks and pastoral hills. Maltravers + delighted to contemplate nature in men as well as in sheep or trees. The + humblest alley in a crowded town had something poetical for him; he was + ever ready to mix in a crowd, if it were only gathered round a + barrel-organ or a dog-fight, and listen to all that was said and notice + all that was done. And this I take to be the true poetical temperament + essential to every artist who aspires to be something more than a + scene-painter. But, above all things, he was most interested in any + display of human passions or affections; he loved to see the true colours + of the heart, where they are most transparent—in the uneducated and + poor—for he was something of an optimist, and had a hearty faith in + the loveliness of our nature. Perhaps, indeed, he owed much of the insight + into and mastery over character that he was afterwards considered to + display, to his disbelief that there is any wickedness so dark as not to + be susceptible of the light in some place or another. But Maltravers had + his fits of unsociability, and then nothing but the most solitary scenes + delighted him. Winter or summer, barren waste or prodigal verdure, all had + beauty in his eyes; for their beauty lay in his own soul, through which he + beheld them. From these walks he would return home at dusk, take his + simple meal, rhyme or read away the long evenings with such alternation as + music or the dreamy thoughts of a young man with gay life before him could + afford. Happy Maltravers!—youth and genius have luxuries all the + Rothschilds cannot purchase! And yet, Maltravers, you are ambitious!—life + moves too slowly for you!—you would push on the wheels of the clock!—Fool—brilliant + fool!—you are eighteen, and a poet!—What more can you desire?—Bid + Time stop for ever! + </p> + <p> + One morning Ernest rose earlier than his wont, and sauntered carelessly + through the conservatory which adjoined his sitting-room; observing the + plants with placid curiosity (for besides being a little of a botanist, he + had odd visionary notions about the life of plants, and he saw in them a + hundred mysteries which the herbalists do not teach us), when he heard a + low and very musical voice singing at a little distance. He listened, and + recognised, with surprise, words of his own, which he had lately set to + music, and was sufficiently pleased with to sing nightly. + </p> + <p> + When the song ended, Maltravers stole softly through the conservatory, and + as he opened the door which led into the garden, he saw at the open window + of a little room which was apportioned to Alice, and jutted out from the + building in the fanciful irregularity common to ornamental cottages, the + form of his discarded pupil. She did not observe him, and it was not till + he twice called her by name, that she started from her thoughtful and + melancholy posture. + </p> + <p> + “Alice,” said he, gently, “put on your bonnet, and walk with me in the + garden: you look pale, child; the fresh air will do you good.” + </p> + <p> + Alice coloured and smiled, and in a few moments was by his side. + Maltravers, meanwhile, had gone in and lighted his meerschaum, for it was + his great inspirer whenever his thoughts were perplexed, or he felt his + usual fluency likely to fail him, and such was the case now. With this + faithful ally he awaited Alice in the little walk that circled the lawn, + amidst shrubs and evergreens. + </p> + <p> + “Alice,” said he after a pause; but he stopped short. + </p> + <p> + Alice looked up at him with grave respect. + </p> + <p> + “Tush!” said Maltravers; “perhaps the smoke is unpleasant to you. It is a + bad habit of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” answered Alice; and she seemed disappointed. Maltravers paused, + and picked up a snowdrop. + </p> + <p> + “It is pretty,” he said; “do you love flowers?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dearly,” answered Alice, with some enthusiasm; “I never saw many till + I came here.” + </p> + <p> + “Now then I can go on,” thought Maltravers; why, I cannot say, for I do + not see the <i>sequitur</i>; but on he went <i>in medias res</i>. “Alice, + you sing charmingly.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! sir, you—you—” she stopped abruptly, and trembled + visibly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I overheard you, Alice.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are angry?” + </p> + <p> + “I!—Heaven forbid! It is a <i>talent</i>—but you don’t know + what that is; I mean it is an excellent thing to have an ear; and a voice, + and a heart for music; and you have all three.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, for he felt his hand touched; Alice suddenly clasped and kissed + it. Maltravers thrilled through his whole frame; but there was something + in the girl’s look that showed she was wholly unaware that she had + committed an unmaidenly or forward action. + </p> + <p> + “I was so afraid you would be angry,” she said, wiping her eyes as she + dropped his hand; “and now I suppose you know all.” + </p> + <p> + “All!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; how I listened to you every evening, and lay awake the whole night + with the music ringing in my ears, till I tried to go over it myself; and + so at last I ventured to sing aloud. I like that much better than learning + to read.” + </p> + <p> + All this was delightful to Maltravers: the girl had touched upon one of + his weak points; however, he remained silent. Alice continued: + </p> + <p> + “And now, sir, I hope you will let me come and sit outside the door every + evening and hear you; I will make no noise—I will be so quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “What, in that cold corridor, these bitter nights?” + </p> + <p> + “I am used to cold, sir. Father would not let me have a fire when he was + not at home.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Alice, but you shall come into the room while I play, and I will give + you a lesson or two. I am glad you have so good an ear; it may be a means + of your earning your own honest livelihood when you leave me.” + </p> + <p> + “When I—but I never intend to leave you, sir!” said Alice, beginning + fearfully and ending calmly. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers had recourse to the meerschaum. + </p> + <p> + Luckily, perhaps, at this time, they were joined by Mr. Simcox, the old + writing-master. Alice went in to prepare her books; but Maltravers laid + his hand upon the preceptor’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You have a quick pupil, I hope, sir?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very, very, Mr. Butler. She comes on famously. She practises a great + deal when I am away, and I do my best.” + </p> + <p> + “And,” asked Maltravers, in a grave tone, “have you succeeded in + instilling into the poor child’s mind some of those more sacred notions of + which I spoke to you at our first meeting?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, sir, she was indeed quite a heathen—quite a Mahometan, I may + say; but she is a little better now.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you taught her?” + </p> + <p> + “That God made her.” + </p> + <p> + “That is a great step.” + </p> + <p> + “And that He loves good girls, and will watch over them.” + </p> + <p> + “Bravo! You beat Plato.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, I never beat any one, except little Jack Turner; but he is a + dunce.” + </p> + <p> + “Bah! What else do you teach her?” + </p> + <p> + “That the devil runs away with bad girls, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop there, Mr. Simcox. Never mind the devil yet a while. Let her first + learn to do good, that God may love her; the rest will follow. I would + rather make people religious through their best feelings than their worst,—through + their gratitude and affections, rather than their fears and calculations + of risk and punishment.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Simcox stared. + </p> + <p> + “Does she say her prayers?” + </p> + <p> + “I have taught her a short one.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she learn it readily?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord love her, yes! When I told her she ought to pray to God to bless her + benefactor, she would not rest till I had repeated a prayer out of our + Sunday School book, and she got it by heart at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Enough, Mr. Simcox. I will not detain you longer.” + </p> + <p> + Forgetful of his untasted breakfast, Maltravers continued his meerschaum + and his reflections: he did not cease, till he had convinced himself that + he was but doing his duty to Alice, by teaching her to cultivate the + charming talent she evidently possessed, and through which she might + secure her own independence. He fancied that he should thus relieve + himself of a charge and responsibility which often perplexed him. Alice + would leave him, enabled to walk the world in an honest professional path. + It was an excellent idea. “But there is danger,” whispered Conscience. + “Ay,” answered Philosophy and Pride, those wise dupes that are always so + solemn and always so taken in; “but what is virtue without trial?” + </p> + <p> + And now every evening, when the windows were closed, and the hearth burnt + clear, while the winds stormed, and the rain beat without, a lithe and + lovely shape hovered about the student’s chamber; and his wild songs were + sung by a voice which Nature had made even sweeter than his own. + </p> + <p> + Alice’s talent for music was indeed surprising; enthusiastic and quick as + he himself was in all he undertook, Maltravers was amazed at her rapid + progress. He soon taught her to play by ear; and Maltravers could not but + notice that her hand, always delicate in shape, had lost the rude colour + and roughness of labour. He thought of that pretty hand more often than he + ought to have done, and guided it over the keys when it could have found + its way very well without him. + </p> + <p> + On coming to the cottage he had directed the old servant to provide + suitable and proper clothes for Alice; but now that she was admitted “to + sit with the gentleman,” the crone had the sense, without waiting for new + orders, to buy the “pretty young woman” garments, still indeed simple, but + of better materials and less rustic fashion; and Alice’s redundant tresses + were now carefully arranged into orderly and glossy curls, and even the + texture was no longer the same; and happiness and health bloomed on her + downy cheeks, and smiled from the dewy lips, which never quite closed over + the fresh white teeth, except when she was sad—but that seemed + never, now she was not banished from Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + To say nothing of the unusual grace and delicacy of Alice’s form and + features, there is nearly always something of Nature’s own gentility in + very young women (except, indeed, when they get together and fall + a-giggling); it shames us men to see how much sooner they are polished + into conventional shape than our rough, masculine angles. A vulgar boy + requires Heaven knows what assiduity to make three steps—I do not + say like a gentleman, but like a body that has a soul in it; but give the + least advantage of society or tuition to a peasant girl, and a hundred to + one but she will glide into refinement before the boy can make a bow + without upsetting the table. There is sentiment in all women, and + sentiment gives delicacy to thought, and tact to manner. But sentiment + with men is generally acquired, an offspring of the intellectual quality, + not, as with the other sex, of the moral. + </p> + <p> + In the course of his musical and vocal lessons, Maltravers gently took the + occasion to correct poor Alice’s frequent offences against grammar and + accent: and her memory was prodigiously quick and retentive. The very + tones of her voice seemed altered in the ear of Maltravers; and, somehow + or other, the time came when he was no longer sensible of the difference + in their rank. + </p> + <p> + The old woman-servant, when she had seen how it would be from the first, + and taken a pride in her own prophecy, as she ordered Alice’s new dresses, + was a much better philosopher than Maltravers; though he was already up to + his ears in the moonlit abyss of Plato, and had filled a dozen commonplace + books with criticisms on Kant. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Young man, I fear thy blood is rosy red, + Thy heart is soft.” + D’AGUILAR’S <i>Fiesco</i>, Act iii. Sc. 1. +</pre> + <p> + As education does not consist in reading and writing only, so Alice, while + still very backward in those elementary arts, forestalled some of their + maturest results in her intercourse with Maltravers. Before the + inoculation took effect, she caught knowledge in the natural way. For the + refinement of a graceful mind and a happy manner is very contagious. And + Maltravers was encouraged by her quickness in music to attempt such + instruction in other studies as conversation could afford. It is a better + school than parents and masters think for: there was a time when all + information was given orally; and probably the Athenians learned more from + hearing Aristotle than we do from reading him. It was a delicious revival + of Academe—in the walks, or beneath the rustic porticoes of that + little cottage—the romantic philosopher and the beautiful disciple! + And his talk was much like that of a sage of the early world, with some + wistful and earnest savage for a listener: of the stars and their courses—of + beasts, and birds, and fishes, and plants, and flowers—the wide + family of Nature—of the beneficence and power of God;—of the + mystic and spiritual history of Man. + </p> + <p> + Charmed by her attention and docility, Maltravers at length diverged from + lore into poetry; he would repeat to her the simplest and most natural + passages he could remember in his favourite poets; he would himself + compose verses elaborately adapted to her understanding; she liked the + last the best, and learned them the easiest. Never had young poet a more + gracious inspiration, and never did this inharmonious world more + complacently resolve itself into soft dreams, as if to humour the + novitiate of the victims it must speedily take into its joyless + priesthood. And Alice had now quietly and insensibly carved out her own + avocations—the tenor of her service. The plants in the conservatory + had passed under her care, and no one else was privileged to touch + Maltravers’s books, or arrange the sacred litter of a student’s apartment. + When he came down in the morning, or returned from his walks, everything + was in order, yet, by a kind of magic, just as he wished it; the flowers + he loved best bloomed, fresh-gathered, on his table; the very position of + the large chair, just in that corner by the fireplace, whence, on entering + the roof, its hospitable arms opened with the most cordial air of welcome, + bespoke the presiding genius of a woman; and then, precisely as the clock + struck eight, Alice entered, so pretty and smiling, and happy-looking, + that it was no wonder the single hour at first allotted to her extended + into three. + </p> + <p> + Was Alice in love with Maltravers?—she certainly did not exhibit the + symptoms in the ordinary way—she did not grow more reserved, and + agitated, and timid—there was no worm in the bud of her damask + check: nay, though from the first she had been tolerably bold; she was + more free and confidential, more at her ease every day; in fact, she never + for a moment suspected that she ought to be otherwise; she had not the + conventional and sensitive delicacy of girls who, whatever their rank of + life, have been taught that there is a mystery and a peril in love; she + had a vague idea about girls going wrong, but she did not know that love + had anything to do with it; on the contrary, according to her father, it + had connection with money, not love; all that she felt was so natural and + so very sinless. Could she help being so delighted to listen to him, and + so grieved to depart? What thus she felt she expressed, no less simply and + no less guilelessly: candour sometimes completely blinded and misled him. + No, she could not be in love, or she could not so frankly own that she + loved him—it was a sisterly and grateful sentiment. + </p> + <p> + “The dear girl—I am rejoiced to think so,” said Maltravers to + himself; “I knew there would be no danger.” + </p> + <p> + Was he not in love himself?—The reader must decide. + </p> + <p> + “Alice,” said Maltravers, one evening after a long pause of thought and + abstraction on his side, while she was unconsciously practising her last + lesson on the piano—“Alice,—no, don’t turn round—sit + where you are, but listen to me. We cannot live always in this way.” + </p> + <p> + Alice was instantly disobedient—she did turn round, and those great + blue eyes were fixed on his own with such anxiety and alarm, that he had + no resource but to get up and look round for the meerschaum. But Alice, + who divined by an instinct his lightest wish, brought it to him, while he + was yet hunting, amidst the further corners of the room, in places where + it was certain not to be. There it was, already filled with the fragrant + Salonica glittering with the gilt pastile, which, not too healthfully, + adulterates the seductive weed with odours that pacify the repugnant + censure of the fastidious—for Maltravers was an epicurean even in + his worst habits;—there it was, I say, in that pretty hand which he + had to touch as he took it; and while he lit the weed he had again to + blush and shrink beneath those great blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Alice,” he said; “thank you. Do sit down there—out of + the draught. I am going to open the window, the night is so lovely.” + </p> + <p> + He opened the casement overgrown with creepers, and the moonlight lay fair + and breathless upon the smooth lawn. The calm and holiness of the night + soothed and elevated his thoughts; he had cut himself off from the eyes of + Alice, and he proceeded with a firm, though gentle voice: + </p> + <p> + “My dear Alice, we cannot always live together in this way; you are now + wise enough to understand me, so listen patiently. A young woman never + wants a fortune so long as she has a good character; she is always poor + and despised without one. Now a good character in this world is lost as + much by imprudence as guilt; and if you were to live with me much longer, + it would be imprudent, and your character would suffer so much that you + would not be able to make your own way in the world; far, then, from doing + you a service, I should have done you a deadly injury, which I could not + atone for: besides, Heaven knows what may happen worse than imprudence; + for, I am very sorry to say,” added Maltravers, with great gravity, “that + you are much too pretty and engaging to—to—in short, it won’t + do. I must go home; my friends will have a right to complain of me if I + remain thus lost to them many weeks longer. And you, my dear Alice, are + now sufficiently advanced to receive better instruction than I or Mr. + Simcox can give you. I therefore propose to place you in some respectable + family, where you will have more comfort and a higher station than you + have here. You can finish your education, and, instead of being taught, + you will be thus enabled to become a teacher to others. With your beauty, + Alice” (and Maltravers sighed), “and natural talents, and amiable temper, + you have only to act well and prudently to secure at last a worthy husband + and a happy home. Have you heard me, Alice? Such is the plan I have formed + for you.” + </p> + <p> + The young man thought as he spoke, with honest kindness and upright + honour; it was a bitterer sacrifice than perhaps the reader thinks for. + But Maltravers, if he had an impassioned, had not a selfish heart; and he + felt, to use his own expression, more emphatic than eloquent, that “it + would not do” to live any longer alone with this beautiful girl, like the + two children whom the good Fairy kept safe from sin and the world in the + Pavilion of Roses. + </p> + <p> + But Alice comprehended neither the danger to herself nor the temptations + that Maltravers, if he could not resist, desired to shun. She rose, pale + and trembling—approached Maltravers and laid her hand gently on his + arm. + </p> + <p> + “I will go away, when and where you wish—the sooner the better—to-morrow—yes, + to-morrow; you are ashamed of poor Alice; and it has been very silly in me + to be so happy.” (She struggled with her emotion for a moment, and went + on.) “You know Heaven can hear me, even when I am away from you, and when + I know more I can pray better; and Heaven will bless you, sir, and make + you happy, for I never can pray for anything else.” + </p> + <p> + With these words she turned away, and walked proudly towards the door. But + when she reached the threshold, she stopped and looked round, as if to + take a last farewell. All the associations and memories of that beloved + spot rushed upon her—she gasped for breath,—tottered,—and + fell to the ground insensible. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was already by her side; he lifted her light weight in his + arms; he uttered wild and impassioned exclamations—“Alice, beloved + Alice—forgive me; we will never part!” He chafed her hands in his + own, while her head lay on his bosom, and he kissed again and again those + beautiful eyelids, till they opened slowly upon him, and the tender arms + tightened round him involuntarily. + </p> + <p> + “Alice,” he whispered—“Alice, dear Alice, I love thee.” Alas, it was + true: he loved—and forgot all but that love. He was eighteen. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How like a younker or a prodigal, + The scarfed bark puts from her native bay!” + <i>Merchant of Venice</i>. +</pre> + <p> + WE are apt to connect the voice of Conscience with the stillness of + midnight. But I think we wrong that innocent hour. It is that terrible + “NEXT MORNING,” when reason is wide awake, upon which remorse fastens its + fangs. Has a man gambled away his all, or shot his friend in a duel—has + he committed a crime or incurred a laugh—it is the <i>next morning</i>, + when the irretrievable Past rises before him like a spectre; then doth the + churchyard of memory yield up its grisly dead—then is the witching + hour when the foul fiend within us can least tempt perhaps, but most + torment. At night we have one thing to hope for, one refuge to fly to—oblivion + and sleep! But at morning, sleep is over, and we are called upon coldly to + review, and re-act, and live again the waking bitterness of self-reproach. + Maltravers rose a penitent and unhappy man—remorse was new to him, + and he felt as if he had committed a treacherous and fraudulent as well as + guilty deed. This poor girl, she was so innocent, so confiding, so + unprotected, even by her own sense of right. He went down-stairs listless + and dispirited. He longed yet dreaded to encounter Alice. He heard her + step in the conservatory—paused, irresolute, and at length joined + her. For the first time she blushed and trembled, and her eyes shunned + his. But when he kissed her hand in silence, she whispered, “And am I now + to leave you?” And Maltravers answered fervently, “Never!” and then her + face grew so radiant with joy that Maltravers was comforted despite + himself. Alice knew no remorse, though she felt agitated and ashamed; as + she had not comprehended the danger, neither was she aware of the fall. In + fact, she never thought of herself. Her whole soul was with him; she gave + him back in love the spirit she had caught from him in knowledge. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + And they strolled together through the garden all that day, and Maltravers + grew reconciled to himself. He had done wrong, it is true; but then + perhaps Alice had already suffered as much as she could in the world’s + opinion, by living with him alone, though innocent, so long. And now she + had an everlasting claim to his protection—she should never know + shame or want. And the love that had led to the wrong should, by fidelity + and devotion, take from it the character of sin. + </p> + <p> + Natural and commonplace sophistries! <i>L’homme se pique!</i> as old + Montaigne said; Man is his own sharper! The conscience is the most elastic + material in the world. To-day you cannot stretch it over a mole-hill, + to-morrow it hides a mountain. + </p> + <p> + O how happy they were now—that young pair! How the days flew like + dreams! Time went on, winter passed away, and the early spring, with its + flowers and sunshine, was like a mirror to their own youth. Alice never + accompanied Maltravers in his walks abroad, partly because she feared to + meet her father, and partly because Maltravers himself was fastidiously + averse to all publicity. But then they had all that little world of three + acres—lawn and fountain, shrubbery and terrace, to themselves, and + Alice never asked if there was any other world without. She was now quite + a scholar, as Mr. Simcox himself averred. She could read aloud and + fluently to Maltravers, and copied out his poetry in a small, fluctuating + hand, and he had no longer to chase throughout his vocabulary for short + Saxon monosyllables to make the bridge of intercourse between their ideas. + Eros and Psyche are ever united, and Love opens all the petals of the + soul. On one subject alone, Maltravers was less eloquent than of yore. He + had not succeeded as a moralist, and he thought it hypocritical to preach + what he did not practise. But Alice was gentler and purer, and as far as + she knew, sweet fool! better than ever—she had invented a new prayer + for herself; and she prayed as regularly and as fervently as if she were + doing nothing amiss. But the code of Heaven is gentler than that of earth, + and does not declare that ignorance excuseth not the crime. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their prey. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No azure more shall robe the firmament, + Nor spangled stars be glorious.” + BYRON, <i>Heaven and Earth</i>. +</pre> + <p> + IT was a lovely evening in April, the weather was unusually mild and + serene for the time of year, in the northern districts of our isle, and + the bright drops of a recent shower sparkled upon the buds of the lilac + and laburnum that clustered round the cottage of Maltravers. The little + fountain that played in the centre of a circular basin, on whose clear + surface the broad-leaved water-lily cast its fairy shadow, added to the + fresh green of the lawn; + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And softe as velvet the yonge grass,” + </pre> + <p> + on which the rare and early flowers were closing their heavy lids. That + twilight shower had given a racy and vigorous sweetness to the air which + stole over many a bank of violets, and slightly stirred the golden + ringlets of Alice as she sate by the side of her entranced and silent + lover. They were seated on a rustic bench just without the cottage, and + the open window behind them admitted the view of that happy room—with + its litter of books and musical instruments—eloquent of the POETRY + of HOME. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was silent, for his flexile and excitable fancy was conjuring + up a thousand shapes along the transparent air, or upon those shadowy + violet banks. He was not thinking, he was imagining. His genius reposed + dreamily upon the calm, but exquisite sense of his happiness. Alice was + not absolutely in his thoughts, but unconsciously she coloured them all—if + she had left his side, the whole charm would have been broken. But Alice, + who was not a poet or a genius, <i>was</i> thinking, and thinking only of + Maltravers.... His image was “the broken mirror” multiplied in a thousand + faithful fragments over everything fair and soft in that lovely microcosm + before her. But they were both alike in one thing—they were not with + the Future, they were sensible of the Present—the sense of the + actual life, the enjoyment of the breathing time was strong within them. + Such is the privilege of the extremes of our existence—Youth and + Age. Middle life is never with to-day, its home is in to-morrow... + anxious, and scheming, and desiring, and wishing this plot ripened, and + that hope fulfilled, while every wave of the forgotten Time brings it + nearer and nearer to the end of all things. Half our life is consumed in + longing to be nearer death. + </p> + <p> + “Alice,” said Maltravers, waking at last from his reverie, and drawing + that light, childlike form nearer to him, “you enjoy this hour as much as + I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, much more!” + </p> + <p> + “More! and why so?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I am thinking of you, and perhaps you are not thinking of + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers smiled and stroked those beautiful ringlets, and kissed that + smooth, innocent forehead, and Alice nestled herself in his breast. + </p> + <p> + “How young you look by this light, Alice!” said he, tenderly looking down. + </p> + <p> + “Would you love me less if I were old?” asked Alice. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I should never have loved you in the same way if you had been + old when I first saw you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet I am sure I should have felt the same for you if you had been—oh! + ever so old!” + </p> + <p> + “What, with wrinkled cheeks, and palsied head, and a brown wig, and no + teeth, like Mr. Simcox?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you could never be like that! You would always look young—your + heart would be always in your face. That clear smile—ah, you would + look beautiful to the last!” + </p> + <p> + “But Simcox, though not very lovely now, has been, I dare say, handsomer + than I am, Alice; and I shall be contented to look as well when I am as + old!” + </p> + <p> + “I should never know you were old, because I can see you just as I please. + Sometimes, when you are thoughtful, your brows meet, and you look so stern + that I tremble; but then I think of you when you last smiled, and look up + again, and though you are frowning still, you seem to smile. I am sure you + are different to other eyes than to mine... and time must kill <i>me</i> + before, in my sight, it could alter <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Sweet Alice, you talk eloquently, for you talk love.” + </p> + <p> + “My heart talks to you. Ah! I wish it could say all I felt. I wish it + could make poetry like you, or that words were music—I would never + speak to you in anything else. I was so delighted to learn music, because + when I played I seemed to be talking to you. I am sure that whoever + invented music did it because he loved dearly and wanted to say so. I said + ‘<i>he</i>,’ but I think it was a woman. Was it?” + </p> + <p> + “The Greeks I told you of, and whose life was music, thought it was a + god.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but you say the Greeks made Love a god. Were they wicked for it?” + </p> + <p> + “Our own God above is Love,” said Ernest, seriously, “as our own poets + have said and sung. But it is a love of another nature—divine, not + human. Come, we will go within, the air grows cold for you.” + </p> + <p> + They entered, his arm round her waist. The room smiled upon them its quiet + welcome; and Alice, whose heart had not half vented its fulness, sat down + to the instrument still to “talk love” in her own way. + </p> + <p> + But it was Saturday evening. Now every Saturday, Maltravers received from + the neighbouring town the provincial newspaper—it was his only + medium of communication with the great world. But it was not for that + communication that he always seized it with avidity, and fed on it with + interest. The county in which his father resided bordered on the shire in + which Ernest sojourned, and the paper included the news of that familiar + district in its comprehensive columns. It therefore satisfied Ernest’s + conscience and soothed his filial anxieties to read from time to time that + “Mr. Maltravers was entertaining a distinguished party of friends at his + noble mansion of Lisle Court;” or that “Mr. Maltravers’s foxhounds had met + on such a day at something copse;” or that, “Mr. Maltravers, with his + usual munificence, had subscribed twenty guineas to the new county + gaol.”... And as now Maltravers saw the expected paper laid beside the + hissing urn, he seized it eagerly, tore the envelope, and hastened to the + well-known corner appropriated to the paternal district. The very first + words that struck his eye were these: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ALARMING ILLNESS OF MR. MALTRAVERS. +</pre> + <p> + “We regret to state that this exemplary and distinguished gentleman was + suddenly seized on Wednesday night with a severe spasmodic affection. Dr. + ——— was immediately sent for, who pronounced it to be + gout in the stomach. The first medical assistance from London has been + summoned. + </p> + <p> + “Postscript.—We have just learned, in answer to our inquiries at + Lisle Court, that the respected owner is considerably worse: but slight + hopes are entertained of his recovery. Captain Maltravers, his eldest son + and heir, is at Lisle Court. An express has been despatched in search of + Mr. Ernest Maltravers, who, involved by his high English spirit in some + dispute with the authorities of a despotic government, had suddenly + disappeared from Gottingen, where his extraordinary talents had highly + distinguished him. He is supposed to be staying at Paris.” + </p> + <p> + The paper dropped on the floor. Ernest threw himself back on the chair, + and covered his face with his hands. + </p> + <p> + Alice was beside him in a moment. He looked up, and caught her wistful and + terrified gaze. “Oh, Alice!” he cried, bitterly, and almost pushing her + away, “if you could but guess my remorse!” Then springing on his feet, he + hurried from the room. + </p> + <p> + Presently the whole house was in commotion. The gardener, who was always + in the house about supper-time, flew to the town for post-horses. The old + woman was in despair about the laundress, for her first and only thought + was for “master’s shirts.” Ernest locked himself in his room. Alice! poor + Alice! + </p> + <p> + In little more than twenty minutes, the chaise was at the door: and + Ernest, pale as death, came into the room where he had left Alice. + </p> + <p> + She was seated on the floor, and the fatal paper was on her lap. She had + been endeavouring, in vain, to learn what had so sensibly affected + Maltravers, for, as I said before, she was unacquainted with his real + name, and therefore the ominous paragraph did not even arrest her eye. + </p> + <p> + He took the paper from her, for he wanted again and again to read it: some + little word of hope or encouragement must have escaped him. And then Alice + flung herself on his breast. “Do not weep,” said he; “Heaven knows I have + sorrow enough of my own! My father is dying! So kind, so generous, so + indulgent! O God, forgive me! Compose yourself, Alice. You will hear from + me in a day or two.” + </p> + <p> + He kissed her, but the kiss was cold and forced. He hurried away. She + heard the wheels grate on the pebbles. She rushed to the window; but that + beloved face was not visible. Maltravers had drawn the blinds, and thrown + himself back to indulge his grief. A moment more, and even the vehicle + that bore him away was gone. And before her were the flowers, and the + starlit lawn, and the playful fountain, and the bench where they had sat + in such heartfelt and serene delight. He was gone; and often, oh, how + often, did Alice remember that his last words had been uttered in + estranged tones—that his last embrace had been without love! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thy due from me + Is tears: and heavy sorrows of the blood, + Which nature, love, and filial tenderness + Shall, O dear father, pay thee plenteously!” + <i>Second Part of Henry IV.</i>, Act iv. Sc. 4. +</pre> + <p> + IT was late at night when the chaise that bore Maltravers stopped at the + gates of a park lodge. It seemed an age before the peasant within was + aroused from the deep sleep of labour-loving health. “My father,” he + cried, while the gate creaked on its hinges; “my father—is he + better? Is he alive?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, bless your heart, Master Ernest, the squire was a little better this + evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank Heaven!—On—on!” + </p> + <p> + The horses smoked and galloped along a road that wound through venerable + and ancient groves. The moonlight slept soft upon the sward, and the + cattle, disturbed from their sleep, rose lazily up, and gazed upon the + unseasonable intruder. + </p> + <p> + It is a wild and weird scene, one of those noble English parks at + midnight, with its rough forest-ground broken into dell and valley, its + never-innovated and mossy grass, overrun with fern, and its immemorial + trees, that have looked upon the birth, and look yet upon the graves, of a + hundred generations. Such spots are the last proud and melancholy trace of + Norman knighthood and old romance left to the laughing landscapes of + cultivated England. They always throw something of shadow and solemn gloom + upon minds that feels their associations, like that which belongs to some + ancient and holy edifice. They are the cathedral aisles of Nature with + their darkened vistas, and columned trunks, and arches of mighty foliage. + But in ordinary times the gloom is pleasing, and more delightful than all + the cheerful lawns and sunny slopes of the modern taste. <i>Now</i> to + Maltravers it was ominous and oppressive: the darkness of death seemed + brooding in every shadow, and its warning voice moaning in every breeze. + </p> + <p> + The wheels stopped again. Lights flitted across the basement story; and + one above, more dim than the rest, shone palely from the room in which the + sick man slept. The bell rang shrilly out from amidst the dark ivy that + clung around the porch. The heavy door swung back—Maltravers was on + the threshold. His father lived—was better—was awake. The son + was in the father’s arms. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The guardian oak + Mourn’d o’er the roof it shelter’d: the thick air + Labour’d with doleful sounds.” + ELLIOTT of <i>Sheffield</i>. +</pre> + <p> + MANY days had passed, and Alice was still alone; but she had heard twice + from Maltravers. The letters were short and hurried. One time his father + was better, and there were hopes; another time, and it was not expected + that he could survive the week. They were the first letters Alice had ever + received from him. Those <i>first</i> letters are an event in a girl’s + life—in Alice’s life they were a very melancholy one. Ernest did not + ask her to write to him; in fact, he felt, at such an hour, a repugnance + to disclose his real name, and receive the letters of clandestine love in + the house in which a father lay in death. He might have given the feigned + address he had previously assumed, at some distant post-town, where his + person was not known. But, then, to obtain such letters, he must quit his + father’s side for hours. The thing was impossible. These difficulties + Maltravers did not explain to Alice. + </p> + <p> + She thought it singular he did not wish to hear from her; but Alice was + humble. What could she say worth troubling him with, and at such an hour? + But how kind in him to write! how precious those letters! and yet they + disappointed her, and cost her floods of tears: they were so short—so + full of sorrow—there was so little love in them; and “dear,” or even + “<i>dearest</i> Alice,” that uttered by the voice was so tender, looked + cold upon the lifeless paper. If she but knew the exact spot where he was + it would be some comfort; but she only knew that he was away, and in + grief; and though he was little more than thirty miles distant, she felt + as if immeasurable space divided them. However, she consoled herself as + she could; and strove to shorten the long miserable day by playing over + all the airs he liked, and reading all the passages he had commended. She + should be so improved when he returned; and how lovely the garden would + look; for every day its trees and bouquets caught a new smile from the + deepening spring. Oh, they would be so happy once more! Alice <i>now</i> + learned the life that lies in the future; and her young heart had not, as + yet, been taught that of that future there is any prophet but Hope! + </p> + <p> + Maltravers, on quitting the cottage, had forgotten that Alice was without + money, and now that he found his stay would be indefinitely prolonged, he + sent a remittance. Several bills were unpaid—some portion of the + rent was due; and Alice, as she was desired, intrusted the old servant + with a bank note, with which she was to discharge these petty debts. One + evening, as she brought Alice the surplus, the good dame seemed greatly + discomposed. She was pale and agitated; or, as she expressed it, “had a + terrible fit of the shakes.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, Mrs. Jones? you have no news of him—of—of + my—of your master?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear heart, miss—no,” answered Mrs. Jones; “how should I? But I’m + sure I don’t wish to frighten you; there has been two sich robberies in + the neighbourhood!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, thank Heaven that’s all!” exclaimed Alice. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t go for to thank Heaven for that, miss; it’s a shocking thing + for two lone females like us, and them ‘ere windows all open to the + ground! You sees, as I was taking the note to be changed at Mr. Harris’s, + the great grocer’s shop, where all the poor folk was a-buying agin + to-morrow” (for it was Saturday night, the second Saturday after Ernest’s + departure; from that Hegira Alice dated all her chronology), “and + everybody was a-talking about the robberies last night. La, miss, they + bound old Betty—you know Betty—a most respectable ‘oman, who + has known sorrows, and drinks tea with me once a week. Well, miss, they + (only think!) bound Betty to the bedpost, with nothing on her but her + shift—poor old soul! And as Mr. Harris gave me the change (please to + see, miss, it’s all right), and I asked for half gould, miss, it’s more + convenient, sich an ill-looking fellow was by me, a-buying o’ baccy, and + he did so stare at the money, that I vows I thought he’d have rin away + with it from the counter; so I grabbled it up and went away. But, would + you believe, miss, just as I got into the lane, afore you turns through + the gate, I chanced to look back, and there, sure enough, was that ugly + fellow close behind, a-running like mad. Oh, I set up such a screetch; and + young Dobbins was a-taking his cow out of the field, and he perked up over + the hedge when he heard me; and the cow, too, with her horns, Lord bless + her! So the fellow stopped, and I bustled through the gate, and got home. + But la, miss, if we are all robbed and murdered?” + </p> + <p> + Alice had not heard much of this harangue; but what she did hear very + slightly affected her strong, peasant-born nerves; not half so much + indeed, as the noise Mrs. Jones made in double-locking all the doors, and + barring, as well as a peg and a rusty inch of chain would allow, all the + windows—which operation occupied at least an hour and a half. + </p> + <p> + All at last was still. Mrs. Jones had gone to bed—in the arms of + sleep she had forgotten her terrors—and Alice had crept up-stairs, + and undressed, and said her prayers, and wept a little; and, with the + tears yet moist upon her dark eyelashes, had glided into dreams of Ernest. + Midnight was passed—the stroke of one sounded unheard from the clock + at the foot of the stars. The moon was gone—a slow, drizzling rain + was falling upon the flowers, and cloud and darkness gathered fast and + thick around the sky. + </p> + <p> + About this time, a low, regular, grating sound commenced at the thin + shutters of the sitting-room below, preceded by a very faint noise, like + the tinkling of small fragments of glass on the gravel without. At length + it ceased, and the cautious and partial gleam of a lanthorn fell along the + floor; another moment, and two men stood in the room. + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Jack!” whispered one: “hang out the glim, and let’s look about us.” + </p> + <p> + The dark-lanthorn, now fairly unmuffled, presented to the gaze of the + robbers nothing that could gratify their cupidity. + </p> + <p> + Books and music, chairs, tables, carpet, and fire-irons, though valuable + enough in a house-agent’s inventory, are worthless to the eyes of a + housebreaker. They muttered a mutual curse. + </p> + <p> + “Jack,” said the former speaker, “we must make a dash at the spoons and + forks, and then hey for the money. The old girl had thirty shiners, + besides flimsies.” + </p> + <p> + The accomplice nodded consent; the lanthorn was again partially shaded, + and with noiseless and stealthy steps the men quitted the apartment. + Several minutes elapsed, when Alice was awakened from her slumber by a + loud scream she started, all was again silent: she must have dreamt it: + her little heart beat violently at first, but gradually regained its + tenor. She rose, however, and the kindness of her nature being more + susceptible than her fear, she imagined Mrs. Jones might be ill—she + would go to her. With this idea she began partially dressing herself, when + she distinctly heard heavy footsteps and a strange voice in the room + beyond. She was now thoroughly alarmed—her first impulse was to + escape from the house—her next to bolt the door, and call aloud for + assistance. But who would hear her cries? Between the two purposes, she + halted irresolute... and remained, pale and trembling, seated at the foot + of the bed, when a broad light streamed through the chinks of the door—an + instant more, and a rude hand seized her. + </p> + <p> + “Come, mem, don’t be fritted, we won’t harm you; but where’s the gold-dust—where’s + the money?—the old girl says you’ve got it. Fork it over.” + </p> + <p> + “O mercy, mercy! John Walters, is that you?” + </p> + <p> + “Damnation!” muttered the man, staggering back; “so you knows me then; but + you sha’n’t peach; you sha’n’t scrag me, b—-t you.” + </p> + <p> + While he spoke, he again seized Alice, held her forcibly down with one + hand, while with the other he deliberately drew from a side pouch a long + case-knife. In that moment of deadly peril, the second ruffian, who had + been hitherto delayed in securing the servant, rushed forward. He had + heard the exclamation of Alice, he heard the threat of his comrade; he + darted to the bedside, cast a hurried gaze upon Alice, and hurled the + intended murderer to the other side of the room. + </p> + <p> + “What, man, art mad?” he growled between his teeth. “Don’t you know her? + It is Alice;—it is my daughter.” + </p> + <p> + Alice had sprung up when released from the murderer’s knife, and now, with + eyes strained and starting with horror, gazed upon the dark and evil face + of her deliverer. + </p> + <p> + “O God, it is—it is my father!” she muttered, and fell senseless. + </p> + <p> + “Daughter or no daughter,” said John Walters, “I shall not put my scrag in + her power; recollect how she fritted us before, when she run away.” + </p> + <p> + Darvil stood thoughtful and perplexed; and his associate approached + doggedly with a look of such settled ferocity as it was impossible for + even Darvil to contemplate without a shudder. + </p> + <p> + “You say right,” muttered the father, after a pause, but fixing his strong + gripe on his comrade’s shoulder,—“the girl must not be left here—the + cart has a covering. We are leaving the country; I have a right to my + daughter—she shall go with us. There, man, grab the money—it’s + on the table;.... you’ve got the spoons. Now then—” as Darvil spoke + he seized his daughter in his arms; threw over her a shawl and a cloak + that lay at hand, and was already on the threshold. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t half like it,” said Walters, grumblingly—“it been’t safe.” + </p> + <p> + “At least it is as safe as murder!” answered Darvil, turning round, with a + ghastly grin. “Make haste.” + </p> + <p> + When Alice recovered her senses, the dawn was breaking slowly along + desolate and sullen hills. She was lying upon rough straw—the cart + was jolting over the ruts of a precipitous, lonely road,—and by her + side scowled the face of that dreadful father. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yet he beholds her with the eyes of mind— + He sees the form which he no more shall meet; + She like a passionate thought is come and gone, + While at his feet the bright rill bubbles on.” + ELLIOTT <i>of Sheffield</i>. +</pre> + <p> + IT was a little more than three weeks after that fearful night, when the + chaise of Maltravers stopped at the cottage door—the windows were + shut up; no one answered the repeated summons of the post-boy. Maltravers + himself, alarmed and amazed, descended from the vehicle: he was in deep + mourning. He went impatiently to the back entrance; that also was locked; + round to the French windows of the drawing-room, always hitherto + half-opened, even in the frosty days of winter,—they were now closed + like the rest. He shouted in terror, “Alice, Alice!”—no sweet voice + answered in breathless joy, no fairy step bounded forward in welcome. At + this moment, however, appeared the form of the gardener coming across the + lawn. The tale was soon told; the house had been robbed—the old + woman at morning found gagged and fastened to her bed-post—Alice + flown. A magistrate had been applied to,—suspicion fell upon the + fugitive. None knew anything of her origin or name, not even the old + woman. Maltravers had naturally and sedulously ordained Alice to preserve + that secret, and she was too much in fear of being detected and claimed by + her father not to obey the injunction with scrupulous caution. But it was + known, at least, that she had entered the house a poor peasant girl; and + what more common than for ladies of a certain description to run away from + their lover, and take some of his property by mistake? And a poor girl + like Alice, what else could be expected? The magistrate smiled, and the + constables laughed. After all, it was a good joke at the young gentleman’s + expense! Perhaps, as they had no orders from Maltravers, and they did not + know where to find him, and thought he would be little inclined to + prosecute, the search was not very rigorous. But two houses had been + robbed the night before. Their owners were more on the alert. Suspicion + fell upon a man of infamous character, John Walters; he had disappeared + from the place. He had been last seen with an idle, drunken fellow, who + was said to have known better days, and who at one time had been a skilful + and well-paid mechanic, till his habits of theft and drunkenness threw him + out of employ; and he had been since accused of connection with a gang of + coiners—tried—and escaped from want of sufficient evidence + against him. That man was Luke Darvil. His cottage was searched; but he + also had fled. The trace of cart-wheels by the gate of Maltravers gave a + faint clue to pursuit; and after an active search of some days, persons + answering to the description of the suspected burglars—with a young + female in their company—were tracked to a small inn, notorious as a + resort for smugglers, by the sea-coast. But there every vestige of their + supposed whereabouts disappeared. + </p> + <p> + And all this was told to the stunned Maltravers; the garrulity of the + gardener precluded the necessity of his own inquiries, and the name of + Darvil explained to him all that was dark to others. And Alice was + suspected of the basest and the blackest guilt! Obscure, beloved, + protected as she had been, she could not escape the calumny from which he + had hoped everlastingly to shield her. But did <i>he</i> share that + hateful thought? Maltravers was too generous and too enlightened. + </p> + <p> + “Dog!” said he, grinding his teeth, and clenching his hands, at the + startled menial, “dare to utter a syllable of suspicion against her, and I + will trample the breath out of your body!” + </p> + <p> + The old woman, who had vowed that for the ‘varsal world she would not stay + in the house after such a “night of shakes,” had now learned the news of + her master’s return, and came hobbling up to him. She arrived in time to + hear his menace to her fellow-servant. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s right; give it him, your honour; bless your good heart!—that’s + what I says. Miss rob the house! says I—Miss run away. Oh no—depend + on it they have murdered her and buried the body.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers gasped for breath, but without uttering another word he + re-entered the chaise and drove to the house of the magistrate. He found + that functionary a worthy and intelligent man of the world. To him he + confided the secret of Alice’s birth and his own. The magistrate concurred + with him in believing that Alice had been discovered and removed by her + father. New search was made—gold was lavished. Maltravers himself + headed the search in person. But all came to the same result as before, + save that by the descriptions he heard of the person—the dress—the + tears, of the young female who had accompanied the men supposed to be + Darvil and Walters, he was satisfied that Alice yet lived; he hoped she + might yet escape and return. In that hope he lingered for weeks—for + months, in the neighbourhood; but time passed and no tidings.... He was + forced at length to quit a neighbourhood at once so saddened and endeared. + But he secured a friend in the magistrate, who promised to communicate + with him if Alice returned, or her father was discovered. He enriched Mrs. + Jones for life, in gratitude for her vindication of his lost and early + love; he promised the amplest rewards for the smallest clue. And with a + crushed and desponding spirit, he obeyed at last the repeated and anxious + summons of the guardian to whose care, until his majority was attained, + the young orphan was now entrusted. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sure there are poets that did never dream + Upon Parnassus.”—DENHAM. + + “Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age + Come tittering on, and shove you from the stage.”—POPE. + + “Hence to repose your trust in me was wise.” + DRYDEN’S <i>Absalom and Achitophel</i>. +</pre> + <p> + MR. FREDERICK CLEVELAND, a younger son of the Earl of Byrneham, and + therefore entitled to the style and distinction of “Honourable,” was the + guardian of Ernest Maltravers. He was now about the age of forty-three; a + man of letters and a man of fashion, if the last half-obsolete expression + be permitted to us, as being at least more classical and definite than any + other which modern euphuism has invented to convey the same meaning. + Highly educated, and with natural abilities considerably above mediocrity, + Mr. Cleveland early in life had glowed with the ambition of an author.... + He had written well and gracefully—but his success, though + respectable, did not satisfy his aspirations. The fact is, that a new + school of literature ruled the public, despite the critics—a school + very different from that in which Mr. Cleveland formed his unimpassioned + and polished periods. And as that old Earl, who in the time of Charles the + First was the reigning wit of the court, in the time of Charles the Second + was considered too dull even for a butt, so every age has its own literary + stamp and coinage, and consigns the old circulation to its shelves and + cabinets as neglected curiosities. Cleveland could not become the fashion + with the public as an author, though the coteries cried him up and the + reviewers adored him—and the ladies of quality and the amateur + dilettanti bought and bound his volumes of careful poetry and cadenced + prose. But Cleveland had high birth and a handsome competence—his + manners were delightful, his conversation fluent—and his disposition + was as amiable as his mind was cultured. He became, therefore, a man + greatly sought after in society both respected and beloved. If he had not + genius, he had great good sense; he did not vex his urbane temper and + kindly heart with walking after a vain shadow, and disquieting himself in + vain. Satisfied with an honourable and unenvied reputation, he gave up the + dream of that higher fame which he clearly saw was denied to his + aspirations—and maintained his good-humour with the world, though in + his secret soul he thought it was very wrong in its literary caprices. + Cleveland never married: he lived partly in town, but principally at + Temple Grove, a villa not far from Richmond. Here, with an excellent + library, beautiful grounds, and a circle of attached and admiring friends, + which comprised all the more refined and intellectual members of what is + termed, by emphasis, <i>Good Society</i>—this accomplished and + elegant person passed a life perhaps much happier than he would have known + had his young visions been fulfilled, and it had become his stormy fate to + lead the rebellious and fierce Democracy of Letters. + </p> + <p> + Cleveland was indeed, if not a man of high and original genius, at least + very superior to the generality of patrician authors. In retiring, + himself, from frequent exercise in the arena, he gave up his mind with + renewed zest to the thoughts and masterpieces of others. From a well-read + man, he became a deeply instructed one. Metaphysics, and some of the + material sciences, added new treasures to information more light and + miscellaneous, and contributed to impart weight and dignity to a mind that + might otherwise have become somewhat effeminate and frivolous. His social + habits, his clear sense, and benevolence of judgment, made him also an + exquisite judge of all those indefinable nothings, or little things, that, + formed into a total, become knowledge of the Great World. I say the Great + World—for of the world without the circle of the great, Cleveland + naturally knew but little. But of all that related to that subtle orbit in + which gentlemen and ladies move in elevated and ethereal order, Cleveland + was a profound philosopher. It was the mode with many of his admirers to + style him the Horace Walpole of the day. But though in some of the more + external and superficial points of character they were alike, Cleveland + had considerably less cleverness, and infinitely more heart. + </p> + <p> + The late Mr. Maltravers, a man not indeed of literary habits but an + admirer of those who were—an elegant, high-bred, hospitable <i>seigneur + de province</i>—had been one of the earliest of Cleveland’s friends—Cleveland + had been his fag at Eton—and he found Hal Maltravers—(Handsome + Hal!) had become the darling of the clubs, when he made his own <i>debut</i> + in society. They were inseparable for a season or two—and when Mr. + Maltravers married, and enamoured of country pursuits, proud of his old + hall, and sensibly enough conceiving that he was a greater man in his own + broad lands than in the republican aristocracy of London, settled + peaceably at Lisle Court, Cleveland corresponded with him regularly, and + visited him twice a year. Mrs. Maltravers died in giving birth to Ernest, + her second son. Her husband loved her tenderly, and was long inconsolable + for her loss. He could not bear the sight of the child that had cost him + so dear a sacrifice. Cleveland and his sister, Lady Julia Danvers, were + residing with him at the time of this melancholy event; and with judicious + and delicate kindness, Lady Julia proposed to place the unconscious + offender amongst her own children for some months. The proposition was + accepted, and it was two years before the infant Ernest was restored to + the paternal mansion. During the greater part of that time, he had gone + through all the events and revolutions of baby life under the bachelor + roof of Frederick Cleveland. + </p> + <p> + The result of this was, that the latter loved the child like a father. + Ernest’s first intelligible word hailed Cleveland as “papa;” and when the + urchin was at length deposited at Lisle Court, Cleveland talked all the + nurses out of breath with admonitions, and cautions, and injunctions, and + promises, and threats, which might have put many a careful mother to the + blush. This circumstance formed a new tie between Cleveland and his + friend. Cleveland’s visits were now three times a year instead of twice. + Nothing was done for Ernest without Cleveland’s advice. He was not even + breeched till Cleveland gave his grave consent. Cleveland chose his + school, and took him to it,—and he spent a week of every vacation in + Cleveland’s house. The boy never got into a scrape, or won a prize, or + wanted <i>a tip</i>, or coveted a book, but what Cleveland was the first + to know of it. Fortunately, too, Ernest manifested by times tastes which + the graceful author thought similar to his own. He early developed very + remarkable talents, and a love for learning—though these were + accompanied with a vigour of life and soul—an energy—a daring—which + gave Cleveland some uneasiness, and which did not appear to him at all + congenial with the moody shyness of an embryo genius, or the regular + placidity of a precocious scholar. Meanwhile the relation between father + and son was rather a singular one. Mr. Maltravers had overcome his first, + not unnatural, repugnance to the innocent cause of his irremediable loss. + He was now fond and proud of his boy—as he was of all things that + belonged to him. He spoiled and petted him even more than Cleveland did. + But he interfered very little with his education or pursuits. His eldest + son, Cuthbert, did not engross all his heart, but occupied all his care. + With Cuthbert he connected the heritage of his ancient name, and the + succession of his ancestral estates. Cuthbert was not a genius, nor + intended to be one; he was to be an accomplished gentleman, and a great + proprietor. The father understood Cuthbert, and could see clearly both his + character and career. He had no scruple in managing his education, and + forming his growing mind. But Ernest puzzled him. Mr. Maltravers was even + a little embarrassed in the boy’s society; he never quite overcame that + feeling of strangeness towards him which he had experienced when he first + received him back from Cleveland, and took Cleveland’s directions about + his health and so forth. It always seemed to him as if his friend shared + his right to the child; and he thought it a sort of presumption to scold + Ernest, though he very often swore at Cuthbert. As the younger son grew + up, it certainly was evident that Cleveland did understand him better than + his own father did; and so, as I have before said, on Cleveland the father + was not displeased passively to shift the responsibility of the rearing. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps Mr. Maltravers might not have been so indifferent, had Ernest’s + prospects been those of a younger son in general. If a profession had been + necessary for him, Mr. Maltravers would have been naturally anxious to see + him duly fitted for it. But from a maternal relation Ernest inherited an + estate of about four thousand pounds a year; and he was thus made + independent of his father. This loosened another tie between them; and so + by degrees Mr. Maltravers learned to consider Ernest less as his own son, + to be advised or rebuked, praised or controlled, than as a very + affectionate, promising, engaging boy, who, somehow or other, without any + trouble on his part, was very likely to do great credit to his family, and + indulge his eccentricities upon four thousand pounds a year. The first + time that Mr. Maltravers was seriously perplexed about him was when the + boy, at the age of sixteen, having taught himself German, and intoxicated + his wild fancies with <i>Werter</i> and <i>The Robbers</i>, announced his + desire, which sounded very like a demand, of going to Gottingen instead of + to Oxford. Never were Mr. Maltravers’s notions of a proper and + gentlemanlike finish to education more completely and rudely assaulted. He + stammered out a negative, and hurried to his study to write a long letter + to Cleveland, who, himself an Oxford prize-man, would, he was persuaded, + see the matter in the same light. Cleveland answered the letter in person: + listened in silence to all the father had to say, and then strolled + through the park with the young man. The result of the latter conference + was, that Cleveland declared in favour of Ernest. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear Frederick,” said the astonished father, “I thought the boy + was to carry off all the prizes at Oxford?” + </p> + <p> + “I carried off some, Maltravers; but I don’t see what good they did me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Cleveland!” + </p> + <p> + “I am serious.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is such a very odd fancy.” + </p> + <p> + “Your son is a very odd young man.” + </p> + <p> + “I fear he is so—I fear he is, poor fellow! But what will he learn + at Gottingen?” + </p> + <p> + “Languages and Independence,” said Cleveland. + </p> + <p> + “And the classics—the classics—you are such an excellent + Grecian!” + </p> + <p> + “There are great Grecians in Germany,” answered Cleveland; “and Ernest + cannot well unlearn what he knows already. My dear Maltravers, the boy is + not like most clever young men. He must either go through action, and + adventure, and excitement in his own way, or he will be an idle dreamer, + or an impracticable enthusiast all his life. Let him alone.—So + Cuthbert is gone into the Guards?” + </p> + <p> + “But he went first to Oxford.” + </p> + <p> + “Humph! What a fine young man he is!” + </p> + <p> + “Not so tall as Ernest, but—” + </p> + <p> + “A handsome face,” said Cleveland. “He is a son to be proud of in one way, + as I hope Ernest will be in another. Will you show me your new hunter?” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It was to the house of this gentleman, so judiciously made his guardian, + that the student of Gottingen now took his melancholy way. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But if a little exercise you choose, + Some zest for ease, ‘tis not forbidden here; + Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, + Or tend the blooms and deck the vernal year.” + <i>Castle of Indolence</i>. +</pre> + <p> + THE house of Mr. Cleveland was an Italian villa adapted to an English + climate. Through an Ionic arch you entered a domain of some eighty or a + hundred acres in extent, but so well planted and so artfully disposed, + that you could not have supposed the unseen boundaries inclosed no ampler + a space. The road wound through the greenest sward, in which trees of + venerable growth were relieved by a profusion of shrubs, and flowers + gathered into baskets intertwined with creepers, or blooming from classic + vases, placed with a tasteful care in such spots as required the <i>filling + up</i>, and harmonised well with the object chosen. Not an old ivy-grown + pollard, not a modest and bending willow, but was brought out, as it were, + into a peculiar feature by the art of the owner. Without being overloaded, + or too minutely elaborate (the common fault of the rich man’s villa), the + whole place seemed one diversified and cultivated garden; even the air + almost took a different odour from different vegetation, with each winding + of the road; and the colours of the flowers and foliage varied with every + view. + </p> + <p> + At length, when, on a lawn sloping towards a glassy lake overhung by limes + and chestnuts, and backed by a hanging wood, the house itself came in + sight, the whole prospect seemed suddenly to receive its finishing and + crowning feature. The house was long and low. A deep peristyle that + supported the roof extended the whole length, and being raised above the + basement had the appearance of a covered terrace; broad flights of steps, + with massive balustrades, supporting vases of aloes and orange-trees, led + to the lawn; and under the peristyle were ranged statues, Roman + antiquities and rare exotics. On this side the lake another terrace, very + broad, and adorned, at long intervals, with urns and sculpture, contrasted + the shadowy and sloping bank beyond; and commanded, through unexpected + openings in the trees, extensive views of the distant landscape, with the + stately Thames winding through the midst. The interior of the house + corresponded with the taste without. All the principal rooms, even those + appropriated to sleep, were on the same floor. A small but lofty and + octagonal hall conducted to a suite of four rooms. At one extremity was a + moderately-sized dining-room with a ceiling copied from the rich and gay + colours of Guido’s “Hours;” and landscapes painted by Cleveland himself, + with no despicable skill, were let into the walls. A single piece of + sculpture copied from the Piping Faun, and tinged with a flesh-like glow + by purple and orange draperies behind it, relieved without darkening the + broad and arched window which formed its niche. This communicated with a + small picture-room, not indeed rich with those immortal gems for which + princes are candidates; for Cleveland’s fortune was but that of a private + gentleman, though, managed with a discreet if liberal economy, it sufficed + for all his elegant desires. But the pictures had an interest beyond that + of art, and their subjects were within the reach of a collector of + ordinary opulence. They made a series of portraits—some originals, + some copies (and the copies were often the best) of Cleveland’s favourite + authors. And it was characteristic of the man, that Pope’s worn and + thoughtful countenance looked down from the central place of honour. + Appropriately enough, this room led into the library, the largest room in + the house, the only one indeed that was noticeable from its size, as well + as its embellishments. It was nearly sixty feet in length. The bookcases + were crowned with bronze busts, while at intervals statues, placed in open + arches, backed with mirrors, gave the appearance of galleries, opening + from the book-lined walls, and introduced an inconceivable air of classic + lightness and repose into the apartment; with these arches the windows + harmonised so well, opening on the peristyle, and bringing into delightful + view the sculpture, the flowers, the terraces, and the lake without, that + the actual prospects half seduced you into the belief that they were + designs by some master-hand of the poetical gardens that yet crown the + hills of Rome. Even the colouring of the prospects on a sunny day favoured + the delusion, owing to the deep, rich hues of the simple draperies, and + the stained glass of which the upper panes of the windows were composed. + Cleveland was especially fond of sculpture; he was sensible, too, of the + mighty impulse which that art has received in Europe within the last half + century. He was even capable of asserting the doctrine, not yet + sufficiently acknowledged in this country, that Flaxman surpassed Canova. + He loved sculpture, too, not only for its own beauty, but for the + beautifying and intellectual effect that it produces wherever it is + admitted. It is a great mistake, he was wont to say, in collectors of + statues, to arrange them <i>pele mele</i> in one long monotonous gallery. + The single relief, or statue, or bust, or simple urn, introduced + appropriately in the smallest apartment we inhabit, charms us infinitely + more than those gigantic museums, crowded into rooms never entered but for + show, and without a chill, uncomfortable shiver. Besides, this practice of + galleries, which the herd consider orthodox, places sculpture out of the + patronage of the public. There are not a dozen people who can afford + galleries. But very moderately affluent gentlemen can afford a statue or a + bust. The influence, too, upon a man’s mind and taste, created by the + constant and habitual view of monuments of the only imperishable art which + resorts to physical materials, is unspeakable. Looking upon the Greek + marble, we become acquainted, almost insensibly, with the character of the + Greek life and literature. That Aristides, that Genius of Death, that + fragment of the unrivalled Psyche, are worth a thousand Scaligers! + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever look at the Latin translation when you read Aeschylus?” said + a schoolboy once to Cleveland. + </p> + <p> + “That is my Latin translation,” said Cleveland, pointing to the Laocoon. + </p> + <p> + The library opened at the extreme end to a small cabinet for curiosities + and medals, which, still in a straight line, conducted to a long + belvidere, terminating in a little circular summer-house, that, by a + sudden wind of the lake below, hung perpendicularly over its transparent + tide, and, seen from the distance, appeared almost suspended on air, so + light were its slender columns and arching dome. Another door from the + library opened upon a corridor which conducted to the principal + sleeping-chambers; the nearest door was that of Cleveland’s private study + communicating with his bedroom and dressing-closet. The other rooms were + appropriated to, and named after, his several friends. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Cleveland had been advised by a hasty line of the movements of his + ward, and he received the young man with a smile of welcome, though his + eyes were moist and his lips trembled—for the boy was like his + father!—a new generation had commenced for Cleveland! + </p> + <p> + “Welcome, my dear Ernest,” said he; “I am so glad to see you, that I will + not scold you for your mysterious absence. This is your room, you see your + name over the door; it is a larger one than you used to have, for you are + a man now; and there is your German sanctum adjoining—for Schiller + and the meerschaum!—a bad habit that, the meerschaum! but not worse + than the Schiller, perhaps. You see you are in the peristyle immediately. + The meerschaum is good for flowers, I fancy, so have no scruple. Why, my + dear boy, how pale you are! Be cheered—be cheered. Well, I must go + myself, or you will infect me.” + </p> + <p> + Cleveland hurried away; he thought of his lost friend. Ernest sank upon + the first chair, and buried his face in his hands. Cleveland’s valet + entered, and bustled about and unpacked the portmanteau, and arranged the + evening dress. But Ernest did not look up nor speak; the first bell + sounded; the second tolled unheard upon his ear. He was thoroughly + overcome by his emotions. The first notes of Cleveland’s kind voice had + touched upon a soft chord, that months of anxiety and excitement had + strained to anguish, but had never woke to tears. His nerves were + shattered—those strong young nerves! He thought of his dead father + when he first saw Cleveland; but when he glanced round the room prepared + for him, and observed the care for his comfort, and the tender + recollection of his most trifling peculiarities everywhere visible, Alice, + the watchful, the humble, the loving, the lost Alice rose before him. + Surprised at his ward’s delay, Cleveland entered the room; there sat + Ernest still, his face buried in his hands. Cleveland drew them gently + away, and Maltravers sobbed like an infant. It was an easy matter to bring + tears to the eyes of that young man: a generous or a tender thought, an + old song, the simplest air of music, sufficed for that touch of the + mother’s nature. But the vehement and awful passion which belongs to + manhood when thoroughly unmanned—this was the first time in which + the relief of that stormy bitterness was known to him! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Musing full sadly in his sullen mind.”—SPENSER. + + “There forth issued from under the altar-smoke + A dreadful fiend.”—<i>Ibid. on Superstition</i>. +</pre> + <p> + NINE times out of ten it is over the Bridge of Sighs that we pass the + narrow gulf from Youth to Manhood. That interval is usually occupied by an + ill-placed or disappointed affection. We recover, and we find ourselves a + new being. The intellect has been hardened by the fire through which it + has passed. The mind profits by the wrecks of every passion, and we may + measure our road to wisdom by the sorrows we have undergone. + </p> + <p> + But Maltravers was yet on the bridge, and, for a time, both mind and body + were prostrate and enfeebled. Cleveland had the sagacity to discover that + the affections had their share in the change that he grieved to witness, + but he had also the delicacy not to force himself into the young man’s + confidence. But by little and little his kindness so completely penetrated + the heart of his ward, that Ernest one evening told his whole tale. As a + man of the world, Cleveland perhaps rejoiced that it was no worse, for he + had feared some existing entanglement perhaps with a married woman. But as + a man who was better than the world in general, he sympathised with the + unfortunate girl whom Ernest pictured to him in faithful and unflattered + colours, and he long forbore consolations which he foresaw would be + unavailing. He felt, indeed, that Ernest was not a man “to betray the noon + of manhood to a myrtle-shade:”—that with so sanguine, buoyant, and + hardy a temperament, he would at length recover from a depression which, + if it could bequeath a warning, might as well not be wholly divested of + remorse. And he also knew that few become either great authors or great + men (and he fancied Ernest was born to be one or the other) without the + fierce emotions and passionate struggles, through which the Wilhelm + Meister of real life must work out his apprenticeship, and attain the + Master Rank. But at last he had serious misgivings about the health of his + ward. A constant and spectral gloom seemed bearing the young man to the + grave. It was in vain that Cleveland, who secretly desired him to thirst + for a public career, endeavoured to arouse his ambition—the boy’s + spirit seemed quite broken—and the visit of a political character, + the mention of a political work, drove him at once into his solitary + chamber. At length his mental disease took a new turn. He became, of a + sudden, most morbidly and fanatically—I was about to say religious: + but that is not the word; let me call it pseudo-religious. His strong + sense and cultivated taste did not allow him to delight in the raving + tracts of illiterate fanatics—and yet out of the benign and simple + elements of the Scripture he conjured up for himself a fanaticism quite as + gloomy and intense. He lost sight of God the Father, and night and day + dreamed only of God the Avenger. His vivid imagination was perverted to + raise out of its own abyss phantoms of colossal terror. He shuddered + aghast at his own creations, and earth and heaven alike seemed black with + the everlasting wrath. These symptoms completely baffled and perplexed + Cleveland. He knew not what remedy to administer—and to his + unspeakable grief and surprise he found that Ernest, in the true spirit of + his strange bigotry, began to regard Cleveland—the amiable, the + benevolent Cleveland—as one no less out of the pale of grace than + himself. His elegant pursuits, his cheerful studies, were considered by + the young but stern enthusiast as the miserable recreations of Mammon and + the world. There seemed every probability that Ernest Maltravers would die + in a madhouse or, at best, succeed to the delusions without the cheerful + intervals of Cowper. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit, + Restless—unfixed in principles and place.”—DRYDEN. + + “Whoever acquires a very great number of ideas interesting to + the society in which he lives, will be regarded in that society + as a man of abilities.”—HELVETIUS. +</pre> + <p> + IT was just when Ernest Maltravers was so bad that he could not be worse + that a young man visited Temple Grove. The name of this young man was + Lumley Ferrers, his age was about twenty-six, his fortune about eight + hundred a year—he followed no profession. Lumley Ferrers had not + what is usually called genius; that is, he had no enthusiasm; and if the + word talent be properly interpreted as meaning the talent of doing + something better than others, Ferrers had not much to boast of on that + score. He had no talent for writing, nor for music, nor painting, nor the + ordinary round of accomplishments; neither at present had he displayed + much of the hard and useful talent for action and business. But Ferrers + had what is often better than either genius or talent; he had a powerful + and most acute mind. + </p> + <p> + He had, moreover, great animation of manner, high physical spirits, a + witty, odd, racy vein of conversation, determined assurance, and profound + confidence in his own resources. He was fond of schemes, stratagems, and + plots—they amused and excited him—his power of sarcasm, and of + argument, too, was great, and he usually obtained an astonishing influence + over those with whom he was brought in contact. His high spirits and a + most happy frankness of bearing carried off and disguised his leading + vices of character, which were callousness to whatever was affectionate + and insensibility to whatever was moral. Though less learned than + Maltravers, he was on the whole a very instructed man. He mastered the + surfaces of many sciences, became satisfied of their general principles, + and threw the study aside never to be forgotten (for his memory was like a + vice), but never to be prosecuted any further. To this he added a general + acquaintance with whatever is most generally acknowledged as standard in + ancient or modern literature. What is admired only by a few, Lumley never + took the trouble to read. Living amongst trifles, he made them interesting + and novel by his mode of viewing and treating them. And here indeed was <i>a</i> + talent—it was the talent of social life—the talent of + enjoyment to the utmost with the least degree of trouble to himself. + Lumley Ferrers was thus exactly one of those men whom everybody calls + exceedingly clever, and yet it would puzzle one to say in what he was so + clever. It was, indeed, that nameless power which belongs to ability, and + which makes one man superior, on the whole, to another, though in many + details by no means remarkable. I think it is Goethe who says somewhere + that, in reading the life of the greatest genius, we always find that he + was acquainted with some men superior to himself, who yet never attained + to general distinction. To the class of these mystical superior men Lumley + Ferrers might have belonged; for though an ordinary journalist would have + beaten him in the arts of composition, few men of genius, however eminent, + could have felt themselves above Ferrers in the ready grasp and plastic + vigour of natural intellect. It only remains to be said of this singular + young man, whose character as yet was but half developed, that he had seen + a great deal of the world, and could live at ease and in content with all + tempers and ranks; fox-hunters or scholars, lawyers or poets, patricians + or <i>parvenus</i>, it was all one to Lumley Ferrers. + </p> + <p> + Ernest was, as usual, in his own room, when he heard, along the corridor + without, all that indefinable bustling noise which announces an arrival. + Next came a most ringing laugh, and then a sharp, clear, vigorous voice, + that ran through his ears like a dagger. Ernest was immediately aroused to + all the majesty of indignant sullenness. He walked out on the terrace of + the portico, to avoid the repetition of the disturbance: and once more + settled back into his broken and hypochondriacal reveries. Pacing to and + fro that part of the peristyle which occupied the more retired wing of the + house, with his arms folded, his eyes downcast, his brows knit, and all + the angel darkened on that countenance which formerly looked as if, like + truth, it could shame the devil and defy the world, Ernest followed the + evil thought that mastered him, through the Valley of the Shadow. Suddenly + he was aware of something—some obstacle which he had not previously + encountered. He started, and saw before him a young man, of plain dress, + gentlemanlike appearance, and striking countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maltravers, I think,” said the stranger, and Ernest recognised the + voice that had so disturbed him: “this is lucky; we can now introduce + ourselves, for I find Cleveland means us to be intimate. Mr. Lumley + Ferrers, Mr. Ernest Maltravers. There now, I am the elder, so I first + offer my hand, and grin properly. People always grin when they make a new + acquaintance! Well, that’s settled. Which way are you walking?” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers could, when he chose it, be as stately as if he had never been + out of England. He now drew himself up in displeased astonishment; + extricated his hand from the gripe of Ferrers, and saying, very coldly, + “Excuse me, sir, I am busy,” stalked back to his chamber. He threw himself + into his chair, and was presently forgetful of his late annoyance, when, + to his inexpressible amazement and wrath, he heard again the sharp, clear + voice close at his elbow. + </p> + <p> + Ferrers had followed him through the French casement into the room. “You + are busy, you say, my dear fellow. I want to write some letters: we + sha’n’t interrupt each other—don’t disturb yourself:” and Ferrers + seated himself at the writing-table, dipped a pen into the ink, arranged + blotting-book and paper before him in due order, and was soon employed in + covering page after page with the most rapid and hieroglyphical scrawl + that ever engrossed a mistress or perplexed a dun. + </p> + <p> + “The presuming puppy!” growled Maltravers, half audibly, but effectually + roused from himself; and examining with some curiosity so cool an + intruder, he was forced to own that the countenance of Ferrers was not + that of a puppy. + </p> + <p> + A forehead compact and solid as a block of granite, overhung small, + bright, intelligent eyes of a light hazel; the features were handsome, yet + rather too sharp and fox-like; the complexion, though not highly coloured, + was of that hardy, healthy hue which generally betokens a robust + constitution, and high animal spirits; the jaw was massive, and, to a + physiognomist, betokened firmness and strength of character; but the lips, + full and large, were those of a sensualist, and their restless play, an + habitual half smile, spoke of gaiety and humour, though when in repose + there was in them something furtive and sinister. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers looked at him in grave silence; but when Ferrers, concluding + his fourth letter before another man would have got through his first + page, threw down the pen, and looked full at Maltravers, with a + good-humoured but penetrating stare, there was something so whimsical in + the intruder’s expression of face, and indeed in the whole scene, that + Maltravers bit his lip to restrain a smile, the first he had known for + weeks. + </p> + <p> + “I see you read, Maltravers,” said Ferrers, carelessly turning over the + volumes on the table. “All very right: we should begin life with books; + they multiply the sources of employment; so does capital;—but + capital is of no use, unless we live on the interest,—books are + waste paper, unless we spend in action the wisdom we get from thought. + Action, Maltravers, action; that is the life for us. At our age we have + passion, fancy, sentiment; we can’t read them away, or scribble them away;—we + must live upon them generously, but economically.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was struck; the intruder was not the empty bore he had chosen + to fancy him. He roused himself languidly to reply. “Life, <i>Mr.</i> + Ferrers—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop, <i>mon cher</i>, stop; don’t call me Mister; we are to be friends; + I hate delaying that which <i>must be</i>, even by a superfluous + dissyllable; you are Maltravers, I am Ferrers. But you were going to talk + about life. Suppose we <i>live</i> a little while, instead of talking + about it? It wants an hour to dinner; let us stroll into the grounds; I + want to get an appetite;—besides, I like nature when there are no + Swiss mountains to climb before one can arrive at a prospect. <i>Allons</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse—” again began Maltravers, half interested, half annoyed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be shot if I do. Come.” + </p> + <p> + Ferrers gave Maltravers his hat, wound his arm into that of his new + acquaintance, and they were on the broad terrace by the lake before Ernest + was aware of it. + </p> + <p> + How animated, how eccentric, how easy was Ferrers’ talk (for talk it was, + rather than conversation, since he had the ball to himself); books, and + men, and things; he tossed them about and played with them like + shuttlecocks; and then his egotistical narrative of half a hundred + adventures, in which he had been the hero, told so, that you laughed at + him and laughed with him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger, + Comes dancing from the east.”—MILTON. +</pre> + <p> + HITHERTO Ernest had never met with any mind that had exercised a strong + influence over his own. At home, at school, at Gottingen, everywhere, he + had been the brilliant and wayward leader of others, persuading or + commanding wiser and older heads than his own: even Cleveland always + yielded to him, though not aware of it. In fact, it seldom happens that we + are very strongly influenced by those much older than ourselves. It is the + senior, of from two to ten years, that most seduces and enthrals us. He + has the same pursuits—views, objects, pleasures, but more art and + experience in them all. He goes with us in the path we are ordained to + tread, but from which the elder generation desires to warn us off. There + is very little influence where there is not great sympathy. It was now an + epoch in the intellectual life of Maltravers. He met for the first time + with a mind that controlled his own. Perhaps the physical state of his + nerves made him less able to cope with the half-bullying, but thoroughly + good-humoured imperiousness of Ferrers. Every day this stranger became + more and more potential with Maltravers. Ferrers, who was an utter + egotist, never asked his new friend to give him his confidence; he never + cared three straws about other people’s secrets, unless useful to some + purpose of his own. But he talked with so much zest about himself—about + women and pleasure, and the gay, stirring life of cities—that the + young spirit of Maltravers was roused from its dark lethargy without an + effort of its own. The gloomy phantoms vanished gradually—his sense + broke from its cloud—he felt once more that God had given the sun to + light the day, and even in the midst of darkness had called up the host of + stars. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps no other person could have succeeded so speedily in curing + Maltravers of his diseased enthusiasm: a crude or sarcastic unbeliever he + would not have listened to; a moderate and enlightened divine he would + have disregarded, as a worldly and cunning adjuster of laws celestial with + customs earthly. But Lumley Ferrers, who, when he argued, never admitted a + sentiment or a simile in reply, who wielded his plain iron logic like a + hammer, which, though its metal seemed dull, kindled the ethereal spark + with every stroke—Lumley Ferrers was just the man to resist the + imagination, and convince the reason, of Maltravers; and the moment the + matter came to argument, the cure was soon completed: for, however we may + darken and puzzle ourselves with fancies and visions, and the ingenuities + of fanatical mysticism, no man can mathematically or syllogistically + contend that the world which a God made, and a Saviour visited, was + designed to be damned. + </p> + <p> + And Ernest Maltravers one night softly stole to his room and opened the + New Testament, and read its heavenly moralities with purged eyes; and when + he had done, he fell upon his knees, and prayed the Almighty to pardon the + ungrateful heart that, worse than the Atheist’s, had confessed His + existence, but denied His goodness. His sleep was sweet and his dreams + were cheerful. Did he rise to find that the penitence which had shaken his + reason would henceforth suffice to save his life from all error? Alas! + remorse overstrained has too often reactions as dangerous; and homely + Luther says well, that “the mind, like the drunken peasant on horseback, + when propped on the one side, nods and falls on the other.”—All that + can be said is, that there are certain crises in life which leave us long + weaker; from which the system recovers with frequent revulsion and weary + relapse,—but from which, looking back, after years have passed on, + we date the foundation of strength or the cure of disease. It is not to + mean souls that creation is darkened by a fear of the anger of Heaven. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There are times when we are diverted out of errors, but could + not be preached out of them.—There are practitioners who can cure + us of one disorder, though, in ordinary cases, they be but poor + physicians—nay, dangerous quacks."-STEPHEN MONTAGUE. +</pre> + <p> + LUMLEY FERRERS had one rule in life; and it was this: to make all things + and all persons subservient to himself. And Ferrers now intended to go + abroad for some years. He wanted a companion, for he disliked solitude: + besides, a companion shared the expenses; and a man of eight hundred a + year, who desires all the luxuries of life, does not despise a partner in + the taxes to be paid for them. Ferrers, at this period, rather liked + Ernest than not: it was convenient to choose friends from those richer + than himself, and he resolved, when he first came to Temple Grove, that + Ernest should be his travelling companion. This resolution formed, it was + very easy to execute it. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was now warmly attached to his new friend, and eager for + change. Cleveland was sorry to part with him; but he dreaded a relapse, if + the young man were again left upon his hands. Accordingly, the guardian’s + consent was obtained; a travelling carriage was bought, and fitted up with + every imaginable imperial and <i>malle</i>. A Swiss (half valet and half + courier) was engaged, one thousand a year was allowed to Maltravers;—and + one soft and lovely morning, towards the close of October, Ferrers and + Maltravers found themselves midway on the road to Dover. + </p> + <p> + “How glad I am to get out of England,” said Ferrers: “it is a famous + country for the rich; but here, eight hundred a year, without a + profession, save that of pleasure, goes upon pepper and salt; it is a + luxurious competence abroad.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I have heard Cleveland say that you will be rich some day or + other.” + </p> + <p> + “O yes: I have what are called expectations! You must know that I have a + kind of settlement on two stools, the Well-born and the Wealthy; but + between two stools—you recollect the proverb! The present Lord + Saxingham, once plain Frank Lascelles, and my father, Mr. Ferrers, were + first cousins. Two or three relations good-naturedly died, and Frank + Lascelles became an earl; the lands did not go with the coronet; he was + poor, and married an heiress. The lady died; her estate was settled on her + only child, the handsomest little girl you ever saw. Pretty Florence, I + often wish I could look up to you! Her fortune will be nearly all at her + own disposal, too, when she comes of age; now she is in the nursery, + ‘eating bread and honey.’ My father, less lucky and less wise than his + cousin, thought fit to marry a Miss Templeton—a nobody. The + Saxingham branch of the family politely dropped the acquaintance. Now, my + mother had a brother, a clever, plodding fellow, in what is called + ‘business:’ he became richer and richer: but my father and mother died, + and were never the better for it. And I came of age, and <i>worth</i> (I + like that expression) not a farthing more or less than this often-quoted + eight hundred pounds a year. My rich uncle is married, but has no + children. I am, therefore, heir-presumptive,—but he is a saint, and + close, though ostentatious. The quarrel between Uncle Templeton and the + Saxinghams still continues. Templeton is angry if I see the Saxinghams and + the Saxinghams—my Lord, at least—is by no means so sure that I + shall be Templeton’s heir as not to feel a doubt lest I should some day or + other sponge upon his lordship for a place. Lord Saxingham is in the + administration, you know. Somehow or other I have an equivocal amphibious + kind of place in London society, which I don’t like; on one side I am a + patrician connection, whom the <i>parvenu</i> branches always incline + lovingly to—and on the other side I am a half-dependent cadet, whom + the noble relations look civilly shy at. Some day, when I grow tired of + travel and idleness, I shall come back and wrestle with these little + difficulties, conciliate my methodistical uncle, and grapple with my noble + cousin. But now I am fit for something better than getting on in the + world. Dry chips, not green wood, are the things for making a blaze! How + slow this fellow drives! Hollo, you sir! get on! mind, twelve miles to the + hour! You shall have sixpence a mile. Give me your purse, Maltravers; I + may as well be cashier, being the elder and the wiser man; we can settle + accounts at the end of the journey. By Jove, what a pretty girl!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He, of wide-blooming youth’s fair flower possest, + Owns the vain thoughts—the heart that cannot rest!” + SIMONIDES, <i>in Tit. Hum</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Il y eut certainement quelque chose de singulier dans mes + sentimens pour cette charmante femme.” *—ROUSSEAU. +</pre> + <p> + * There certainly was something singular in my sentiments for this + charming woman. + </p> + <p> + IT was a brilliant ball at the Palazzo of the Austrian embassy at Naples: + and a crowd of those loungers, whether young or old, who attach themselves + to the reigning beauty, was gathered round Madame de Ventadour. Generally + speaking, there is more caprice than taste in the election of a beauty to + the Italian throne. Nothing disappoints a stranger more than to see for + the first time the woman to whom the world has given the golden apple. Yet + he usually falls at last into the popular idolatry, and passes with + inconceivable rapidity from indignant scepticism into superstitious + veneration. In fact, a thousand things beside mere symmetry of feature go + to make up the Cytherea of the hour.—tact in society—the charm + of manner—nameless and piquant brilliancy. Where the world find the + Graces they proclaim the Venus. Few persons attain pre-eminent celebrity + for anything, without some adventitious and extraneous circumstances which + have nothing to do with the thing celebrated. Some qualities or some + circumstances throw a mysterious or personal charm about them. “Is Mr. + So-and-So really such a genius?” “Is Mrs. Such-a-One really such a + beauty?” you ask incredulously. “Oh, yes,” is the answer. “Do you know all + about him or her? Such a thing is said, or such a thing has happened.” The + idol is interesting in itself, and therefore its leading and popular + attribute is worshipped. + </p> + <p> + Now Madame de Ventadour was at this time the beauty of Naples: and though + fifty women in the room were handsomer, no one would have dared to say so. + Even the women confessed her pre-eminence—for she was the most + perfect dresser that even France could exhibit. And to no pretensions do + ladies ever concede with so little demur, as those which depend upon that + feminine art which all study, and in which few excel. Women never allow + beauty in a face that has an odd-looking bonnet above it, nor will they + readily allow any one to be ugly whose caps are unexceptionable. Madame de + Ventadour had also the magic that results from intuitive high breeding, + polished by habit to the utmost. She looked and moved the <i>grande dame</i>, + as if Nature had been employed by Rank to make her so. She was descended + from one of the most illustrious houses of France; had married at sixteen + a man of equal birth, but old, dull, and pompous—a caricature rather + than a portrait of that great French <i>noblesse</i>, now almost if not + wholly extinct. But her virtue was without a blemish—some said from + pride, some said from coldness. Her wit was keen and court-like—lively, + yet subdued; for her French high breeding was very different from the + lethargic and taciturn imperturbability of the English. All silent people + can seem conventionally elegant. A groom married a rich lady; he dreaded + the ridicule of the guests whom his new rank assembled at his table—an + Oxford clergyman gave him this piece of advice, “Wear a black coat and + hold your tongue!” The groom took the hint, and is always considered one + of the most gentlemanlike fellows in the county. Conversation is the + touchstone of the true delicacy and subtle grace which make the ideal of + the moral mannerism of a court. And there sat Madame de Ventadour, a + little apart from the dancers, with the silent English dandy Lord Taunton, + exquisitely dressed and superbly tall, bolt upright behind her chair; and + the sentimental German Baron von Schomberg, covered with orders, whiskered + and wigged to the last hair of perfection, sighing at her left hand; and + the French minister, shrewd, bland, and eloquent, in the chair at her + right; and round on all sides pressed, and bowed, and complimented, a + crowd of diplomatic secretaries and Italian princes, whose bank is at the + gaming-table, whose estates are in their galleries, and who sell a + picture, as English gentlemen cut down a wood, whenever the cards grow + gloomy. The charming De Ventadour! she had attraction for them all! smiles + for the silent, badinage for the gay, politics for the Frenchman, poetry + for the German, the eloquence of loveliness for all! She was looking her + best—the slightest possible tinge of rouge gave a glow to her + transparent complexion, and lighted up those large dark sparkling eyes + (with a latent softness beneath the sparkle) seldom seen but in the French—and + widely distinct from the unintellectual languish of the Spaniard, or the + full and majestic fierceness of the Italian gaze. Her dress of black + velvet, and graceful hat with its princely plume, contrasted the alabaster + whiteness of her arms and neck. And what with the eyes, the skin, the rich + colouring of the complexion, the rosy lips and the small ivory teeth, no + one would have had the cold hypercriticism to observe that the chin was + too pointed, the mouth too wide, and the nose, so beautiful in the front + face, was far from perfect in the profile. + </p> + <p> + “Pray was Madame in the Strada Nuova to-day?” asked the German, with as + much sweetness in his voice as if he had been vowing eternal love. + </p> + <p> + “What else have we to do with our mornings, we women?” replied Madame de + Ventadour. “Our life is a lounge from the cradle to the grave; and our + afternoons are but the type of our career. A promenade and a crowd,—<i>voila + tout</i>! We never see the world except in an open carriage.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the pleasantest way of seeing it,” said the Frenchman, drily. + </p> + <p> + “I doubt it; the worst fatigue is that which comes without exercise.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you do me the honour to waltz?” said the tall English lord, who had + a vague idea that Madame de Ventadour meant she would rather dance than + sit still. The Frenchman smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Lord Taunton enforces your own philosophy,” said the minister. + </p> + <p> + Lord Taunton smiled because every one else smiled; and, besides, he had + beautiful teeth: but he looked anxious for an answer. + </p> + <p> + “Not to-night,—I seldom dance. Who is that very pretty woman? What + lovely complexions the English have! And who,” continued Madame de + Ventadour, without waiting for an answer to the first question, “who is + that gentleman,—the young one I mean,—leaning against the + door?” + </p> + <p> + “What, with the dark moustache?” said Lord Taunton. “He is a cousin of + mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; not Colonel Bellfield; I know him—how amusing he is!—no; + the gentleman I mean wears no moustache.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the tall Englishman with the bright eyes and high forehead,” said the + French minister. “He is just arrived—from the East, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a striking countenance,” said Madame de Ventadour; “there is + something chivalrous in the turn of the head. Without doubt, Lord Taunton, + he is ‘<i>noble</i>’?” + </p> + <p> + “He is what you call ‘<i>noble</i>,’” replied Lord Taunton—“that is, + what we call a ‘gentleman;’ his name is Maltravers. He lately came of age; + and has, I believe, rather a good property.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Maltravers; only Monsieur?” repeated Madame de Ventadour. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said the French minister, “you understand that the English <i>gentilhomme</i> + does not require a De or a title to distinguish him from the <i>roturier</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that; but he has an air above a simple <i>gentilhomme</i>. There + is something <i>great</i> in his look; but it is not, I must own, the + conventional greatness of rank: perhaps he would have looked the same had + he been born a peasant.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think him handsome?” said Lord Taunton, almost angrily (for he + was one of the Beauty-men, and Beauty-men are sometimes jealous). + </p> + <p> + “Handsome! I did not say that,” replied Madame de Ventadour, smiling; “it + is rather a fine head than a handsome face. Is he clever, I wonder?—but + all you English, milord, are well educated.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, profound—profound: we are profound, not superficial,” replied + Lord Taunton, drawing down his wrist-bands. + </p> + <p> + “Will Madame de Ventadour allow me to present to her one of my + countrymen?” said the English minister approaching—“Mr. Maltravers.” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Ventadour half smiled and half blushed, as she looked up, and + saw bent admiringly upon her the proud and earnest countenance she had + remarked. + </p> + <p> + The introduction made—a few monosyllables exchanged. The French + diplomatist rose and walked away with the English one. Maltravers + succeeded to the vacant chair. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been long abroad?” asked Madame de Ventadour. + </p> + <p> + “Only four years; yet long enough to ask whether I should not be most + abroad in England.” + </p> + <p> + “You have been in the East—I envy you. And Greece, and Egypt,—all + the associations! You have travelled back into the Past; you have escaped, + as Madame D’Epinay wished, out of civilisation and into romance.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet Madame D’Epinay passed her own life in making pretty romances out of + a very agreeable civilisation,” said Maltravers, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “You know her Memoirs, then,” said Madame de Ventadour, slightly + colouring. “In the current of a more exciting literature few have had time + for the second-rate writings of a past century.” + </p> + <p> + “Are not those second-rate performances often the most charming,” said + Maltravers, “when the mediocrity of the intellect seems almost as if it + were the effect of a touching, though too feeble, delicacy of sentiment? + Madame D’Epinay’s Memoirs are of this character. She was not a virtuous + woman—but she felt virtue and loved it; she was not a woman of + genius—but she was tremblingly alive to all the influences of + genius. Some people seem born with the temperament and the tastes of + genius without its creative power; they have its nervous system, but + something is wanting in the intellectual. They feel acutely, yet express + tamely. These persons always have in their character an unspeakable kind + of pathos—a court civilisation produces many of them—and the + French memoirs of the last century are particularly fraught with such + examples. This is interesting—the struggle of sensitive minds + against the lethargy of a society, dull, yet brilliant, that <i>glares</i> + them, as it were, to sleep. It comes home to us; for,” added Maltravers, + with a slight change of voice, “how many of us fancy we see our own image + in the mirror!” + </p> + <p> + And where was the German baron?—flirting at the other end of the + room. And the English lord?—dropping monosyllables to dandies by the + doorway. And the minor satellites?—dancing, whispering, making love, + or sipping lemonade. And Madame de Ventadour was alone with the young + stranger in a crowd of eight hundred persons; and their lips spoke of + sentiment, and their eyes involuntarily applied it! + </p> + <p> + While they were thus conversing, Maltravers was suddenly startled by + hearing close behind him, a sharp, significant voice, saying in French, + “Hein, hein! I’ve my suspicions—I’ve my suspicions.” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Ventadour looked round with a smile. “It is only my husband,” + said she, quietly; “let me introduce him to you.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers rose and bowed to a little thin man, most elaborately dressed, + and with an immense pair of spectacles upon a long sharp nose. + </p> + <p> + “Charmed to make your acquaintance, sir!” said Monsieur de Ventadour. + “Have you been long in Naples?... Beautiful weather—won’t last long—hein, + hein, I’ve my suspicions! No news as to your parliament—be dissolved + soon! Bad opera in London this year!—hein, hein—I’ve my + suspicions.” + </p> + <p> + This rapid monologue was delivered with appropriate gesture. Each new + sentence Mons. de Ventadour began with a sort of bow, and when it dropped + in the almost invariable conclusion affirmative of his shrewdness and + incredulity, he made a mystical sign with his forefinger by passing it + upward in a parallel line with his nose, which at the same time performed + its own part in the ceremony by three convulsive twitches, that seemed to + shake the bridge to its base. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers looked with mute surprise upon the connubial partner of the + graceful creature by his side, and Mons. de Ventadour, who had said as + much as he thought necessary, wound up his eloquence by expressing the + rapture it would give him to see Mons. Maltravers at his hotel. Then, + turning to his wife, he began assuring her of the lateness of the hour, + and the expediency of departure. Maltravers glided away, and as he + regained the door was seized by our old friend, Lumley Ferrers. “Come, my + dear fellow,” said the latter; “I have been waiting for you this half + hour. <i>Allons</i>. But, perhaps, as I am dying to go to bed, you have + made up your mind to stay supper. Some people have no regard for other + people’s feelings.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Ferrers, I’m at your service;” and the young man descended the stairs + and passed along the Chiaja towards their hotel. As they gained the broad + and open space on which it stood, with the lovely sea before them, + sleeping in the arms of the curving shore, Maltravers, who had hitherto + listened in silence to the volubility of his companion, paused abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that sea, Ferrers.... What a scene!—what delicious air! How + soft this moonlight! Can you not fancy the old Greek adventurers, when + they first colonised this divine Parthenope—the darling of the ocean—gazing + along those waves, and pining no more for Greece?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot fancy anything of the sort,” said Ferrers.... “And, depend upon + it, the said gentlemen, at this hour of the night, unless they were on + some piratical excursion—for they were cursed ruffians, those old + Greek colonists—were fast asleep in their beds.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever write poetry, Ferrers?” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure; all clever men have written poetry once in their lives—small-pox + and poetry—they are our two juvenile diseases.” + </p> + <p> + “And did you ever <i>feel</i> poetry!” + </p> + <p> + “Feel it!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you put the moon into your verses, did you first feel it shining + into your heart?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Maltravers, if I put the moon into my verses, in all probability + it was to rhyme to noon. ‘The night was at her noon’—is a capital + ending for the first hexameter—and the moon is booked for the next + stage. Come in.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I shall stay out.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be nonsensical.” + </p> + <p> + “By moonlight there is no nonsense like common sense.” + </p> + <p> + “What! we—who have climbed the Pyramids, and sailed up the Nile, and + seen magic at Cairo, and been nearly murdered, bagged, and Bosphorized at + Constantinople, is it for us, who have gone through so many adventures, + looked on so many scenes, and crowded into four years events that would + have satisfied the appetite of a cormorant in romance, if it had lived to + the age of a phoenix;—is it for us to be doing the pretty and + sighing to the moon, like a black-haired apprentice without a neckcloth on + board of the Margate hoy? Nonsense, I say—we have lived too much not + to have lived away our green sickness of sentiment.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are right, Ferrers,” said Maltravers, smiling. “But I can + still enjoy a beautiful night.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you like flies in your soup, as the man said to his guest, when he + carefully replaced those entomological blackamoors in the tureen, after + helping himself—if you like flies in your soup, well and good—<i>buona + notte</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Ferrers certainly was right in his theory, that when we have known real + adventures we grow less morbidly sentimental. Life is a sleep in which we + dream most at the commencement and the close—the middle part absorbs + us too much for dreams. But still, as Maltravers said, we can enjoy a fine + night, especially on the shores of Naples. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers paced musingly to and fro for some time. His heart was softened—old + rhymes rang in his ear—old memories passed through his brain. But + the sweet dark eyes of Madame de Ventadour shone forth through every + shadow of the past. Delicious intoxication—the draught of the + rose-coloured phial—which is fancy, but seems love! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then ‘gan the Palmer thus—‘Most wretched man + That to affections dost the bridle lend: + In their beginnings they are weak and wan, + But soon, through suffrance, growe to fearfull end; + While they are weak, betimes with them contend.’” + SPENSER. +</pre> + <p> + MALTRAVERS went frequently to the house of Madame de Ventadour—it + was open twice a week to the world, and thrice a week to friends. + Maltravers was soon of the latter class. Madame de Ventadour had been in + England in her childhood, for her parents had been <i>emigres</i>. She + spoke English well and fluently, and this pleased Maltravers; for though + the French language was sufficiently familiar to him, he was like most who + are more vain of the mind than the person, and proudly averse to hazarding + his best thoughts in the domino of a foreign language. We don’t care how + faulty the accent, or how incorrect the idiom, in which we talk nothings; + but if we utter any of the poetry within us, we shudder at the risk of the + most trifling solecism. + </p> + <p> + This was especially the case with Maltravers; for, besides being now + somewhat ripened from his careless boyhood into a proud and fastidious + man, he had a natural love for the Becoming. This love was unconsciously + visible in trifles: it is the natural parent of Good Taste. And it was + indeed an inborn good taste which redeemed Ernest’s natural carelessness + in those personal matters in which young men usually take a pride. An + habitual and soldier-like neatness, and a love of order and symmetry, + stood with him in the stead of elaborate attention to equipage and dress. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers had not thought twice in his life whether he was handsome or + not; and, like most men who have a knowledge of the gentler sex, he knew + that beauty had little to do with engaging the love of women. The air, the + manner, the tone, the conversation, the something that interests, and the + something to be proud of—these are the attributes of the man made to + be loved. And the Beauty-man is, nine times out of ten, little more than + the oracle of his aunts, and the “<i>Sich</i> a love!” of the housemaids! + </p> + <p> + To return from this digression, Maltravers was glad that he could talk in + his own language to Madame de Ventadour; and the conversation between them + generally began in French, and glided away into English. Madame de + Ventadour was eloquent, and so was Maltravers; yet a more complete + contrast in their mental views and conversational peculiarities can + scarcely be conceived. Madame de Ventadour viewed everything as a woman of + the world: she was brilliant, thoughtful, and not without delicacy and + tenderness of sentiment; still all was cast in a worldly mould. She had + been formed by the influences of society, and her mind betrayed its + education. At once witty and melancholy (no uncommon union), she was a + disciple of the sad but caustic philosophy produced by <i>satiety</i>. In + the life she led, neither her heart nor her head was engaged; the + faculties of both were irritated, not satisfied or employed. She felt + somewhat too sensitively the hollowness of the great world, and had a low + opinion of human nature. In fact, she was a woman of the French memoirs—one + of those charming and <i>spirituelles</i> Aspasias of the boudoir, who + interest us by their subtlety, tact, and grace, their exquisite tone of + refinement, and are redeemed from the superficial and frivolous, partly by + a consummate knowledge of the social system in which they move, and partly + by a half-concealed and touching discontent of the trifles on which their + talents and affections are wasted. These are the women who, after a youth + of false pleasure, often end by an old age of false devotion. They are a + class peculiar to those ranks and countries in which shines and saddens + that gay and unhappy thing—<i>a woman without a home</i>! + </p> + <p> + Now this was a specimen of life—this Valerie de Ventadour—that + Maltravers had never yet contemplated, and Maltravers was perhaps equally + new to the Frenchwoman. They were delighted with each other’s society, + although it so happened that they never agreed. + </p> + <p> + Madame de Ventadour rode on horseback, and Maltravers was one of her usual + companions. And oh, the beautiful landscapes through which their daily + excursions lay! + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was an admirable scholar. The stores of the immortal dead were + as familiar to him as his own language. The poetry, the philosophy, the + manner of thought and habits of life—of the graceful Greek and the + luxurious Roman—were a part of knowledge that constituted a common + and household portion of his own associations and peculiarities of + thought. He had saturated his intellect with the Pactolus of old—and + the grains of gold came down from the classic Tmolus with every tide. This + knowledge of the dead, often so useless, has an inexpressible charm when + it is applied to the places where the dead lived. We care nothing about + the ancients on Highgate Hill—but at Baiae, Pompeii, by the + Virgilian Hades, the ancients are society with which we thirst to be + familiar. To the animated and curious Frenchwoman what a cicerone was + Ernest Maltravers! How eagerly she listened to accounts of a life more + elegant than that of Paris!—of a civilisation which the world never + can know again! So much the better;—for it was rotten at the core, + though most brilliant in the complexion. Those cold names and + unsubstantial shadows which Madame de Ventadour had been accustomed to + yawn over in skeleton histories, took from the eloquence of Maltravers the + breath of life—they glowed and moved—they feasted and made + love—were wise and foolish, merry and sad, like living things. On + the other hand, Maltravers learned a thousand new secrets of the existing + and actual world from the lips of the accomplished and observant Valerie. + What a new step in the philosophy of life does a young man of genius make, + when he first compares his theories and experience with the intellect of a + clever woman of the world! Perhaps it does not elevate him, but how it + enlightens and refines!—what numberless minute yet important + mysteries in human character and practical wisdom does he drink + unconsciously from the sparkling <i>persiflage</i> of such a companion! + Our education is hardly ever complete without it. + </p> + <p> + “And so you think these stately Romans were not, after all, so dissimilar + to ourselves?” said Valerie, one day, as they looked over the same earth + and ocean along which had roved the eyes of the voluptuous but august + Lucullus. + </p> + <p> + “In the last days of their Republic, a <i>coup-d’oeil</i> of their social + date might convey to us a general notion of our own. Their system, like + ours—a vast aristocracy heaved and agitated, but kept ambitious and + intellectual, by the great democratic ocean which roared below and around + it. An immense distinction between rich and poor—a nobility + sumptuous, wealthy, cultivated, yet scarcely elegant or refined; a people + with mighty aspirations for more perfect liberty, but always liable, in a + crisis, to be influenced and subdued by a deep-rooted veneration for the + very aristocracy against which they struggled;—a ready opening + through all the walls of custom and privilege, for every description of + talent and ambition; but so strong and universal a respect for wealth, + that the finest spirit grew avaricious, griping, and corrupt, almost + unconsciously; and the man who rose from the people did not scruple to + enrich himself out of the abuses he affected to lament; and the man who + would have died for his country could not help thrusting his hands into + her pockets. Cassius, the stubborn and thoughtful patriot, with his heart + of iron, had, you remember, an itching palm. Yet, what a blow to all the + hopes and dreams of a world was the overthrow of the free party after the + death of Caesar! What generations of freemen fell at Philippi! In England, + perhaps, we may have ultimately the same struggle; in France, too (perhaps + a larger stage, with far more inflammable actors), we already perceive the + same war of elements which shook Rome to her centre, which finally + replaced the generous Julius with the hypocritical Augustus, which + destroyed the colossal patricians to make way for the glittering dwarfs of + a court, and cheated the people out of the substance with the shadow of + liberty. How it may end in the modern world, who shall say? But while a + nation has already a fair degree of constitutional freedom, I believe no + struggle so perilous and awful as that between the aristocratic and the + democratic principle. A people against a despot—<i>that</i> contest + requires no prophet; but the change from an aristocratic to a democratic + commonwealth is indeed the wide, unbounded prospect upon which rest + shadows, clouds, and darkness. If it fail—for centuries is the + dial-hand of Time put back; if it succeed—” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers paused. + </p> + <p> + “And if it succeed?” said Valerie. + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, man will have colonised Utopia!” replied Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “But at least, in modern Europe,” he continued, “there will be fair room + for the experiment. For we have not that curse of slavery which, more than + all else, vitiated every system of the ancients, and kept the rich and the + poor alternately at war; and we have a press, which is not only the + safety-valve of the passions of every party, but the great note-book of + the experiments of every hour—the homely, the invaluable ledger of + losses and of gains. No; the people who keep that tablet well, never can + be bankrupt. And the society of those old Romans; their daily passions—occupations—humours!—why, + the satire of Horace is the glass of our own follies! We may fancy his + easy pages written in the Chaussee d’Antin, or Mayfair; but there was one + thing that will ever keep the ancient world dissimilar from the modern.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is that?” + </p> + <p> + “The ancients knew not that delicacy in the affections which characterises + the descendants of the Goths,” said Maltravers, and his voice slightly + trembled; “they gave up to the monopoly of the senses what ought to have + had an equal share in the reason and the imagination. Their love was a + beautiful and wanton butterfly; but not the butterfly which is the emblem + of the soul.” + </p> + <p> + Valerie sighed. She looked timidly into the face of the young philosopher, + but his eyes were averted. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” she said, after a short pause, “we pass our lives more happily + without love than with it. And in our modern social system” (she + continued, thoughtfully, and with profound truth, though it is scarcely + the conclusion to which a woman often arrives) “I think we have pampered + Love to too great a preponderance over the other excitements of life. As + children, we are taught to dream of it; in youth, our books, our + conversation, our plays, are filled with it. We are trained to consider it + the essential of life; and yet, the moment we come to actual experience, + the moment we indulge this inculcated and stimulated craving, nine times + out of ten we find ourselves wretched and undone. Ah, believe me, Mr. + Maltravers, this is not a world in which we should preach up too far the + philosophy of Love!” + </p> + <p> + “And does Madame de Ventadour speak from experience?” asked Maltravers, + gazing earnestly upon the changing countenance of his companion. + </p> + <p> + “No; and I trust that I never may!” said Valerie, with great energy. + </p> + <p> + Ernest’s lip curled slightly, for his pride was touched. + </p> + <p> + “I could give up many dreams of the future,” said he, “to hear Madame de + Ventadour revoke that sentiment.” + </p> + <p> + “We have outridden our companions, Mr. Maltravers,” said Valerie, coldly, + and she reined in her horse. “Ah, Mr. Ferrers,” she continued, as Lumley + and the handsome German baron now joined her, “you are too gallant; I see + you imply a delicate compliment to my horsemanship, when you wish me to + believe you cannot keep up with me: Mr. Maltravers is not so polite.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” returned Ferrers, who rarely threw away a compliment without a + satisfactory return, “Nay, you and Maltravers appeared lost among the old + Romans; and our friend the baron took that opportunity to tell me of all + the ladies who adored him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Monsieur Ferrare, <i>que vous etes malin</i>!” said Schomberg, + looking very much confused. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Malin</i>! no; I spoke from no envy: <i>I</i> never was adored, thank + Heaven! What a bore it must be!” + </p> + <p> + “I congratulate you on the sympathy between yourself and Ferrers,” + whispered Maltravers to Valerie. + </p> + <p> + Valerie laughed; but during the rest of the excursion she remained + thoughtful and absent, and for some days their rides were discontinued. + Madame de Ventadour was not well. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Love, forsake me not; + Mine were a lone dark lot + Bereft of thee.” + HEMANS, <i>Genius singing to Love</i>. +</pre> + <p> + I FEAR that as yet Ernest Maltravers had gained little from Experience, + except a few current coins of worldly wisdom (and not very valuable + those!) while he has lost much of that nobler wealth with which youthful + enthusiasm sets out on the journey of life. Experience is an open giver, + but a stealthy thief. There is, however, this to be said in her favour, + that we retain her gifts; and if ever we demand restitution in earnest, + ‘tis ten to one but what we recover her thefts. Maltravers had lived in + lands where public opinion is neither strong in its influence, nor rigid + in its canons; and that does not make a man better. Moreover, thrown + headlong amidst the temptations that make the first ordeal of youth, with + ardent passions and intellectual superiority, he had been led by the one + into many errors, from the consequences of which the other had delivered + him; the necessity of roughing it through the world—of resisting + fraud to-day, and violence to-morrow,—had hardened over the surface + of his heart, though at bottom the springs were still fresh and living. He + had lost much of his chivalrous veneration for women, for he had seen them + less often deceived than deceiving. Again, too, the last few years had + been spent without any high aims or fixed pursuits. Maltravers had been + living on the capital of his faculties and affections in a wasteful, + speculating spirit. It is a bad thing for a clever and ardent man not to + have from the onset some paramount object of life. + </p> + <p> + All this considered, we can scarcely wonder that Maltravers should have + fallen into an involuntary system of pursuing his own amusements and + pursuits, without much forethought of the harm or the good they were to do + to others or himself. The moment we lose forethought, we lose sight of + duty; and though it seems like a paradox, we can seldom be careless + without being selfish. + </p> + <p> + In seeking the society of Madame de Ventadour, Maltravers obeyed but the + mechanical impulse that leads the idler towards the companionship which + most pleases his leisure. He was interested and excited; and Valerie’s + manners, which to-day flattered, and to-morrow piqued him, enlisted his + vanity and pride on the side of his fancy. But although Monsieur de + Ventadour, a frivolous and profligate Frenchman, seemed utterly + indifferent as to what his wife chose to do—and in the society in + which Valerie lived, almost every lady had her cavalier,—yet + Maltravers would have started with incredulity or dismay had any one + accused him of a systematic design on her affections. But he was living + with the world, and the world affected him as it almost always does every + one else. Still he had, at times, in his heart, the feeling that he was + not fulfilling his proper destiny and duties; and when he stole from the + brilliant resorts of an unworthy and heartless pleasure, he was ever and + anon haunted by his old familiar aspirations for the Beautiful, the + Virtuous, and the Great. However, hell is paved with good intentions; and + so, in the meanwhile, Ernest Maltravers surrendered himself to the + delicious presence of Valerie de Ventadour. + </p> + <p> + One evening, Maltravers, Ferrers, the French minister, a pretty Italian, + and the Princess di ———, made the whole party collected + at Madame de Ventadour’s. The conversation fell upon one of the tales of + scandal relative to English persons, so common on the Continent. + </p> + <p> + “Is it true, Monsieur,” said the French minister, gravely, to Lumley, + “that your countrymen are much more immoral than other people? It is very + strange, but in every town I enter, there is always some story in which <i>les + Anglais</i> are the heroes. I hear nothing of French scandal—nothing + of Italian—<i>toujours les Anglais</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Because we are shocked at these things, and make a noise about them, + while you take them quietly. Vice is our episode—your epic.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is so,” said the Frenchman, with affected seriousness. “If + we cheat at play, or flirt with a fair lady, we do it with decorum, and + our neighbours think it no business of theirs. But you treat every frailty + you find in your countrymen as a public concern, to be discussed and + talked over, and exclaimed against, and told to all the world.” + </p> + <p> + “I like the system of scandal,” said Madame de Ventadour, abruptly; “say + what you will, the policy of fear keeps many of us virtuous. Sin might not + be odious, if we did not tremble at the consequence even of appearances.” + </p> + <p> + “Hein, hein,” grunted Monsieur de Ventadour, shuffling into the room. “How + are you?—how are you? Charmed to see you. Dull night—I suspect + we shall have rain. Hein, hein. Aha, Monsieur Ferrers, <i>comment ca + va-t-il</i>? Will you give me my revenge at <i>ecarte</i>? I have my + suspicions that I am in luck to-night. Hein, hein.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ecarte</i>!—well, with pleasure,” said Ferrers. + </p> + <p> + Ferrers played well. + </p> + <p> + The conversation ended in a moment. The little party gathered round the + table—all, except Valerie and Maltravers. The chairs that were + vacated left a kind of breach between them; but still they were next to + each other, and they felt embarrassed, for they felt alone. + </p> + <p> + “Do you never play?” asked Madame de Ventadour, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>have</i> played,” said Maltravers, “and I know the temptation. I + dare not play now. I love the excitement, but I have been humbled at the + debasement: it is a moral drunkenness that is worse than the physical.” + </p> + <p> + “You speak warmly.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I feel keenly. I once won of a man I respected, who was poor. His + agony was a dreadful lesson to me. I went home, and was terrified to think + I had felt so much pleasure in the pain of another. I have never played + since that night.” + </p> + <p> + “So young and so resolute!” said Valerie, with admiration in her voice and + eyes; “you are a strange person. Others would have been cured by losing, + you were cured by winning. It is a fine thing to have principle at your + age, Mr. Maltravers.” + </p> + <p> + “I fear it was rather pride than principle,” said Maltravers. “Error is + sometimes sweet; but there is no anguish like an error of which we feel + ashamed. I cannot submit to blush for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” muttered Valerie; “this is the echo of my own heart!” She rose and + went to the window. Maltravers paused a moment, and followed her. Perhaps + he half thought there was an invitation in the movement. + </p> + <p> + There lay before them the still street, with its feeble and unfrequent + lights; beyond, a few stars, struggling through an atmosphere unusually + clouded, brought the murmuring ocean partially into sight. Valerie leaned + against the wall, and the draperies of the window veiled her from all the + guests, save Maltravers; and between her and himself was a large marble + vase filled with flowers; and by that uncertain light Valerie’s brilliant + cheek looked pale, and soft, and thoughtful. Maltravers never before felt + so much in love with the beautiful Frenchwoman. + </p> +<div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> <img src="images/{0111}.jpg" alt="{0111}" width="100%" /><br /> </div> <h5> <a href="images/{0111}.jpg"> <img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> </h5> + + <p> + “Ah, madam!” said he, softly; “there is one error, if it be so, that never + can cost me shame.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” said Valerie with an unaffected start, for she was not aware he + was so near her. As she spoke she began plucking (it is a common woman’s + trick) the flowers from the vase between her and Ernest. That small, + delicate, almost transparent hand!—Maltravers gazed upon the hand, + then on the countenance, then on the hand again. The scene swam before + him, and, involuntarily and as by an irresistible impulse, the next moment + that hand was in his own. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me—pardon me,” said he, falteringly; “but that error is in + the feelings that I know for you.” + </p> + <p> + Valerie lifted on him her large and radiant eyes, and made no answer. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers went on. “Chide me, scorn me, hate me if you will. Valerie, I + love you.” + </p> + <p> + Valerie drew away her hand, and still remained silent. + </p> + <p> + “Speak to me,” said Ernest, leaning forward; “one word, I implore you—speak + to me!” + </p> + <p> + He paused,—still no reply; he listened breathlessly—he heard + her sob. Yes; that proud, that wise, that lofty woman of the world, in + that moment, was as weak as the simplest girl that ever listened to a + lover. But how different the feelings that made her weak!—what soft + and what stern emotions were blent together! + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maltravers,” she said, recovering her voice, though it sounded + hollow, yet almost unnaturally firm and clear”—the die is cast, and + I have lost for ever the friend for whose happiness I cannot live, but for + whose welfare I would have died; I should have foreseen this, but I was + blind. No more—no more; see me to-morrow, and leave me now!” + </p> + <p> + “But, Valerie—” + </p> + <p> + “Ernest Maltravers,” said she, laying her hand lightly on his own; “<i>there + is no anguish, like an error of which we feel ashamed</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Before he could reply to this citation from his own aphorism, Valerie had + glided away; and was already seated at the card-table, by the side of the + Italian princess. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers also joined the group. He fixed his eyes on Madame de + Ventadour, but her face was calm—not a trace of emotion was + discernible. Her voice, her smile, her charming and courtly manner, all + were as when he first beheld her. + </p> + <p> + “These women—what hypocrites they are!” muttered Maltravers to + himself; and his lip writhed into a sneer, which had of late often forced + away the serene and gracious expression of his earlier years, ere he knew + what it was to despise. But Maltravers mistook the woman he dared to + scorn. + </p> + <p> + He soon withdrew from the palazzo, and sought his hotel. There, while yet + musing in his dressing-room, he was joined by Ferrers. The time had passed + when Ferrers had exercised an influence over Maltravers; the boy had grown + up to be the equal of the man, in the exercise of that two-edged sword—the + reason. And Maltravers now felt, unalloyed, the calm consciousness of his + superior genius. He could not confide to Ferrers what had passed between + him and Valerie. Lumley was too <i>hard</i> for a confidant in matters + where the heart was at all concerned. In fact, in high spirits, and in the + midst of frivolous adventures, Ferrers was charming. But in sadness, or in + the moments of deep feeling, Ferrers was one whom you would wish out of + the way. + </p> + <p> + “You are sullen to-eight, <i>mon cher</i>,” said Lumley, yawning; “I + suppose you want to go to bed—some persons are so ill-bred, so + selfish, they never think of their friends. Nobody asks me what I won at + <i>ecarte</i>. Don’t be late to-morrow—I hate breakfasting alone, + and I am never later than a quarter before nine—I hate egotistical, + ill-mannered people. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + With this, Ferrers sought his own room; there, as he slowly undressed, he + thus soliloquised: “I think I have put this man to all the use I can make + of him. We don’t pull well together any longer; perhaps I myself am a + little tired of this sort of life. That is not right. I shall grow + ambitious by and by; but I think it a bad calculation not to make the most + of youth. At four or five-and-thirty it will be time enough to consider + what one ought to be at fifty.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Most dangerous + Is that temptation that does goad us on + To sin in loving virtue.”—<i>Measure for Measure</i>. +</pre> + <p> + “SEE her to-morrow!—that morrow is come!” thought Maltravers, as he + rose the next day from a sleepless couch. Ere yet he had obeyed the + impatient summons of Ferrers, who had thrice sent to say that “<i>he</i> + never kept people waiting,” his servant entered with a packet from + England, that had just arrived by one of those rare couriers who sometimes + honour that Naples, which <i>might</i> be so lucrative a mart to English + commerce, if Neapolitan kings cared for trade, or English senators for + “foreign politics.” Letters from stewards and bankers were soon got + through; and Maltravers reserved for the last an epistle from Cleveland. + There was much in it that touched him home. After some dry details about + the property to which Maltravers had now succeeded, and some trifling + comments upon trifling remarks in Ernest’s former letters, Cleveland went + on thus: + </p> + <p> + “I confess, my dear Ernest, that I long to welcome you back to England. + You have been abroad long enough to see other countries; do not stay long + enough to prefer them to your own. You are at Naples, too—I tremble + for you. I know well that delicious, dreaming, holiday-life of Italy, so + sweet to men of learning and imagination—so sweet, too, to youth—so + sweet to pleasure! But, Ernest, do you not feel already how it enervates?—how + the luxurious <i>far niente</i> unfits us for grave exertion? Men may + become too refined and too fastidious for useful purposes; and nowhere can + they become so more rapidly than in Italy. My dear Ernest, I know you + well; you are not made to sink down into a virtuoso, with a cabinet full + of cameos and a head full of pictures; still less are you made to be an + indolent <i>cicisbeo</i> to some fair Italian, with one passion and two + ideas: and yet I have known men as clever as you, whom that bewitching + Italy has sunk into one or other of these insignificant beings. Don’t run + away with the notion that you have plenty of time before you. You have no + such thing. At your age, and with your fortune (I wish you were not so + rich), the holiday of one year becomes the custom of the next. In England, + to be a useful or a distinguished man, you must labour. Now, labour itself + is sweet, if we take to it early. We are a hard race, but we are a manly + one; and our stage is the most exciting in Europe for an able and an + honest ambition. Perhaps you will tell me you are not ambitious now; very + possibly—but ambitious you will be; and, believe me, there is no + unhappier wretch than a man who is ambitious but disappointed,—who + has the desire for fame, but has lost the power to achieve it—who + longs for the goal, but will not, and cannot, put away his slippers to + walk to it. What I most fear for you is one of these two evils—an + early marriage or a fatal <i>liaison</i> with some married woman. The + first evil is certainly the least, but for you it would still be a great + one. With your sensitive romance, with your morbid cravings for the ideal, + domestic happiness would soon grow trite and dull. You would demand new + excitement, and become a restless and disgusted man. It is necessary for + you to get rid of all the false fever of life, before you settle down to + everlasting ties. You do not yet know your own mind; you would choose your + partner from some visionary caprice, or momentary impulse, and not from + the deep and accurate knowledge of those qualities which would most + harmonize with your own character. People, to live happily with each + other, must <i>fit in</i>, as it were—the proud be mated with the + meek, the irritable with the gentle, and so forth. No, my dear Maltravers, + do not think of marriage yet a while; and if there is any danger of it, + come over to me immediately. But if I warn you against a lawful tie, how + much more against an illicit one? You are precisely at the age, and of the + disposition, which render the temptation so strong and so deadly. With you + it might not be the sin of an hour, but the bondage of a life. I know your + chivalric honour—your tender heart; I know how faithful you would be + to one who had sacrificed for you. But that fidelity, Maltravers, to what + a life of wasted talent and energies would it not compel you! Putting + aside for the moment (for that needs no comment) the question of the grand + immorality—what so fatal to a bold and proud temper, as to be at war + with society at the first entrance into life? What so withering to manly + aims and purposes, as the giving into the keeping of a woman, who has + interest in your love, and interest against your career which might part + you at once from her side—the control of your future destinies? I + could say more, but I trust what I have said is superfluous; if so, pray + assure me of it. Depend upon this, Ernest Maltravers, that if you do not + fulfil what nature intended for your fate, you will be a morbid + misanthrope, or an indolent voluptuary—wrenched and listless in + manhood, repining and joyless in old age. But if you do fulfil your fate, + you must enter soon into your apprenticeship. Let me see you labour and + aspire—no matter what in—what to. Work, work—that is all + I ask of you! + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would see your old country-house; it has a venerable and + picturesque look, and during your minority they have let the ivy cover + three sides of it. Montaigne might have lived there. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Adieu, dearest Ernest, + “Your anxious and affectionate guardian, + “FREDERICK CLEVELAND. +</pre> + <p> + “P. S.—I am writing a book—it shall last me ten years—it + occupies me, but does not fatigue. Write a book yourself.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Maltravers had just finished this letter when Ferrers entered impatiently. + “Will you ride out?” said he. “I have sent the breakfast away; I saw that + breakfast was a vain hope to-day—indeed, my appetite is gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw!” said Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! Humph! for my part I like well-bred people.” + </p> + <p> + “I have had a letter from Cleveland.” + </p> + <p> + “And what the deuce has that got to do with the chocolate?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lumley, you are insufferable; you think of nothing but yourself, and + self with you means nothing that is not animal.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes; I believe I have some sense,” replied Ferrers, complacently. “I + know the philosophy of life. All unfledged bipeds are animals, I suppose. + If Providence had made me graminivorous, I should have eaten grass; if + ruminating, I should have chewed the cud; but as it has made me a + carnivorous, culinary, and cachinnatory animal, I eat a cutlet, scold + about the sauce, and laugh at you; and this is what you call being + selfish!” + </p> + <p> + It was late at noon when Maltravers found himself at the palazzo of Madame + de Ventadour. He was surprised, but agreeably so, that he was admitted, + for the first time, into that private sanctum which bears the hackneyed + title of boudoir. But there was little enough of the fine lady’s boudoir + in the simple morning-room of Madame de Ventadour. It was a lofty + apartment, stored with books, and furnished, not without claim to grace, + but with very small attention to luxury. + </p> + <p> + Valerie was not there, and Maltravers, left alone, after a hasty glance + around the chamber, leaned abstractedly against the wall, and forgot, + alas! all the admonitions of Cleveland. In a few moments the door opened, + and Valerie entered. She was unusually pale, and Maltravers thought her + eyelids betrayed the traces of tears. He was touched, and his heart smote + him. + </p> + <p> + “I have kept you waiting, I fear,” said Valerie, motioning him to a seat + at a little distance from that on which she placed herself; “but you will + forgive me,” she added, with a slight smile. Then, observing he was about + to speak, she went on rapidly; “Hear me, Mr. Maltravers—before you + speak, hear me! You uttered words last night that ought never to have been + addressed to me. You professed to—love me.” + </p> + <p> + “Professed!” + </p> + <p> + “Answer me,” said Valerie, with abrupt energy, “not as man to woman, but + as one human creature to another. From the bottom of your heart, from the + core of your conscience, I call on you to speak the honest and the simple + truth. Do you love me as your heart, your genius, must be capable of + loving?” + </p> + <p> + “I love you truly—passionately!” said Maltravers, surprised and + confused, but still with enthusiasm in his musical voice and earnest eyes. + Valerie gazed upon him as if she sought to penetrate into his soul. + Maltravers went on. “Yes, Valerie, when we first met, you aroused a long + dormant and delicious sentiment. But, since then, what deep emotions has + that sentiment called forth? Your graceful intellect—your lovely + thoughts, wise yet womanly—have completed the conquest your face and + voice began. Valerie, I love you. And you—you, Valerie—ah! I + do not deceive myself—you also—” + </p> + <p> + “Love!” interrupted Valerie, deeply blushing, but in a calm voice. “Ernest + Maltravers, I do not deny it; honestly and frankly I confess the fault. I + have examined my heart during the whole of the last sleepless night, and I + confess that I love you. Now, then, understand me—we meet no more.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” said Maltravers, falling involuntarily at her feet, and seeking to + detain her hand, which he seized. “What! now, when you have given life a + new charm, will you as suddenly blast it? No, Valerie; no, I will not + listen to you.” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Ventadour rose and said, with a cold dignity: “Hear me calmly, + or I quit the room; and all I would now say rests for ever unspoken.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers rose also, folded his arms haughtily, bit his lips, and stood + erect, and confronting Valerie rather in the attitude of an accuser than a + suppliant. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” said he, gravely, “I will offend no more; I will trust to your + manner, since I may not believe your words.” + </p> + <p> + “You are cruel,” said Valerie, smiling mournfully; “but so are all men. + Now let me make myself understood. I was betrothed to Monsieur de + Ventadour in my childhood. I did not see him till a month before we + married. I had no choice. French girls have none. We were wed. I had + formed no other attachment. I was proud and vain: wealth, ambition, and + social rank for a time satisfied my faculties and my heart. At length I + grew restless and unhappy. I felt that something of life was wanting. + Monsieur de Ventadour’s sister was the first to recommend me to the common + resource of our sex—at least, in France—a lover. I was shocked + and startled, for I belong to a family in which women are chaste and men + brave. I began, however, to look around me, and examine the truth of the + philosophy of vice. I found that no woman, who loved honestly and deeply + an illicit lover was happy. I found, too, the hideous profundity of + Rochefoucauld’s maxim that a woman—I speak of French women—may + live without a lover; but, a lover once admitted, she never goes through + life with only one. She is deserted; she cannot bear the anguish and the + solitude; she fills up the void with a second idol. For her there is no + longer a fall from virtue: it is a gliding and involuntary descent from + sin to sin, till old age comes on and leaves her without love and without + respect. I reasoned calmly, for my passions did not blind my reason. I + could not love the egotists around me. I resolved upon my career; and now, + in temptation, I will adhere to it. Virtue is my lover, my pride, my + comfort, my life of life. Do you love me, and will you rob me of this + treasure? I saw you, and for the first time I felt a vague and + intoxicating interest in another; but I did not dream of danger. As our + acquaintance advanced I formed to myself a romantic and delightful vision. + I would be your firmest, your truest friend; your confidant, your adviser—perhaps, + in some epochs of life, your inspiration and your guide. I repeat that I + foresaw no danger in your society. I felt myself a nobler and a better + being. I felt more benevolent, more tolerant, more exalted. I saw life + through the medium of purifying admiration for a gifted nature, and a + profound and generous soul. I fancied we might be ever thus—each to + each;—one strengthened, assured, supported by the other. Nay, I even + contemplated with pleasure the prospect of your future marriage with + another—of loving your wife—of contributing with her to your + happiness—my imagination made me forget that we are made of clay. + Suddenly all these visions were dispelled—the fairy palace was + overthrown, and I found myself awake, and on the brink of the abyss—you + loved me, and in the moment of that fatal confession, the mask dropped + from my soul, and I felt that you had become too dear to me. Be silent + still, I implore you. I do not tell you of the emotions, of the struggles, + through which I have passed the last few hours—the crisis of a life. + I tell you only of the resolution I formed. I thought it due to you, nor + unworthy to myself, to speak the truth. Perhaps it might be more womanly + to conceal it; but my heart has something masculine in its nature. I have + a great faith in your nobleness. I believe you can sympathise with + whatever is best in human weakness. I tell you that I love you—I + throw myself upon your generosity. I beseech you to assist my own sense of + right—to think well of me, to honour me—and to leave me!” + </p> + <p> + During the last part of this strange and frank avowal, Valerie’s voice had + grown inexpressibly touching: her tenderness forced itself into her + manner; and when she ceased, her lip quivered; her tears, repressed by a + violent effort, trembled in her eyes—her hands were clasped—her + attitude was that of humility, not pride. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers stood perfectly spell-bound. At length he advanced; dropped on + one knee, kissed her hand with an aspect and air of reverential homage, + and turned to quit the room in silence; for he would not dare to trust + himself to speak. + </p> + <p> + Valerie gazed at him in anxious alarm. “O no, no!” she exclaimed, “do not + leave me yet; this is our last meeting our last. Tell me, at least, that + you understand me; that you see, if I am no weak fool, I am also no + heartless coquette; tell me that you see I am not as hard as I have + seemed; that I have not knowingly trifled with your happiness; that even + now I am not selfish. Your love,—I ask it no more! But your esteem—your + good opinion. Oh, speak—speak, I implore you!” + </p> + <p> + “Valerie,” said Maltravers, “if I was silent, it was because my heart was + too full for words. You have raised all womanhood in my eyes. I did love + you—I now venerate and adore. Your noble frankness, so unlike the + irresolute frailty, the miserable wiles of your sex, has touched a chord + in my heart that has been mute for years. I leave you to think better of + human nature. Oh!” he continued, “hasten to forget all of me that can cost + you a pang. Let me still, in absence and in sadness, think that I retain + in your friendship—let it be friendship only—the inspiration, + the guide of which you spoke; and if, hereafter, men shall name me with + praise and honour, feel, Valerie, feel that I have comforted myself for + the loss of your love by becoming worthy of your confidence—your + esteem. Oh, that we had met earlier, when no barrier was between us!” + </p> + <p> + “Go, go, <i>now</i>,” faltered Valerie, almost choked with her emotions; + “may Heaven bless you! Go!” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers muttered a few inaudible and incoherent words, and quitted the + apartment. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The men of sense, those idols of the shallow, are very inferior + to the men of Passions. It is the strong passions which, rescuing + us from sloth, can alone impart to us that continuous and earnest + attention necessary to great intellectual efforts.”—HELVETIUS. +</pre> + <p> + WHEN Ferrers returned that day from his customary ride, he was surprised + to see the lobbies and hall of the apartment which he occupied in common + with Maltravers, littered with bags and <i>malles</i>, boxes and books, + and Ernest’s Swiss valet directing porters and waiters in a mosaic of + French, English, and Italian. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” said Lumley, “and what is all this?” + </p> + <p> + “Il signore va partir, sare, ah! mon Dieu!—<i>tout</i> of a sudden.” + </p> + <p> + “O-h! and where is he now!” + </p> + <p> + “In his room, sare.” + </p> + <p> + Over the chaos strode Ferrers, and opening the door of his friend’s + dressing-room without ceremony, he saw Maltravers buried in a fauteuil, + with his hands drooping on his knees, his head bent over his breast, and + his whole attitude expressive of dejection and exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, my dear Ernest? You have not killed a man in a duel?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “What then? Why are you going away, and whither?” + </p> + <p> + “No matter; leave me in peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Friendly!” said Ferrers; “very friendly! And what is to become of me—what + companion am I to have in this cursed resort of antiquarians and + lazzaroni? You have no feeling, Mr. Maltravers!” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come with me, then?” said Maltravers, in vain endeavouring to + rouse himself. + </p> + <p> + “But where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Anywhere; to Paris—to London.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I have arranged my plans for the summer. I am not so rich as some + people. I hate change: it is so expensive.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear fellow—” + </p> + <p> + “Is this fair dealing with me?” continued Lumley, who, for once in his + life, was really angry. “If I were an old coat you had worn for five years + you could not throw me off with more nonchalance.” + </p> + <p> + “Ferrers, forgive me. My honour is concerned. I must leave this place. I + trust you will remain my guest here, though in the absence of your host. + You know that I have engaged the apartment for the next three months.” + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” said Ferrers, “as that is the case I may as well stay here. But + why so secret? Have you seduced Madame de Ventadour, or has her wise + husband his suspicions? Hein, hein!” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers smothered his disgust at this coarseness; and, perhaps, there + is no greater trial of temper than in a friend’s gross remarks upon the + connection of the heart. + </p> + <p> + “Ferrers,” said he, “if you care for me, breathe not a word disrespectful + to Madame de Ventadour: she is an angel!” + </p> + <p> + “But why leave Naples?” + </p> + <p> + “Trouble me no more.” + </p> + <p> + “Good day, sir,” said Ferrers, highly offended, and he stalked out of the + chamber; nor did Ernest see him again before his departure. + </p> + <p> + It was late that evening when Maltravers found himself alone in his + carriage, pursuing by starlight the ancient and melancholy road to Mola di + Gaeta. + </p> + <p> + His solitude was a luxury to Maltravers; he felt an inexpressible sense of + relief to be freed from Ferrers. The hard sense, the unpliant, though + humorous imperiousness, the animal sensuality of his companion would have + been torture to him in his present state of mind. + </p> + <p> + The next morning, when he rose, the orange blossoms of Mola di Gaeta were + sweet beneath the window of the inn where he rested. It was now the early + spring, and the freshness of the odour, the breathing health of earth and + air, it is impossible to describe. Italy itself boasts few spots more + lovely than that same Mola di Gaeta—nor does that halcyon sea wear, + even at Naples or Sorrento, a more bland and enchanting smile. + </p> + <p> + So, after a hasty and scarcely-tasted breakfast, Maltravers strolled + through the orange groves, and gained the beach; and there, stretched at + idle length by the murmuring waves, he resigned himself to thought, and + endeavoured, for the first time since his parting with Valerie, to collect + and examine the state of his mind and feelings. Maltravers, to his own + surprise, did not find himself so unhappy as he had expected. On the + contrary, a soft and almost delicious sentiment, which he could not well + define, floated over all his memories of the beautiful Frenchwoman. + Perhaps the secret was, that while his pride was not mortified, his + conscience was not galled—perhaps, also, he had not loved Valerie so + deeply as he had imagined. The confession and the separation had happily + come before her presence had grown—<i>the want of a life</i>. As it + was, he felt as if, by some holy and mystic sacrifice, he had been made + reconciled to himself and mankind. He woke to a juster and higher + appreciation of human nature, and of woman’s nature in especial. He had + found honesty and truth where he might least have expected it—in a + woman of a court—in a woman surrounded by vicious and frivolous + circles—in a woman who had nothing in the opinion of her friends, + her country, her own husband, the social system in which she moved, to + keep her from the concessions of frailty—in a woman of the world—a + woman of Paris!—yes, it was his very disappointment that drove away + the fogs and vapours that, arising from the marshes of the great world, + had gradually settled round his soul. Valerie de Ventadour had taught him + not to despise her sex, not to judge by appearances, not to sicken of a + low and a hypocritical world. He looked in his heart for the love of + Valerie, and he found there the love of virtue. Thus, as he turned his + eyes inward, did he gradually awaken to a sense of the true impressions + engraved there. And he felt the bitterest drop of the fountains was not + sorrow for himself, but for her. What pangs must that high spirit have + endured ere it could have submitted to the avowal it had made! Yet, even + in this affliction he found at last a solace. A mind so strong could + support and heal the weakness of the heart. He felt that Valerie de + Ventadour was not a woman to pine away in the unresisted indulgence of + morbid and unholy emotions. He could not flatter himself that she would + not seek to eradicate a love she repented; and he sighed with a natural + selfishness, when he owned also that sooner or later she would succeed. + “But be it so,” said he, half aloud—“I will prepare my heart to + rejoice when I learn that she remembers me only as a friend. Next to the + bliss of her love is the pride of her esteem.” + </p> + <p> + Such was the sentiment with which his reveries closed—and with every + league that bore him further from the south, the sentiment grew + strengthened and confirmed. + </p> + <p> + Ernest Maltravers felt there is in the affections themselves so much to + purify and exalt, that even an erring love, conceived without a cold + design, and (when its nature is fairly understood) wrestled against with a + noble spirit, leaves the heart more tolerant and tender, and the mind more + settled and enlarged. The philosophy limited to the reason puts into + motion the automata of the closet—but to those who have the world + for a stage, and who find their hearts are the great actors, experience + and wisdom must be wrought from the Philosophy of the Passions. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Not to all men Apollo shows himself— + Who sees him—<i>he</i> is great!” + CALLIM. <i>Ex Hymno in Apollinon</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music + Creep in our ears—soft stillness and the night + Become the touches of sweet harmony.” + SHAKESPEARE. +</pre> + <p> + BOAT SONG ON THE LAKE OF COMO. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + The Beautiful Clime!—the Clime of Love! + Thou beautiful Italy! + Like a mother’s eyes, the earnest skies + Ever have smiles for thee! + Not a flower that blows, not a beam that glows, + But what is in love with thee! + + II. + + The beautiful lake, the Larian lake!* + Soft lake like a silver sea, + The Huntress Queen, with her nymphs of sheen, + Never had bath like thee. + See, the Lady of night and her maids of light, + Even now are mid-deep in thee! + + * The ancient name of Como. + + III. + + Beautiful child of the lonely hills, + Ever blest may thy slumbers be! + No mourner should tread by thy dreamy bed, + No life bring a care to thee— + Nay, soft to thy bed, let the mourner tread— + And life be a dream like thee! +</pre> + <p> + Such, though uttered in the soft Italian tongue, and now imperfectly + translated—such were the notes that floated one lovely evening in + summer along the lake of Como. The boat, from which came the song, drifted + gently down the sparkling waters, towards the mossy banks of a lawn, + whence on a little eminence gleamed the white walls of a villa, backed by + vineyards. On that lawn stood a young and handsome woman, leaning on the + arm of her husband, and listening to the song. But her delight was soon + deepened into one of more personal interest, as the boatmen, nearing the + banks, changed their measure, and she felt that the minstrelsy was in + honour of herself. + </p> + <p> + SERENADE TO THE SONGSTRESS. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + CHORUS. + + Softly—oh, soft! let us rest on the oar, + And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore:— + For sacred the spot where the starry waves meet + With the beach, where the breath of the citron is sweet. + There’s a spell on the waves that now waft us along + To the last of our Muses, the Spirit of Song. + + RECITATIVE. + + The Eagle of old renown, + And the Lombard’s iron crown + And Milan’s mighty name are ours no more; + But by this glassy water, + Harmonia’s youngest daughter, + Still from the lightning saves one laurel to our shore. + + II. + + CHORUS. + + They heard thee, Teresa, the Teuton, the Gaul, + Who have raised the rude thrones of the North on our fall; + They heard thee, and bow’d to the might of thy song; + Like love went thy steps o’er the hearts of the strong; + As the moon to the air, as the soul to the clay, + To the void of this earth was the breath of thy lay. + + RECITATIVE. + + Honour for aye to her + The bright interpreter + Of Art’s great mysteries to the enchanted throng; + While tyrants heard thy strains, + Sad Rome forgot her chains; + The world the sword had lost was conquer’d back by song! +</pre> + <p> + “Thou repentest, my Teresa, that thou hast renounced thy dazzling career + for a dull home, and a husband old enough to be thy father,” said the + husband to the wife, with a smile that spoke confidence in the answer. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, no! even this homage would have no music to me if thou didst not hear + it.” + </p> + <p> + She was a celebrated personage in Italy—the Signora Cesarini, now + Madame de Montaigne. Her earlier youth had been spent upon the stage, and + her promise of vocal excellence had been most brilliant. But after a brief + though splendid career, she married a French gentleman of good birth and + fortune, retired from the stage, and spent her life alternately in the gay + saloons of Paris and upon the banks of the dreamy Como, on which her + husband had purchased a small but beautiful villa. She still, however, + exercised in private her fascinating art; to which—for she was a + woman of singular accomplishment and talent—she added the gift of + the improvvisatrice. She had just returned for the summer to this lovely + retreat, and a party of enthusiastic youths from Milan had sought the lake + of Como to welcome her arrival with the suitable homage of song and music. + It is a charming relic, that custom of the brighter days of Italy; and I + myself have listened, on the still waters of the same lake, to a similar + greeting to a greater genius—the queenlike and unrivalled Pasta—the + Semiramis of Song! And while my boat paused, and I caught something of the + enthusiasm of the serenaders, the boatman touched me, and, pointing to a + part of the lake on which the setting sun shed its rosiest smile, he said, + “There, Signor, was drowned one of your countrymen ‘bellissimo uomo! che + fu bello!’”—yes, there, in the pride of his promising youth, of his + noble and almost godlike beauty, before the very windows—the very + eyes—of his bride—the waves without a frown had swept over the + idol of many hearts—the graceful and gallant Locke.* And above his + grave was the voluptuous sky, and over it floated the triumphant music. It + was as the moral of the Roman poets—calling the living to a holiday + over the oblivion of the dead. + </p> + <p> + * Captain William Locke of the Life Guards (the only son of the + accomplished Mr. Locke of Norbury Park), distinguished by a character the + most amiable, and by a personal beauty that certainly equalled, perhaps + surpassed, the highest masterpiece of Grecian sculpture. He was returning + in a boat from the town of Como to his villa on the banks of the lake, + when the boat was upset by one of the mysterious under-currents to which + the lake is dangerously subjected; and he was drowned in sight of his + bride, who was watching his return from the terrace or balcony of their + home. + </p> + <p> + As the boat now touched the bank, Madame de Montaigne accosted the + musicians, thanked them with a sweet and unaffected earnestness for the + compliment so delicately offered, and invited them ashore. The Milanese, + who were six in number, accepted the invitation, and moored their boat to + the jutting shore. It was then that Monsieur de Montaigne pointed out to + the notice of his wife a boat, that had lingered under the shadow of a + bank, tenanted by a young man, who had seemed to listen with rapt + attention to the music, and who had once joined in the chorus (as it was + twice repeated), with a voice so exquisitely attuned, and so rich in its + deep power, that it had awakened the admiration even of the serenaders + themselves. + </p> + <p> + “Does not that gentleman belong to your party?” De Montaigne asked of the + Milanese. + </p> + <p> + “No, Signor, we know him not,” was the answer; “his boat came unawares + upon us as we were singing.” + </p> + <p> + While this question and answer were going on, the young man had quitted + his station, and his oars cut the glassy surface of the lake, just before + the place where De Montaigne stood. With the courtesy of his country, the + Frenchman lifted his hat; and, by his gesture, arrested the eye and oar of + the solitary rower. “Will you honour us,” he said, “by joining our little + party?” + </p> + <p> + “It is a pleasure I covet too much to refuse,” replied the boatman, with a + slight foreign accent, and in another moment he was on shore. He was one + of remarkable appearance. His long hair floated with a careless grace over + a brow more calm and thoughtful than became his years; his manner was + unusually quiet and self-collected, and not without a certain stateliness, + rendered more striking by the height of his stature, a lordly contour of + feature, and a serene but settled expression of melancholy in his eyes and + smile. “You will easily believe,” said he, “that, cold as my countrymen + are esteemed (for you must have discovered already that I am an + Englishman), I could not but share in the enthusiasm of those about me, + when loitering near the very ground sacred to the inspiration. For the + rest, I am residing for the present in yonder villa, opposite to your own; + my name is Maltravers, and I am enchanted to think that I am no longer a + personal stranger to one whose fame has already reached me.” Madame de + Montaigne was flattered by something in the manner and tone of the + Englishman, which said a great deal more than his words; and in a few + minutes, beneath the influence of the happy continental ease, the whole + party seemed as if they had known each other for years. Wines, and fruits, + and other simple and unpretending refreshments, were brought out and + ranged on a rude table upon the grass, round which the guests seated + themselves with their host and hostess, and the clear moon shone over + them, and the lake slept below in silver. It was a scene for a Boccaccio + or a Claude. + </p> + <p> + The conversation naturally fell upon music; it is almost the only thing + which Italians in general can be said to know—and even that + knowledge comes to them, like Dogberry’s reading and writing, by nature—for + of music, as an <i>art</i>, the unprofessional amateurs know but little. + As vain and arrogant of the last wreck of their national genius as the + Romans of old were of the empire of all arts and arms, they look upon the + harmonies of other lands as barbarous; nor can they appreciate or + understand appreciation of the mighty German music, which is the proper + minstrelsy of a nation of men—a music of philosophy, of heroism, of + the intellect and the imagination; beside which, the strains of modern + Italy are indeed effeminate, fantastic, and artificially feeble. Rossini + is the Canova of music, with much of the pretty, with nothing of the + grand! + </p> + <p> + The little party talked, however, of music, with an animation and gusto + that charmed the melancholy Maltravers, who for weeks had known no + companion save his own thoughts, and with whom, at all times, enthusiasm + for any art found a ready sympathy. He listened attentively, but said + little; and from time to time, whenever the conversation flagged, amused + himself by examining his companions. The six Milanese had nothing + remarkable in their countenances or in their talk; they possessed the + characteristic energy and volubility of their countrymen, with something + of the masculine dignity which distinguishes the Lombard from the + Southern, and a little of the French polish, which the inhabitants of + Milan seldom fail to contract. Their rank was evidently that of the middle + class; for Milan has a middle class, and one which promises great results + hereafter. But they were noways distinguished from a thousand other + Milanese whom Maltravers had met with in the walks and cafes of their + noble city. The host was somewhat more interesting. He was a tall, + handsome man, of about eight-and-forty, with a high forehead, and features + strongly impressed with the sober character of thought. He had but little + of the French vivacity in his manner; and without looking at his + countenance, you would still have felt insensibly that he was the eldest + of the party. His wife was at least twenty years younger than himself, + mirthful and playful as a child, but with a certain feminine and + fascinating softness in her unrestrained gestures and sparkling gaiety, + which seemed to subdue her natural joyousness into the form and method of + conventional elegance. Dark hair carelessly arranged, an open forehead, + large black laughing eyes, a small straight nose, a complexion just + relieved from the olive by an evanescent, yet perpetually recurring blush; + a round dimpled cheek, an exquisitely-shaped mouth with small pearly + teeth, and a light and delicate figure a little below the ordinary + standard, completed the picture of Madame de Montaigne. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Signor Tirabaloschi, the most loquacious and sentimental of + the guests, filling his glass, “these are hours to think of for the rest + of life. But we cannot hope the Signora will long remember what we never + can forget. Paris, says the French proverb, <i>est le paradis des femmes</i>: + and in Paradise, I take it for granted, we recollect very little of what + happened on earth.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Madame de Montaigne, with a pretty musical laugh, “in Paris it + is the rage to despise the frivolous life of cities, and to affect <i>des + sentimens romanesques</i>. This is precisely the scene which our fine + ladies and fine writers would die to talk of and to describe. Is it not + so, <i>mon ami</i>?” and she turned affectionately to De Montaigne. + </p> + <p> + “True,” replied he; “but you are not worthy of such a scene—you + laugh at sentiment and romance.” + </p> + <p> + “Only at French sentiment and the romance of the Chaussee d’Antin. You + English,” she continued, shaking her head at Maltravers, “have spoiled and + corrupted us; we are not content to imitate you, we must excel you; we + out-horror horror, and rush from the extravagant into the frantic!” + </p> + <p> + “The ferment of the new school is, perhaps, better than the stagnation of + the old,” said Maltravers. “Yet even you,” addressing himself to the + Italians, “who first in Petrarch, in Tasso, and in Ariosto, set to Europe + the example of the Sentimental and the Romantic; who built among the very + ruins of the classic school, amidst its Corinthian columns and sweeping + arches, the spires and battlements of the Gothic—even you are + deserting your old models and guiding literature into newer and wilder + paths. ‘Tis the way of the world—eternal progress is eternal + change.” + </p> + <p> + “Very possibly,” said Signor Tirabaloschi, who understood nothing of what + was said. “Nay, it is extremely profound; on reflection, it is beautiful—superb! + you English are so—so—in short, it is admirable. Ugo Foscolo + is a great genius—so is Monti; and as for Rossini,—you know + his last opera—<i>cosa stupenda</i>!” + </p> + <p> + Madame de Montaigne glanced at Maltravers, clapped her little hands, and + laughed outright. Maltravers caught the contagion, and laughed also. But + he hastened to repair the pedantic error he had committed of talking over + the heads of the company. He took up the guitar, which, among their + musical instruments, the serenaders had brought, and after touching its + chords for a few moments, said: “After all, Madame, in your society, and + with this moonlit lake before us, we feel as if music were our best medium + of conversation. Let us prevail upon these gentlemen to delight us once + more.” + </p> + <p> + “You forestall what I was going to ask,” said the ex-singer; and + Maltravers offered the guitar to Tirabaloschi, who was in fact dying to + exhibit his powers again. He took the instrument with a slight grimace of + modesty, and then saying to Madame de Montaigne, “There is a song composed + by a young friend of mine, which is much admired by the ladies; though to + me it seems a little too sentimental,” sang the following stanzas (as good + singers are wont to do) with as much feeling as if he could understand + them! + </p> + <p> + NIGHT AND LOVE. + </p> + <p> + When stars are in the quiet skies, Then most I pine for thee; Bend on me, + then, thy tender eyes! As stars look on the sea! + </p> + <p> + For thoughts, like waves that glide by night, Are stillest where they + shine; Mine earthly love lies hushed in light Beneath the heaven of thine. + </p> + <p> + There is an hour when angels keep Familiar watch on men; When coarser + souls are wrapt in sleep,— Sweet spirit, meet me then. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +There is an hour when holy dreams Through slumber fairest glide; +And in that mystic hour it seems Thou shouldst be by my side. + + The thoughts of thee too sacred are + For daylight’s common beam;— + I can but know thee as my star, + My angel, and my dream! +</pre> + <p> + And now, the example set, and the praises of the fair hostess exciting + general emulation, the guitar circled from hand to hand, and each of the + Italians performed his part; you might have fancied yourself at one of the + old Greek feasts, with the lyre and the myrtle-branch going the round. + </p> + <p> + But both the Italians and the Englishman felt the entertainment would be + incomplete without hearing the celebrated vocalist and improvvisatrice who + presided over the little banquet; and Madame de Montaigne, with a woman’s + tact, divined the general wish, and anticipated the request that was sure + to be made. She took the guitar from the last singer, and turning to + Maltravers, said, “You have heard, of course, some of our more eminent + improvvisatori, and therefore if I ask you for a subject it will only be + to prove to you that the talent is not general amongst the Italians.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Maltravers, “I have heard, indeed, some ugly old gentlemen with + immense whiskers, and gestures of the most alarming ferocity, pour out + their vehement impromptus; but I have never yet listened to a young and a + handsome lady. I shall only believe the inspiration when I hear it direct + from the Muse.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will do my best to deserve your compliments—you must give + me the theme.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers paused a moment, and suggested the Influence of Praise on + Genius. + </p> + <p> + The improvvisatrice nodded assent, and after a short prelude broke forth + into a wild and varied strain of verse, in a voice so exquisitely sweet, + with a taste so accurate, and a feeling so deep that the poetry sounded to + the enchanted listeners like the language that Armida might have uttered. + Yet the verses themselves, like all extemporaneous effusions, were of a + nature both to pass from the memory and to defy transcription. + </p> + <p> + When Madame de Montaigne’s song ceased, no rapturous plaudits followed—the + Italians were too affected by the science, Maltravers by the feeling, for + the coarseness of ready praise;—and ere that delighted silence which + made the first impulse was broken, a new comer, descending from the groves + that clothed the ascent behind the house, was in the midst of the party. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear brother,” cried Madame Montaigne, starting up, and banging + fondly on the arm of the stranger, “why have you lingered so long in the + wood? You, so delicate! And how are you? How pale you seem!” + </p> + <p> + “It is but the reflection of the moonlight, Teresa,” said the intruder; “I + feel well.” So saying, he scowled on the merry party, and turned as if to + slink away. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” whispered Teresa, “you must stay a moment and be presented to my + guests: there is an Englishman here whom you will like—who will <i>interest</i> + you.” + </p> + <p> + With that she almost dragged him forward, and introduced him to her + guests. Signor Cesarini returned their salutations with a mixture of + bashfulness and <i>hauteur</i>, half-awkward and half-graceful, and + muttering some inaudible greeting, sank into a seat and appeared instantly + lost in reverie. Maltravers gazed upon him, and was pleased with his + aspect—which, if not handsome, was strange and peculiar. He was + extremely slight and thin—his cheeks hollow and colourless, with a + profusion of black silken ringlets that almost descended to his shoulders. + His eyes, deeply sunk into his head, were large and intensely brilliant; + and a thin moustache, curling downwards, gave an additional austerity to + his mouth, which was closed with gloomy and half-sarcastic firmness. He + was not dressed as people dress in general, but wore a frock of dark + camlet, with a large shirt-collar turned down, and a narrow slip of black + silk twisted rather than tied round his throat; his nether garments fitted + tight to his limbs, and a pair of half-hessians completed his costume. It + was evident that the young man (and he was very young—perhaps about + nineteen or twenty) indulged that coxcombry of the Picturesque which is + the sign of a vainer mind than is the commoner coxcombry of the <i>Mode</i>. + </p> + <p> + It is astonishing how frequently it happens, that the introduction of a + single intruder upon a social party is sufficient to destroy all the + familiar harmony that existed there before. We see it even when the + intruder is agreeable and communicative—but in the present instance, + a ghost could scarcely have been a more unwelcoming or unwelcome visitor. + The presence of this shy, speechless, supercilious-looking man threw a + damp over the whole group. The gay Tirabaloschi immediately discovered + that it was time to depart—it had not struck any one before, but it + certainly <i>was</i> late. The Italians began to bustle about, to collect + their music, to make fine speeches and fine professions—to bow and + to smile—to scramble into their boat, and to push towards the inn at + Como, where they had engaged their quarters for the night. As the boat + glided away, and while two of them were employed at the oar, the remaining + four took up their instruments and sang a parting glee. It was quite + midnight—the hush of all things around had grown more intense and + profound—there was a wonderful might of silence in the shining air + and amidst the shadows thrown by the near banks and the distant hills over + the water. So that as the music chiming in with the oars grew fainter and + fainter, it is impossible to describe the thrilling and magical effect it + produced. + </p> + <p> + The party ashore did not speak; there was a moisture, a grateful one, in + the bright eyes of Teresa, as she leant upon the manly form of De + Montaigne, for whom her attachment was, perhaps, yet more deep and pure + for the difference of their ages. A girl who once loves a man, not indeed + old, but much older than herself, loves him with such a <i>looking up</i> + and venerating love! Maltravers stood a little apart from the couple, on + the edge of the shelving bank, with folded arms and thoughtful + countenance. “How is it,” said he, unconscious that he was speaking half + aloud, “that the commonest beings of the world should be able to give us a + pleasure so unworldly? What a contrast between those musicians and this + music. At this distance their forms are dimly seen, one might almost fancy + the creators of those sweet sounds to be of another mould from us. Perhaps + even thus the poetry of the Past rings on our ears—the deeper and + the diviner, because removed from the clay which made the poets. O Art, + Art! how dost thou beautify and exalt us; what is nature without thee!” + </p> + <p> + “You are a poet, Signor,” said a soft clear voice beside the soliloquist; + and Maltravers started to find that he had had unknowingly a listener in + the young Cesarini. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Maltravers; “I cull the flowers, I do not cultivate the soil.” + </p> + <p> + “And why not?” said Cesarini, with abrupt energy; “you are an Englishman—<i>you</i> + have a public—you have a country—you have a living stage, a + breathing audience; we, Italians, have nothing but the dead.” + </p> + <p> + As he looked on the young man, Maltravers was surprised to see the sudden + animation which glowed upon his pale features. + </p> + <p> + “You asked me a question I would fain put to you,” said the Englishman, + after a pause. “<i>You</i>, methinks, are a poet?” + </p> + <p> + “I have fancied that I might be one. But poetry with us is a bird in the + wilderness—it sings from an impulse—the song dies without a + listener. Oh that I belonged to a <i>living</i> country,—France, + England, Germany, Arnerica,—and not to the corruption of a dead + giantess—for such is now the land of the ancient lyre.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us meet again, and soon,” said Maltravers, holding out his hand. + </p> + <p> + Cesarini hesitated a moment, and then accepted and returned the proffered + salutation. Reserved as he was, something in Maltravers attracted him; + and, indeed, there was that in Ernest which fascinated most of those + unhappy eccentrics who do not move in the common orbit of the world. + </p> + <p> + In a few moments more the Englishman had said farewell to the owner of the + villa, and his light boat skimmed rapidly over the tide. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of the <i>Inglese</i>?” said Madame de Montaigne to her + husband, as they turned towards the house. (They said not a word about the + Milanese.) + </p> + <p> + “He has a noble bearing for one so young,” said the Frenchman; “and seems + to have seen the world, and both to have profited and to have suffered by + it.” + </p> + <p> + “He will prove an acquisition to our society here,” returned Teresa; “he + interests me; and you, Castruccio?” turning to seek for her brother; but + Cesarini had already, with his usual noiseless step, disappeared within + the house. + </p> + <p> + “Alas, my poor brother!” she said, “I cannot comprehend him. What does he + desire?” + </p> + <p> + “Fame!” replied De Montaigne, calmly. “It is a vain shadow; no wonder that + he disquiets himself in vain.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Alas! what boots it with incessant care + To strictly meditate the thankless Muse; + Were I not better done as others use, + To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, + Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair?” + MILTON’S <i>Lycidas</i>. +</pre> + <p> + THERE is nothing more salutary to active men than occasional intervals of + repose,—when we look within, instead of without, and examine almost + <i>insensibly</i> (for I hold strict and conscious self-scrutiny a thing + much rarer than we suspect)—what we have done—what we are + capable of doing. It is settling, as it were, a debtor and creditor + account with the past, before we plunge into new speculations. Such an + interval of repose did Maltravers now enjoy. In utter solitude, so far as + familiar companionship is concerned, he had for several weeks been making + himself acquainted with his own character and mind. He read and thought + much, but without any exact or defined object. I think it is Montaigne who + says somewhere: “People talk about thinking—but for my part I never + think, except when I sit down to write.” I believe this is not a very + common case, for people who don’t write think as well as people who do; + but connected, severe, well-developed thought, in contradistinction to + vague meditation, must be connected with some tangible plan or object; and + therefore we must be either writing men or acting men, if we desire to + test the logic, and unfold into symmetrical design the fused colours of + our reasoning faculty. Maltravers did not yet feel this, but he was + sensible of some intellectual want. His ideas, his memories, his dreams + crowded thick and confused upon him; he wished to arrange them in order, + and he could not. He was overpowered by the unorganised affluence of his + own imagination and intellect. He had often, even as a child, fancied that + he was formed to do something in the world, but he had never steadily + considered what it was to be, whether he was to become a man of books or a + man of deeds. He had written poetry when it poured irresistibly from the + fount of emotion within, but looked at his effusions with a cold and + neglectful eye when the enthusiasm had passed away. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was not much gnawed by the desire of fame—perhaps few men + of real genius are, until artificially worked up to it. There is in a + sound and correct intellect, with all its gifts fairly balanced, a calm + consciousness of power, a certainty that when its strength is fairly put + out, it must be to realise the usual result of strength. Men of + second-rate faculties, on the contrary, are fretful and nervous, fidgeting + after a celebrity which they do not estimate by their own talents, but by + the talents of some one else. They see a tower, but are occupied only with + measuring its shadow, and think their own height (which they never + calculate) is to cast as broad a one over the earth. It is the short man + who is always throwing up his chin, and is as erect as a dart. The tall + man stoops, and the strong man is not always using the dumb-bells. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers had not yet, then, the keen and sharp yearning for reputation; + he had not, as yet, tasted its sweets and bitters—fatal draught, + which <i>once</i> tasted, begets too often an insatiable thirst! neither + had he enemies and decriers whom he was desirous of abashing by merit. And + that is a very ordinary cause for exertion in proud minds. He was, it is + true, generally reputed clever, and fools were afraid of him: but as he + actively interfered with no man’s pretensions, so no man thought it + necessary to call him a blockhead. At present, therefore, it was quietly + and naturally that his mind was working its legitimate way to its destiny + of exertion. He began idly and carelessly to note down his thoughts and + impressions; what was once put on the paper, begot new matter; his ideas + became more lucid to himself; and the page grew a looking-glass, which + presented the likeness of his own features. He began by writing with + rapidity, and without method. He had no object but to please himself, and + to find a vent for an overcharged spirit; and, like most writings of the + young, the matter was egotistical. We commence with the small nucleus of + passion and experience, to widen the circle afterwards; and, perhaps, the + most extensive and universal masters of life and character have begun by + being egotists. For there is in a man that has much in him a wonderfully + acute and sensitive perception of his own existence. An imaginative and + susceptible person has, indeed, ten times as much life as a dull fellow, + “an he be Hercules.” He multiplies himself in a thousand objects, + associates each with his own identity, lives in each, and almost looks + upon the world with its infinite objects as a part of his individual + being. Afterwards, as he tames down, he withdraws his forces into the + citadel, but he still has a knowledge of, and an interest in, the land + they once covered. He understands other people, for he has lived in other + people—the dead and the living;—fancied himself now Brutus and + now Caesar, and thought how <i>he</i> should act in almost every + imaginable circumstance of life. + </p> + <p> + Thus, when he begins to paint human characters, essentially different from + his own, his knowledge comes to him almost intuitively. It is as if he + were describing the mansions in which he himself has formerly lodged, + though for a short time. Hence in great writers of History—of + Romance—of the Drama—the <i>gusto</i> with which they paint + their personages; their creations are flesh and blood, not shadows or + machines. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was at first, then, an egotist, in the matter of his rude and + desultory sketches—in the manner, as I said before, he was careless + and negligent, as men will be who have not yet found that expression is an + art. Still those wild and valueless essays—those rapt and secret + confessions of his own heart—were a delight to him. He began to + taste the transport, the intoxication of an author. And, oh, what a luxury + is there in that first love of the Muse! that process by which we give + palpable form to the long-intangible visions which have flitted across us;—the + beautiful ghost of the Ideal within us, which we invoke in the Gadara of + our still closets, with the wand of the simple pen! + </p> + <p> + It was early noon, the day after he had formed his acquaintance with the + De Montaignes, that Maltravers sat in his favourite room;—the one he + had selected for his study from the many chambers of his large and + solitary habitation. He sat in a recess by the open window, which looked + on the lake; and books were scattered on his table, and Maltravers was + jotting down his criticisms on what he read, mingled with his impressions + on what he saw. It is the pleasantest kind of composition—the + note-book of a man who studies in retirement, who observes in society, who + in all things can admire and feel. He was yet engaged in this easy task, + when Cesarini was announced, and the young brother of the fair Teresa + entered his apartment. + </p> + <p> + “I have availed myself soon of your invitation,” said the Italian. + </p> + <p> + “I acknowledge the compliment,” replied Maltravers, pressing the hand + shyly held out to him. + </p> + <p> + “I see you have been writing—I thought you were attached to + literature. I read it in your countenance, I heard it in your voice,” said + Cesarini, seating himself. + </p> + <p> + “I have been idly beguiling a very idle leisure, it is true,” said + Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “But you do not write for yourself alone—you have an eye to the + great tribunals—Time and the Public.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so, I assure you honestly,” said Maltravers, smiling. “If you look at + the books on my table, you will see that they are the great masterpieces + of ancient and modern lore—these are studies that discourage tyros—” + </p> + <p> + “But inspire them.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not think so. Models may form our taste as critics, but do not + excite us to be authors. I fancy that our own emotions, our own sense of + our destiny, make the great lever of the inert matter we accumulate. ‘Look + in thy heart and write,’ said an old English writer,* who did not, + however, practise what he preached. And you, Signor—” + </p> + <p> + * Sir Philip Sidney. + </p> + <p> + “Am nothing, and would be something,” said the young man, shortly and + bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “And how does that wish not realise its object?” + </p> + <p> + “Merely because I am Italian,” said Cesarini. “With us there is no + literary public—no vast reading class—we have dilettanti and + literati, and students, and even authors; but these make only a coterie, + not a public. I have written, I have published; but no one listened to me. + I am an author without readers.” + </p> + <p> + “It is no uncommon case in England,” said Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + The Italian continued: “I thought to live in the mouths of men—to + stir up thoughts long dumb—to awaken the strings of the old lyre! In + vain. Like the nightingale, I sing only to break my heart with a false and + melancholy emulation of other notes.” + </p> + <p> + “There are epochs in all countries,” said Maltravers, gently, “when + peculiar veins of literature are out of vogue, and when no genius can + bring them into public notice. But you wisely said there were two + tribunals—the Public and Time. You have still the last to appeal to. + Your great Italian historians wrote for the unborn—their works not + even published till their death. That indifference to living reputation + has in it, to me, something of the sublime.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot imitate them—and they were not poets,” said Cesarini, + sharply. “To poets, praise is a necessary aliment; neglect is death.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Signor Cesarini,” said the Englishman, feelingly, “do not give + way to these thoughts. There ought to be in a healthful ambition the + stubborn stuff of persevering longevity; it must live on, and hope for the + day which comes slow or fast, to all whose labours deserve the goal.” + </p> + <p> + “But perhaps mine do not. I sometimes fear so—it is a horrid + thought.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very young yet,” said Maltravers; “how few at your age ever + sicken for fame! That first step is, perhaps, the half way to the prize.” + </p> + <p> + I am not sure that Ernest thought exactly as he spoke; but it was the most + delicate consolation to offer to a man whose abrupt frankness embarrassed + and distressed him. The young man shook his head despondingly. Maltravers + tried to change the subject—he rose and moved to the balcony, which + overhung the lake—he talked of the weather—he dwelt on the + exquisite scenery—he pointed to the minute and more latent beauties + around, with the eye and taste of one who had looked at Nature in her + details. The poet grew more animated and cheerful; he became even + eloquent; he quoted poetry and he talked it. Maltravers was more and more + interested in him. He felt a curiosity to know if his talents equalled his + aspirations: he hinted to Cesarini his wish to see his compositions—it + was just what the young man desired. Poor Cesarini! It was much to him to + get a new listener, and he fondly imagined every honest listener must be a + warm admirer. But with the coyness of his caste, he affected reluctance + and hesitation; he dallied with his own impatient yearnings. And + Maltravers, to smooth his way, proposed an excursion on the lake. + </p> + <p> + “One of my men shall row,” said he; “you shall recite to me, and I will be + to you what the old housekeeper was to Moliere.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers had deep good-nature where he was touched, though he had not a + superfluity of what is called good-humour, which floats on the surface and + smiles on all alike. He had much of the milk of human kindness, but little + of its oil. + </p> + <p> + The poet assented, and they were soon upon the lake. It was a sultry day, + and it was noon; so the boat crept slowly along by the shadow of the + shore, and Cesarini drew from his breast-pocket some manuscripts of small + and beautiful writing. Who does not know the pains a young poet takes to + bestow a fair dress on his darling rhymes! + </p> + <p> + Cesarini read well and feelingly. Everything was in favour of the reader. + His own poetical countenance—his voice, his enthusiasm, + half-suppressed—the pre-engaged interest of the auditor—the + dreamy loveliness of the hour and scene—(for there is a great deal + as to time in these things). Maltravers listened intently. It is very + difficult to judge of the exact merit of poetry in another language even + when we know that language well—so much is there in the + untranslatable magic of expression, the little subtleties of style. But + Maltravers, fresh, as he himself had said, from the study of great and + original writers, could not but feel that he was listening to feeble + though melodious mediocrity. It was the poetry of words, not things. He + thought it cruel, however, to be hypercritical, and he uttered all the + commonplaces of eulogium that occurred to him. The young man was + enchanted: “And yet,” said he with a sigh, “I have no Public. In England + they would appreciate me.” Alas! in England, at that moment, there were + five hundred poets as young, as ardent, and yet more gifted, whose hearts + beat with the same desire—whose nerves were broken by the same + disappointments. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers found that his young friend would not listen to any judgment + not purely favourable. The archbishop in <i>Gil Blas</i> was not more + touchy upon any criticism that was not panegyric. Maltravers thought it a + bad sign, but he recollected Gil Blas, and prudently refrained from + bringing on himself the benevolent wish of “beaucoup de bonheur et un peu, + plus de bon gout.” When Cesarini had finished his MS., he was anxious to + conclude the excursion—he longed to be at home, and think over the + admiration he had excited. But he left his poems with Maltravers, and + getting on shore by the remains of Pliny’s villa, was soon out of sight. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers that evening read the poems with attention. His first opinion + was confirmed. The young man wrote without knowledge. He had never felt + the passions he painted, never been in the situations he described. There + was no originality in him, for there was no experience; it was exquisite + mechanism, his verse,—nothing more. It might well deceive him, for + it could not but flatter his ear—and Tasso’s silver march rang not + more musically than did the chiming stanzas of Castruccio Cesarini. + </p> + <p> + The perusal of this poetry, and his conversation with the poet, threw + Maltravers into a fit of deep musing. “This poor Cesarini may warn me + against myself!” thought he. “Better hew wood and draw water than attach + ourselves devotedly to an art in which we have not the capacity to + excel.... It is to throw away the healthful objects of life for a diseased + dream,—worse than the Rosicrucians, it is to make a sacrifice of all + human beauty for the smile of a sylphid that never visits us but in + visions.” Maltravers looked over his own compositions, and thrust them + into the fire. He slept ill that night. His pride was a little dejected. + He was like a beauty who has seen a caricature of herself. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Still follow SENSE, of every art the Soul.” + POPE: <i>Moral Essays</i>—Essay iv. +</pre> + <p> + ERNEST MALTRAVERS spent much of his time with the family of De Montaigne. + There is no period of life in which we are more accessible to the + sentiment of friendship than in the intervals of moral exhaustion which + succeed to the disappointments of the passions. There is, then, something + inviting in those gentler feelings which keep alive, but do not fever, the + circulation of the affections. Maltravers looked with the benevolence of a + brother upon the brilliant, versatile, and restless Teresa. She was the + last person in the world he could have been in love with—for his + nature, ardent, excitable, yet fastidious, required something of repose in + the manners and temperament of the woman whom he could love, and Teresa + scarcely knew what repose was. Whether playing with her children (and she + had two lovely ones—the eldest six years old), or teasing her calm + and meditative husband, or pouring out extempore verses, or rattling over + airs which she never finished, on the guitar or piano—or making + excursions on the lake—or, in short, in whatever occupation she + appeared as the Cynthia of the minute, she was always gay and mobile—never + out of humour, never acknowledging a single care or cross in life—never + susceptible of grief, save when her brother’s delicate health or morbid + temper saddened her atmosphere of sunshine. Even then, the sanguine + elasticity of her mind and constitution quickly recovered from the + depression; and she persuaded herself that Castruccio would grow stronger + every year, and ripen into a celebrated and happy man. Castruccio himself + lived what romantic poetasters call the “life of a poet.” He loved to see + the sun rise over the distant Alps—or the midnight moon sleeping on + the lake. He spent half the day, and often half the night, in solitary + rambles, weaving his airy rhymes, or indulging his gloomy reveries, and he + thought loneliness made the element of a poet. Alas! Dante, Alfieri, even + Petrarch might have taught him, that a poet must have intimate knowledge + of men as well as mountains, if he desire to become the CREATOR. When + Shelley, in one of his prefaces, boasts of being familiar with Alps and + glaciers, and Heaven knows what, the critical artist cannot help wishing + that he had been rather familiar with Fleet Street or the Strand. Perhaps, + then, that remarkable genius might have been more capable of realizing + characters of flesh and blood, and have composed corporeal and consummate + wholes, not confused and glittering fragments. + </p> + <p> + Though Ernest was attached to Teresa and deeply interested in Castruccio, + it was De Montaigne for whom he experienced the higher and graver + sentiment of esteem. This Frenchman was one acquainted with a much larger + world than that of the Coteries. He had served in the army, had been + employed with distinction in civil affairs, and was of that robust and + healthful moral constitution which can bear with every variety of social + life, and estimate calmly the balance of our moral fortunes. Trial and + experience had left him that true philosopher who is too wise to be an + optimist, too just to be a misanthrope. He enjoyed life with sober + judgment, and pursued the path most suited to himself, without declaring + it to be the best for others. He was a little hard, perhaps, upon the + errors that belong to weakness and conceit—not to those that have + their source in great natures or generous thoughts. Among his + characteristics was a profound admiration for England. His own country he + half loved, yet half disdained. The impetuosity and levity of his + compatriots displeased his sober and dignified notions. He could not + forgive them (he was wont to say) for having made the two grand + experiments of popular revolution and military despotism in vain. He + sympathised neither with the young enthusiasts who desired a republic, + without well knowing the numerous strata of habits and customs upon which + that fabric, if designed for permanence, should be built—nor with + the uneducated and fierce chivalry that longed for a restoration of the + warrior empire—nor with the dull and arrogant bigots who connected + all ideas of order and government with the ill-starred and worn-out + dynasty of the Bourbons. In fact, GOOD SENSE was with him the <i>principium + et fons</i> of all theories and all practice. And it was this quality that + attached him to the English. His philosophy on this head was rather + curious. + </p> + <p> + “Good sense,” said he one day to Maltravers, as they were walking to and + fro at De Montaigne’s villa, by the margin of the lake, “is not a merely + intellectual attribute. It is rather the result of a just equilibrium of + all our faculties, spiritual and moral. The dishonest, or the toys of + their own passions, may have genius; but they rarely, if ever, have good + sense in the conduct of life. They may often win large prizes, but it is + by a game of chance, not skill. But the man whom I perceive walking an + honourable and upright career—just to others, and also to himself + (for we owe justice to ourselves—to the care of our fortunes, our + character—to the management of our passions)—is a more + dignified representative of his Maker than the mere child of genius. Of + such a man we say he has GOOD SENSE; yes, but he has also integrity, + self-respect, and self-denial. A thousand trials which his sense raves and + conquers, are temptations also to his probity—his temper—in a + word, to all the many sides of his complicated nature. Now, I do not think + he will have this <i>good sense</i> any more than a drunkard will have + strong nerves, unless he be in the constant habit of keeping his mind + clear from the intoxication of envy, vanity, and the various emotions that + dupe and mislead us. Good sense is not, therefore, an abstract quality or + a solitary talent; but it is the natural result of the habit of thinking + justly, and therefore seeing clearly, and is as different from the + sagacity that belongs to a diplomatist or attorney, as the philosophy of + Socrates differed from the rhetoric of Gorgias. As a mass of individual + excellences make up this attribute in a man, so a mass of such men thus + characterised give a character to a nation. Your England is, therefore, + renowned for its good sense, but it is renowned also for the excellences + which accompany strong sense in an individual—high honesty and faith + in its dealings, a warm love of justice and fair play, a general freedom + from the violent crimes common on the Continent, and the energetic + perseverance in enterprise once commenced, which results from a bold and + healthful disposition.” + </p> + <p> + “Our wars, our debt—” began Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” interrupted De Montaigne, “I am speaking of your people, not + of your government. A government is often a very unfair representative of + a nation. But even in the wars you allude to, if you examine, you will + generally find them originate in the love of justice, which is the basis + of good sense, not from any insane desire of conquest or glory. A man, + however sensible, must have a heart in his bosom, and a great nation + cannot be a piece of selfish clockwork. Suppose you and I are sensible, + prudent men, and we see in a crowd one violent fellow unjustly knocking + another on the head, we should be brutes, not men, if we did not interfere + with the savage; but if we thrust ourselves into a crowd with a large + bludgeon, and belabour our neighbours, with the hope that the spectators + would cry, ‘See what a bold, strong fellow that is!’—then we should + be only playing the madman from the motive of the coxcomb. I fear you will + find in the military history of the French and English the application of + my parable.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet still, I confess, there is a gallantry, and a noblemanlike and Norman + spirit in the whole French nation, which make me forgive many of their + excesses, and think they are destined for great purposes, when experience + shall have sobered their hot blood. Some nations, as some men, are slow in + arriving at maturity; others seem men in their cradle. The English, thanks + to their sturdy Saxon origin, elevated, not depressed, by the Norman + infusion, never were children. The difference is striking, when you regard + the representatives of both in their great men—whether writers or + active citizens.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said De Montaigne, “in Milton and Cromwell there is nothing of the + brilliant child. I cannot say as much for Voltaire or Napoleon. Even + Richelieu, the manliest of our statesmen, had so much of the French infant + in him as to fancy himself a <i>beau garcon</i>, a gallant, a wit, and a + poet. As for the Racine school of writers, they were not out of the + leading-strings of imitation—cold copyists of a pseudo-classic, in + which they saw the form, and never caught the spirit. What so little + Roman, Greek, Hebrew, as their Roman, Greek, and Hebrew dramas? Your rude + Shakespeare’s <i>Julius Caesar</i>—even his <i>Troilus and Cressida</i>—have + the ancient spirit, precisely as they are imitations of nothing ancient. + But our Frenchmen copied the giant images of old just as the school-girl + copies a drawing, by holding it up to the window, and tracing the lines on + silver paper.” + </p> + <p> + “But your new writers—De Stael—Chateaubriand?” * + </p> + <p> + * At the time of this conversation the later school, adorned by Victor + Hugo, who, with notions of art elaborately wrong, is still a man of + extraordinary genius, had not risen into its present equivocal reputation. + </p> + <p> + “I find no fault with the sentimentalists,” answered the severe critic, + “but that of exceeding feebleness. They have no bone and muscle in their + genius—all is flaccid and rotund in its feminine symmetry. They seem + to think that vigour consists in florid phrases and little aphorisms, and + delineate all the mighty tempests of the human heart with the polished + prettiness of a miniature-painter on ivory. No!—these two are + children of another kind—affected, tricked-out, well-dressed + children—very clever, very precocious—but children still. + Their whinings, and their sentimentalities, and their egotism, and their + vanity, cannot interest masculine beings who know what life and its stern + objects are.” + </p> + <p> + “Your brother-in-law,” said Maltravers with a slight smile, “must find in + you a discouraging censor.” + </p> + <p> + “My poor Castruccio,” replied De Montaigne, with a half-sigh; “he is one + of those victims whom I believe to be more common than we dream of—men + whose aspirations are above their powers. I agree with a great German + writer, that in the first walks of Art no man has a right to enter, unless + he is convinced that he has strength and speed for the goal. Castruccio + might be an amiable member of society, nay, an able and useful man, if he + would apply the powers he possesses to the rewards they may obtain. He has + talent enough to win him reputation in any profession but that of a poet.” + </p> + <p> + “But authors who obtain immortality are not always first-rate.” + </p> + <p> + “First-rate in their way, I suspect; even if that way be false or trivial. + They must be connected with the <i>history</i> of their literature; you + must be able to say of them, ‘In this school, be it bad or good, they + exerted such and such an influence;’ in a word, they must form a link in + the great chain of a nation’s authors, which may be afterwards forgotten + by the superficial, but without which the chain would be incomplete. And + thus, if not first-rate for all time, they have been first-rate in their + own day. But Castruccio is only the echo of others—he can neither + found a school nor ruin one. Yet this” (again added De Montaigne after a + pause)—“this melancholy malady in my brother-in-law would cure + itself, perhaps, if he were not Italian. In your animated and bustling + country, after sufficient disappointment as a poet, he would glide into + some other calling, and his vanity and craving for effect would find a + rational and manly outlet. But in Italy, what can a clever man do, if he + is not a poet or a robber? If he love his country, that crime is enough to + unfit him for civil employment, and his mind cannot stir a step in the + bold channels of speculation without falling foul of the Austrian or the + Pope. No; the best I can hope for Castruccio is, that he will end in an + antiquary, and dispute about ruins with the Romans. Better that than + mediocre poetry.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was silent and thoughtful. Strange to say, De Montaigne’s views + did not discourage his own new and secret ardour for intellectual + triumphs; not because he felt that he was now able to achieve them, but + because he felt the iron of his own nature, and knew that a man who has + iron in his nature must ultimately hit upon some way of shaping the metal + into use. + </p> + <p> + The host and guest were now joined by Castruccio himself—silent and + gloomy as indeed he usually was, especially in the presence of De + Montaigne, with whom he felt his “self-love” wounded; for though he longed + to despise his hard brother-in-law, the young poet was compelled to + acknowledge that De Montaigne was not a man to be despised. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers dined with the De Montaignes, and spent the evening with them. + He could not but observe that Castruccio, who affected in his verses the + softest sentiments—who was, indeed, by original nature, tender and + gentle—had become so completely warped by that worst of all mental + vices—the eternally pondering on his own excellences, talents, + mortifications, and ill-usage, that he never contributed to the + gratification of those around him; he had none of the little arts of + social benevolence, none of the playful youth of disposition which usually + belongs to the good-hearted, and for which men of a master-genius, however + elevated their studies, however stern or reserved to the vulgar world, are + commonly noticeable amidst the friends they love or in the home they + adorn. Occupied with one dream, centred in self, the young Italian was + sullen and morose to all who did not sympathise with his own morbid + fancies. From the children—the sister—the friend—the + whole living earth, he fled to a poem on Solitude, or stanzas upon Fame. + Maltravers said to himself, “I will never be an author—I will never + sigh for renown—if I am to purchase shadows at such a price!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “It cannot be too deeply impressed on the mind, that application + is the price to be paid for mental acquisitions, and that it is + as absurd to expect them without it as to hope for a harvest + where we have not sown the seed. + + “In everything we do, we may be possibly laying a train of + consequences, the operation of which may terminate only with + our existence.” + + BAILEY: <i>Essays on the Formation and Publication of Opinions</i>. +</pre> + <p> + TIME passed, and autumn was far advanced towards winter; still Maltravers + lingered at Como. He saw little of any other family than that of the De + Montaignes, and the greater part of his time was necessarily spent alone. + His occupation continued to be that of making experiments of his own + powers, and these gradually became bolder and more comprehensive. He took + care, however, not to show his “Diversions of Como” to his new friends: he + wanted no audience—he dreamt of no Public; he desired merely to + practise his own mind. He became aware, of his own accord, as he + proceeded, that a man can neither study with such depth, nor compose with + much art, unless he has some definite object before him; in the first, + some one branch of knowledge to master; in the last, some one conception + to work out. Maltravers fell back upon his boyish passion for metaphysical + speculation; but with what different results did he now wrestle with the + subtle schoolmen, now that he had practically known mankind. How + insensibly new lights broke in upon him, as he threaded the labyrinth of + cause and effect, by which we seek to arrive at that curious and biform + monster—our own nature. His mind became saturated, as it were, with + these profound studies and meditations; and when at length he paused from + them, he felt as if he had not been living in solitude, but had gone + through a process of action in the busy world: so much juster, so much + clearer, had become his knowledge of himself and others. But though these + researches coloured, they did not limit his intellectual pursuits. Poetry + and the lighter letters became to him not merely a relaxation, but a + critical and thoughtful study. He delighted to penetrate into the causes + that have made the airy webs spun by men’s fancies so permanent and + powerful in their influence over the hard, work-day world. And what a + lovely scene—what a sky—what an air wherein to commence the + projects of that ambition which seeks to establish an empire in the hearts + and memories of mankind! I believe it has a great effect on the future + labours of a writer,—the place where he first dreams that it is his + destiny to write! + </p> + <p> + From these pursuits Ernest was aroused by another letter from Cleveland. + His kind friend had been disappointed and vexed that Maltravers did not + follow his advice, and return to England. He had shown his displeasure by + not answering Ernest’s letter of excuses; but lately he had been seized + with a dangerous illness which reduced him to the brink of the grave; and + with a heart softened by the exhaustion of the frame, he now wrote in the + first moments of convalescence to Maltravers, informing him of his attack + and danger, and once more urging him to return. The thought that Cleveland—the + dear, kind gentle guardian of his youth—had been near unto death, + that he might never more have hung upon that fostering hand, nor replied + to that paternal voice, smote Ernest with terror and remorse. He resolved + instantly to return to England, and made his preparations accordingly. + </p> + <p> + He went to take leave of the De Montaignes. Teresa was trying to teach her + first-born to read; and seated by the open window of the villa, in her + neat, not precise, <i>dishabille</i>—with the little boy’s delicate, + yet bold and healthy countenance looking up fearlessly at hers, while she + was endeavouring to initiate him—half gravely, half laughingly—into + the mysteries of monosyllables, the pretty boy and the fair young mother + made a delightful picture. De Montaigne was reading the Essays of his + celebrated namesake, in whom he boasted, I know not with what justice, to + claim an ancestor. From time to time he looked from the page to take a + glance at the progress of his heir, and keep up with the march of + intellect. But he did not interfere with the maternal lecture; he was wise + enough to know that there is a kind of sympathy between a child and a + mother, which is worth all the grave superiority of a father in making + learning palatable to young years. He was far too clever a man not to + despise all the systems of forcing infants under knowledge-frames, which + are the present fashion. He knew that philosophers never made a greater + mistake than in insisting so much upon beginning abstract education from + the cradle. It is quite enough to attend to an infant’s temper, and + correct that cursed predilection for telling fibs which falsifies all Dr. + Reid’s absurd theory about innate propensities to truth, and makes the + prevailing epidemic of the nursery. Above all, what advantage ever + compensates for hurting a child’s health or breaking his spirit? Never let + him learn, more than you can help it, the crushing bitterness of fear. A + bold child who looks you in the face, speaks the truth, and shames the + devil; that is the stuff of which to make good and brave—ay, and + wise men! + </p> + <p> + Maltravers entered, unannounced, into this charming family party, and + stood unobserved for a few moments, by the open door. The little pupil was + the first to perceive him, and, forgetful of monosyllables, ran to greet + him; for Maltravers, though gentle rather than gay, was a favourite with + children, and his fair, calm, gracious countenance did more for him with + them than if, like Goldsmith’s Burchell, his pockets had been filled with + gingerbread and apples. “Ah, fie on you, Mr. Maltravers!” cried Teresa, + rising; “you have blown away all the characters I have been endeavouring + this last hour to imprint upon sand.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so, Signora,” said Maltravers, seating himself, and placing the child + on his knee; “my young friend will set to work again with a greater gusto + after this little break in upon his labours.” + </p> + <p> + “You will stay with us all day, I hope?” said De Montaigne. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed,” said Maltravers, “I am come to ask permission to do so, for + to-morrow I depart for England.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible?” cried Teresa. “How sudden! How we shall miss you! Oh! + don’t go. But perhaps you have bad news from England?” + </p> + <p> + “I have news that summon me hence,” replied Maltravers; “my guardian and + second father has been dangerously ill. I am uneasy about him, and + reproach myself for having forgotten him so long in your seductive + society.” + </p> + <p> + “I am really sorry to lose you,” said De Montaigne, with greater warmth in + his tone than in his words. “I hope heartily we shall meet again soon: you + will come, perhaps, to Paris?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably,” said Maltravers; “and you, perhaps, to England?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, how I should like it!” exclaimed Teresa. + </p> + <p> + “No, you would not,” said her husband; “you would not like England at all; + you would call it <i>triste</i> beyond measure. It is one of those + countries of which a native should be proud, but which has no amusement + for a stranger, precisely because full of such serious and stirring + occupations to the citizens. The pleasantest countries for strangers are + the worst countries for natives (witness Italy), and <i>vice versa</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Teresa shook her dark curls, and would not be convinced. + </p> + <p> + “And where is Castruccio?” asked Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “In his boat on the lake,” replied Teresa. “He will be inconsolable at + your departure: you are the only person he can understand, or who + understand him; the only person in Italy—I had almost said in the + whole world.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we shall meet at dinner,” said Ernest; “meanwhile let me prevail on + you to accompany me to the <i>Pliniana</i>. I wish to say farewell to that + crystal spring.” + </p> + <p> + Teresa, delighted at any excursion, readily consented. + </p> + <p> + “And I too, mamma,” cried the child; “and my little sister?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly,” said Maltravers, speaking for the parents. + </p> + <p> + So the party was soon ready, and they pushed off in the clear genial + noontide (for November in Italy is as early as September in the North) + across the sparkling and dimpled waters. The children prattled, and the + grown-up people talked on a thousand matters. It was a pleasant day, that + last day at Como! For the farewells of friendship have indeed something of + the melancholy, but not the anguish, of those of love. Perhaps it would be + better if we could get rid of love altogether. Life would go on smoother + and happier without it. Friendship is the wine of existence, but love is + the dram-drinking. + </p> + <p> + When they returned, they found Castruccio seated on the lawn. He did not + appear so much dejected at the prospect of Ernest’s departure as Teresa + had anticipated; for Castruccio Cesarini was a very jealous man, and he + had lately been chagrined and discontented with seeing the delight that + the De Montaignes took in Ernest’s society. + </p> + <p> + “Why is this?” he often asked himself; “why are they more pleased with + this stranger’s society than mine? My ideas are as fresh, as original; I + have as much genius, yet even my dry brother-in-law allows <i>his</i> + talents, and predicts that <i>he</i> will be an eminent man! while <i>I</i>—No!—one + is not a prophet in one’s own country!” + </p> + <p> + Unhappy man! his mind bore all the rank weeds of the morbid poetical + character, and the weeds choked up the flowers that the soil, properly + cultivated, should alone bear. Yet that crisis in life awaited Castruccio, + in which a sensitive and poetical man is made or marred; the crisis in + which a sentiment is replaced by the passions—in which love for some + real object gathers the scattered rays of the heart into a focus: out of + that ordeal he might pass a purer and manlier being—so Maltravers + often hoped. Maltravers then little thought how closely connected with his + own fate was to be that passage in the history of the Italian. Castruccio + contrived to take Maltravers aside, and as he led the Englishman through + the wood that backed the mansion, he said, with some embarrassment, “You + go, I suppose, to London?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall pass through it—can I execute any commission for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes; my poems!—I think of publishing them in England: your + aristocracy cultivate the Italian letters; and, perhaps, I may be read by + the fair and noble—<i>that</i> is the proper audience of poets. For + the vulgar herd—I disdain it!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Castruccio, I will undertake to see your poems published in + London, if you wish it; but do not be sanguine. In England we read little + poetry, even in our own language, and we are shamefully indifferent to + foreign literature.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, foreign literature generally, and you are right; but my poems are of + another kind. They must command attention in a polished and intelligent + circle.” + </p> + <p> + “Well! let the experiment be tried; you can let me have the poems when we + part.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you,” said Castruccio, in a joyous tone, pressing his friend’s + hand; and for the rest of that evening, he seemed an altered being; he + even caressed the children, and did not sneer at the grave conversation of + his brother-in-law. + </p> + <p> + When Maltravers rose to depart, Castruccio gave him the packet; and then, + utterly engrossed with his own imagined futurity of fame, vanished from + the room to indulge his reveries. He cared no longer for Maltravers—he + had put him to use—he could not be sorry for his departure, for that + departure was the Avatar of His appearance to a new world. + </p> + <p> + A small dull rain was falling, though, at intervals, the stars broke + through the unsettled clouds, and Teresa did not therefore venture from + the house; she presented her smooth cheek to the young guest to salute, + pressed him by the hand, and bade him adieu with tears in her eyes. “Ah!” + said she, “when we meet again I hope you will be married—I shall + love your wife dearly. There is no happiness like marriage and home!” and + she looked with ingenuous tenderness at De Montaigne. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers sighed;—his thoughts flew back to Alice. Where now was + that lone and friendless girl, whose innocent love had once brightened a + home for <i>him</i>? He answered by a vague and mechanical commonplace, + and quitted the room with De Montaigne, who insisted on seeing him depart. + As they neared the lake, De Montaigne broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Maltravers,” he said, with a serious and thoughtful affection in + his voice, “we may not meet again for years. I have a warm interest in + your happiness and career—yes, <i>career</i>—I repeat the + word. I do not habitually seek to inspire young men with ambition. Enough + for most of them to be good and honourable citizens. But in your case it + is different. I see in you the earnest and meditative, not rash and + overweening youth, which is usually productive of a distinguished manhood. + Your mind is not yet settled, it is true; but it is fast becoming clear + and mellow from the first ferment of boyish dreams and passions. You have + everything in your favour,—competence, birth, connections; and, + above all, you are an Englishman! You have a mighty stage, on which, it is + true, you cannot establish a footing without merit and without labour—so + much the better; in which strong and resolute rivals will urge you on to + emulation, and then competition will task your keenest powers. Think what + a glorious fate it is, to have an influence on the vast, but ever-growing + mind of such a country,—to feel, when you retire from the busy + scene, that you have played an unforgotten part—that you have been + the medium, under God’s great will, of circulating new ideas throughout + the world—of upholding the glorious priesthood of the Honest and the + Beautiful. This is the true ambition; the desire of mere personal + notoriety is vanity, not ambition. Do not then be lukewarm or supine. The + trait I have observed in you,” added the Frenchman, with a smile, “most + prejudicial to your chances of distinction is, that you are <i>too</i> + philosophical, too apt to <i>cui bono</i> all the exertions that interfere + with the indolence of cultivated leisure. And you must not suppose, + Maltravers, that an active career will be a path of roses. At present you + have no enemies; but the moment you attempt distinction, you will be + abused; calumniated, reviled. You will be shocked at the wrath you excite, + and sigh for your old obscurity, and consider, as Franklin has it, that + ‘you have paid too dear for your whistle.’ But in return for individual + enemies, what a noble recompense to have made the Public itself your + friend; perhaps even Posterity your familiar! Besides,” added De + Montaigne, with almost a religious solemnity in his voice, “there is a + conscience of the head as well as of the heart, and in old age we feel as + much remorse if we have wasted our natural talents as if we had perverted + our natural virtues. The profound and exultant satisfaction with which a + man who knows that he has not lived in vain—that he has entailed on + the world an heirloom of instruction or delight—looks back upon + departed struggles, is one of the happiest emotions of which the + conscience can be capable. What, indeed, are the petty faults we commit as + individuals, affecting but a narrow circle, ceasing with our own lives, to + the incalculable and everlasting good we may produce as public men by one + book or by one law? Depend upon it that the Almighty, who sums up all the + good and all the evil done by His creatures in a just balance, will not + judge the august benefactors of the world with the same severity as those + drones of society, who have no great services to show in the eternal + ledger, as a set-off to the indulgence of their small vices. These things + rightly considered, Maltravers, you will have every inducement that can + tempt a lofty mind and a pure ambition to awaken from the voluptuous + indolence of the literary Sybarite, and contend worthily in the world’s + wide Altis for a great prize.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers never before felt so flattered—so stirred into high + resolves. The stately eloquence, the fervid encouragement of this man, + usually so cold and fastidious, roused him like the sound of a trumpet. He + stopped short, his breath heaved thick, his cheek flushed. “De Montaigne,” + said he, “your words have cleared away a thousand doubts and scruples—they + have gone right to my heart. For the first time I understand what fame is—what + the object, and what the reward of labour! Visions, hopes, aspirations I + may have had before—for months a new spirit has been fluttering + within me. I have felt the wings breaking from the shell, but all was + confused, dim, uncertain. I doubted the wisdom of effort, with life so + short, and the pleasures of youth so sweet. I now look no longer on life + but as a part of the eternity to which I <i>feel</i> we were born; and I + recognise the solemn truth that our objects, to be worthy life, should be + worthy of creatures in whom the living principle never is extinct. + Farewell! come joy or sorrow, failure or success, I will struggle to + deserve your friendship.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers sprang into his boat, and the shades of night soon snatched him + from the lingering gaze of De Montaigne. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Strange is the land that holds thee,—and thy couch + is widow’d of the loved one.” + EURIP. <i>Med.</i> 442 + Translation by R. G. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I, alas! + Have lived but on this earth a few sad years; + And so my lot was ordered, that a father + First turned the moments of awakening life + To drops, each poisoning youth’s sweet hope.” + “<i>Cenci</i>.” + </pre> + <p> + FROM accompanying Maltravers along the noiseless progress of mental + education, we are now called awhile to cast our glances back at the ruder + and harsher ordeal which Alice Darvil was ordained to pass. Along her path + poetry shed no flowers, nor were her lonely steps towards the distant + shrine at which her pilgrimage found its rest lighted by the mystic lamp + of science, or guided by the thousand stars which are never dim in the + heavens for those favoured eyes from which genius and fancy have removed + many of the films of clay. Not along the aerial and exalted ways that wind + far above the homes and business of common men—the solitary Alps of + Spiritual Philosophy—wandered the desolate steps of the child of + poverty and sorrow. On the beaten and rugged highways of common life, with + a weary heart, and with bleeding feet, she went her melancholy course. But + the goal which is the great secret of life, the <i>summum arcanum</i> of + all philosophy, whether the Practical or the Ideal, was, perhaps, no less + attainable for that humble girl than for the elastic step and aspiring + heart of him who thirsted after the Great, and almost believed in the + Impossible. + </p> + <p> + We return to that dismal night in which Alice was torn from the roof of + her lover. It was long before she recovered her consciousness of what had + passed, and gained a full perception of the fearful revolution which had + taken place in her destinies. It was then a grey and dreary morning + twilight; and the rude but covered vehicle which bore her was rolling + along the deep ruts of an unfrequented road, winding among the uninclosed + and mountainous wastes that, in England, usually betoken the neighbourhood + of the sea. With a shudder Alice looked round: Walters, her father’s + accomplice, lay extended at her feet, and his heavy breathing showed that + he was fast asleep. Darvil himself was urging on the jaded and sorry + horse, and his broad back was turned towards Alice; the rain, from which, + in his position, he was but ill protected by the awning, dripped dismally + from his slouched hat; and now, as he turned round, and his sinister and + gloomy gaze rested upon the face of Alice, his bad countenance, rendered + more haggard by the cold raw light of the cheerless dawn, completed the + hideous picture of unveiled and ruffianly wretchedness. + </p> + <p> + “Ho, ho! Alley, so you are come to your senses,” said he, with a kind of + joyless grin. “I am glad of it, for I can have no fainting fine ladies + with me. You have had a long holiday, Alley; you must now learn once more + to work for your poor father. Ah, you have been d——d sly; but + never mind the past—I forgive it. You must not run away again + without my leave; if you are fond of sweethearts, I won’t balk you—but + your old father must go shares, Alley.” + </p> + <p> + Alice could hear no more: she covered her face with the cloak that had + been thrown about her, and though she did not faint, her senses seemed to + be locked and paralysed. By and by Walters woke, and the two men, heedless + of her presence, conversed upon their plans. By degrees she recovered + sufficient self-possession to listen, in the instinctive hope that some + plan of escape might be suggested to her. But from what she could gather + of the incoherent and various projects they discussed, one after another—disputing + upon each with frightful oaths and scarce intelligible slang, she could + only learn that it was resolved at all events to leave the district in + which they were—but whither seemed yet all undecided. The cart + halted at last at a miserable-looking hut, which the signpost announced to + be an inn that afforded good accommodation to travellers; to which + announcement was annexed the following epigrammatic distich: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Old Tom, he is the best of gin; + Drink him once, and you’ll drink him <i>agin</i>!” + </pre> + <p> + The hovel stood so remote from all other habitations, and the waste around + was so bare of trees, and even shrubs, that Alice saw with despair that + all hope of flight in such a place would be indeed a chimera. But to make + assurance doubly sure, Darvil himself, lifting her from the cart, + conducted her up a broken and unlighted staircase, into a sort of loft + rather than a room, and, rudely pushing her in, turned the key upon her, + and descended. The weather was cold, the livid damps hung upon the + distained walls, and there was neither fire nor hearth; but thinly clad as + she was—her cloak and shawl her principal covering—she did not + feel the cold, for her heart was more chilly than the airs of heaven. At + noon an old woman brought her some food, which, consisting of fish and + poached game, was better than might have been expected in such a place, + and what would have been deemed a feast under her father’s roof. With an + inviting leer, the crone pointed to a pewter measure of raw spirits that + accompanied the viands, and assured her, in a cracked and maudlin voice, + that “‘Old Tom’ was a kinder friend than any of the young fellers!” This + intrusion ended, Alice was again left alone till dusk, when Darvil entered + with a bundle of clothes, such as are worn by the peasants of that + primitive district of England. + </p> + <p> + “There, Alley,” said he, “put on this warm toggery; finery won’t do now. + We must leave no scent in the track; the hounds are after us, my little + blowen. Here’s a nice stuff gown for you, and a red cloak that would + frighten a turkey-cock. As to the other cloak and shawl, don’t be afraid; + they sha’n’t go to the pop-shop, but we’ll take care of them against we + get to some large town where there are young fellows with blunt in their + pockets; for you seem to have already found out that your face is your + fortune, Alley. Come, make haste, we must be starting. I shall come up for + you in ten minutes. Pish! don’t be faint hearted; here, take ‘Old Tom’—take + it, I say. What, you won’t? Well, here’s to your health, and a better + taste to you!” + </p> + <p> + And now, as the door once more closed upon Darvil, tears for the first + time came to the relief of Alice. It was a woman’s weakness that procured + for her that woman’s luxury. Those garments—they were Ernest’s gift—Ernest’s + taste; they were like the last relic of that delicious life which now + seemed to have fled for ever. All traces of that life—of him, the + loving, the protecting, the adored; all trace of herself, as she had been + re-created by love, was to be lost to her for ever. It was (as she had + read somewhere, in the little elementary volumes that bounded her historic + lore) like that last fatal ceremony in which those condemned for life to + the mines of Siberia are clothed with the slave’s livery, their past name + and record eternally blotted out, and thrust into the vast wastes, from + which even the mercy of despotism, should it ever re-awaken, cannot recall + them; for all evidence of them—all individuality—all mark to + distinguish them from the universal herd, is expunged from the world’s + calendar. She was still sobbing in vehement and unrestrained passion, when + Darvil re-entered. “What, not dressed yet?” he exclaimed, in a voice of + impatient rage; “hark ye, this won’t do. If in two minutes you are not + ready, I’ll send up John Walters to help you; and he is a rough hand, I + can tell you.” + </p> + <p> + This threat recalled Alice, to herself. “I will do as you wish,” said she + meekly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, be quick,” said Darvil; “they are now putting the horse to. + And mark me, girl, your father is running away from the gallows, and that + thought does not make a man stand upon scruples. If you once attempt to + give me the slip, or do or say anything that can bring the bulkies upon us—by + the devil in hell!—if, indeed, there be hell or devil—my knife + shall become better acquainted with that throat—so look to it!” + </p> + <p> + And this was the father—this the condition—of her whose ear + had for months drunk no other sound than the whispers of flattering love—the + murmurs of Passion from the lips of Poetry. + </p> + <p> + They continued their journey till midnight; they then arrived at an inn, + little different from the last; but here Alice was no longer consigned to + solitude. In a long room, reeking with smoke, sat from twenty to thirty + ruffians before a table on which mugs and vessels of strong potations were + formidably interspersed with sabres and pistols. They received Walters and + Darvil with a shout of welcome, and would have crowded somewhat + unceremoniously round Alice, if her father, whose well-known desperate and + brutal ferocity made him a man to be respected in such an assembly, had + not said, sternly, “Hands off, messmates, and make way by the fire for my + little girl—she is meat for your masters.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, he pushed Alice down into a huge chair in the chimney-nook, + and, seating himself near her, at the end of the table, hastened to turn + the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Captain,” said he, addressing a small thin man at the head of the + table, “I and Walters have fairly cut and run—the land has a bad air + for us, and we now want the sea-breeze to cure the rope fever. So, knowing + this was your night, we have crowded sail, and here we are. You must give + the girl there a lift, though I know you don’t like such lumber, and we’ll + run ashore as soon as we can.” + </p> + <p> + “She seems a quiet little body,” replied the captain; “and we would do + more than that to oblige an old friend like you. In half an hour Oliver* + puts on his nightcap, and we must then be off.” + </p> + <p> + * The moon. + </p> + <p> + “The sooner the better.” + </p> + <p> + The men now appeared to forget the presence of Alice, who sat faint with + fatigue and exhaustion, for she had been too sick at heart to touch the + food brought to her at their previous halting-place, gazing abstractedly + upon the fire. Her father, before their departure, made her swallow some + morsels of sea-biscuit, though each seemed to choke her; and then, wrapped + in a thick boat-cloak, she was placed in a small well-built cutter; and as + the sea-winds whistled round her, the present cold and the past fatigues + lulled her miserable heart into the arms of the charitable Sleep. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You are once more a free woman; + Here I discharge your bonds.” + <i>The Custom of the Country</i>. +</pre> + <p> + AND many were thy trials, poor child; many that, were this book to + germinate into volumes more numerous than monk ever composed upon the + lives of saint or martyr (though a hundred volumes contained the record of + two years only in the life of St. Anthony), it would be impossible to + describe! We may talk of the fidelity of books, but no man ever wrote even + his own biography without being compelled to omit at least nine-tenths of + the most important materials. What are three—what six volumes? We + live six volumes in a day! Thought, emotion, joy, sorrow, hope, fear, how + prolix would they be if they might each tell their hourly tale! But man’s + life itself is a brief epitome of that which is infinite and everlasting; + and his most accurate confessions are a miserable abridgment of a hurried + and confused compendium! + </p> + <p> + It was about three months, or more, from the night in which Alice wept + herself to sleep amongst those wild companions, when she contrived to + escape from her father’s vigilant eye. They were then on the coast of + Ireland. Darvil had separated himself from Walters—from his + seafaring companions: he had run through the greater part of the money his + crimes had got together; he began seriously to attempt putting into + execution his horrible design of depending for support upon the sale of + his daughter. Now Alice might have been moulded into sinful purposes + before she knew Maltravers; but from that hour her very error made her + virtuous—she had comprehended, the moment she loved, what was meant + by female honour; and by a sudden revelation, she had purchased modesty, + delicacy of thought and soul, in the sacrifice of herself. Much of our + morality (prudent and right upon system) with respect to the first false + step of women, leads us, as we all know, into barbarous errors as to + individual exceptions. Where, from pure and confiding love, that first + false step has been taken, many a woman has been saved in after life from + a thousand temptations. The poor unfortunates who crowd our streets and + theatres have rarely, in the first instances, been corrupted by love; but + by poverty, and the contagion of circumstance and example. It is a + miserable cant phrase to call them the victims of seduction; they have + been the victims of hunger, of vanity, of curiosity, of evil <i>female</i> + counsels; but the seduction of love hardly ever conducts to a <i>life</i> + of vice. If a woman has once really loved, the beloved object makes an + impenetrable barrier between her and other men; their advances terrify and + revolt—she would rather die than be unfaithful even to a memory. + Though man love the sex, woman loves only the individual; and the more she + loves him, the more cold she is to the species. For the passion of woman + is in the sentiment—the fancy—the heart. It rarely has much to + do with the coarse images with which boys and old men—the + inexperienced and the worn-out—connect it. + </p> + <p> + But Alice, though her blood ran cold at her terrible father’s language, + saw in his very design the prospect of escape. In an hour of drunkenness + he thrust her from the house, and stationed himself to watch her—it + was in the city of Cork. She formed her resolution instantly—turned + up a narrow street, and fled at full speed. Darvil endeavoured in vain to + keep pace with her—his eyes dizzy, his steps reeling with + intoxication. She heard his last curse dying from a distance on the air, + and her fear winged her steps: she paused at last, and found herself on + the outskirts of the town. She paused, overcome, and deadly faint; and + then, for the first time, she felt that a strange and new life was + stirring within her own. She had long since known that she bore in her + womb the unborn offspring of Maltravers, and that knowledge had made her + struggle and live on. But now, the embryo had quickened into being—it + moved—it appealed to her, a—thing unseen, unknown; but still + it was a living creature appealing to a mother! Oh, the thrill, half of + ineffable tenderness, half of mysterious terror, at that moment!—What + a new chapter in the life of a woman did it not announce:—Now, then, + she must be watchful over herself—must guard against fatigue—must + wrestle with despair. Solemn was the trust committed to her—the life + of another—the child of the Adored. It was a summer night—she + sat on a rude stone, the city on one side, with its lights and lamps;—the + whitened fields beyond, with the moon and the stars above; and <i>above</i> + she raised her streaming eyes, and she thought that God, the Protector, + smiled upon her from the face of the sweet skies. So, after a pause and a + silent prayer, she rose and resumed her way. When she was wearied she + crept into a shed in a farmyard, and slept, for the first time for weeks, + the calm sleep of security and hope. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “How like a prodigal doth she return, + With over-weathered ribs and ragged sails.” + <i>Merchant of Venice</i>. + + “<i>Mer.</i> What are these? + <i>Uncle.</i> The tenants.” + BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.—<i>Wit without Money</i>. +</pre> + <p> + IT was just two years from the night in which Alice had been torn from the + cottage: and at that time Maltravers was wandering amongst the ruins of + ancient Egypt, when, upon the very lawn where Alice and her lover had so + often loitered hand in hand, a gay party of children and young people were + assembled. The cottage had been purchased by an opulent and retired + manufacturer. He had raised the low thatched roof another story high—and + blue slate had replaced the thatch—and the pretty verandahs + overgrown with creepers had been taken down because Mrs. Hobbs thought + they gave the rooms a dull look; and the little rustic doorway had been + replaced by four Ionic pillars in stucco; and a new dining-room, + twenty-two feet by eighteen, had been built out at one wing, and a new + drawing-room had been built over the new dining-room. And the poor little + cottage looked quite grand and villa-like. The fountain had been taken + away, because it made the house damp; and there was such a broad + carriage-drive from the gate to the house! The gate was no longer the + modest green wooden gate, ever ajar with its easy latch; but a tall, + cast-iron, well-locked gate, between two pillars to match the porch. And + on one of the gates was a brass plate, on which was graven, “Hobbs’ Lodge—Ring + the bell.” The lesser Hobbses and the bigger Hobbses were all on the lawn—many + of them fresh from school—for it was the half-holiday of a Saturday + afternoon. There was mirth, and noise, and shouting and whooping, and the + respectable old couple looked calmly on; Hobbs the father smoking his pipe + (alas, it was not the dear meerschaum); Hobbs the mother talking to her + eldest daughter (a fine young woman, three months married, for love, to a + poor man), upon the proper number of days that a leg of mutton (weight ten + pounds) should be made to last. “Always, my dear, have large joints, they + are much the most saving. Let me see—what a noise the boys do make! + No, my love, the ball’s not here.” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, it is under your petticoats.” + </p> + <p> + “La, child, how naughty you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Holla, you sir! it’s my turn to go in now. Biddy, wait,—girls have + no innings—girls only fag out.” + </p> + <p> + “Bob, you cheat.” + </p> + <p> + “Pa, Ned says I cheat.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely, my dear, you are to be a lawyer.” + </p> + <p> + “Where was I, my dear?” resumed Mrs. Hobbs, resettling herself, and + readjusting the invaded petticoats. “Oh, about the leg of mutton!—yes, + large joints are the best—the second day a nice hash, with + dumplings; the third, broil the bone—your husband is sure to like + broiled bones!—and then keep the scraps for Saturday’s pie;—you + know, my dear, your father and I were worse off than you when we began. + But now we have everything that is handsome about us—nothing like + management. Saturday pies are very nice things, and then you start clear + with your joint on Sunday. A good wife like you should never neglect the + Saturday’s pie!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the bride, mournfully; “but Mr. Tiddy does not like pies.” + </p> + <p> + “Not like pies! that very odd—Mr. Hobbs likes pies—perhaps you + don’t have the crust made thick eno’. How somever, you can make it up to + him with a pudding. A wife should always study her husband’s tastes—what + is a man’s home without love? Still a husband ought not to be aggravating, + and dislike pie on a Saturday!” + </p> + <p> + “Holla! I say, ma, do you see that ‘ere gipsy? I shall go and have my + fortune told.” + </p> + <p> + “And I—and I!” + </p> + <p> + “Lor, if there ben’t a tramper!” cried Mr. Hobbs, rising indignantly; + “what can the parish be about?” + </p> + <p> + The object of these latter remarks, filial and paternal, was a young woman + in a worn, threadbare cloak, with her face pressed to the openwork of the + gate, and looking wistfully—oh, how wistfully!—within. The + children eagerly ran up to her, but they involuntarily slackened their + steps when they drew near, for she was evidently not what they had taken + her for. No gipsy hues darkened the pale, thin, delicate cheek—no + gipsy leer lurked in those large blue and streaming eyes—no gipsy + effrontery bronzed that candid and childish brow. As she thus pressed her + countenance with convulsive eagerness against the cold bars, the young + people caught the contagion of inexpressible and half-fearful sadness—they + approached almost respectfully—“Do you want anything here?” said the + eldest and boldest of the boys. + </p> + <p> + “I—I—surely this is Dale Cottage?” + </p> + <p> + “It was Dale Cottage, it is Hobbs’ Lodge now; can’t you read?” said the + heir of the Hobbs’s honours, losing, in contempt at the girl’s ignorance, + his first impression of sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “And—and—Mr. Butler, is he gone too?” + </p> + <p> + Poor child! she spoke as if the cottage was gone, not improved; the Ionic + portico had no charm for her! + </p> + <p> + “Butler!—no such person lives here. Pa, do you know where Mr. Butler + lives?” + </p> + <p> + Pa was now moving up to the place of conference the slow artillery of his + fair round belly and portly calves. “Butler, no—I know nothing of + such a name—no Mr. Butler lives here. Go along with you—ain’t + you ashamed to beg?” + </p> + <p> + “No Mr. Butler!” said the girl, gasping for breath, and clinging to the + gate for support. “Are you sure, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure, yes!—what do you want with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, papa, she looks faint!” said one of the <i>girls</i> deprecatingly—“do + let her have something to eat; I’m sure she’s hungry.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hobbs looked angry; he had often been taken in, and no rich man likes + beggars. Generally speaking, the rich man is in the right. But then Mr. + Hobbs turned to the suspected tramper’s sorrowful face and then to his + fair pretty child—and his good angel whispered something to Mr. + Hobbs’s heart—and he said, after a pause, “Heaven forbid that we + should not feel for a poor fellow-creature not so well to do as ourselves. + Come in, my lass, and have a morsel to eat.” + </p> + <p> + The girl did not seem to hear him, and he repeated the invitation, + approaching to unlock the gate. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” said she, then; “no, I thank you. I could not come in now. I + could not eat here. But tell me, sir, I implore you, can you not even + guess where I may find Mr. Butler?” + </p> + <p> + “Butler!” said Mrs. Hobbs, whom curiosity had now drawn to the spot. “I + remember that was the name of the gentleman who hired the place, and was + robbed.” + </p> + <p> + “Robbed!” said Mr. Hobbs, falling back and relocking the gate—“and + the new tea-pot just come home,” he muttered inly. “Come, be off, child—be + off; we know nothing of your Mr. Butlers.” + </p> + <p> + The young woman looked wildly in his face, cast a hurried glance over the + altered spot, and then, with a kind of shiver, as if the wind had smitten + her delicate form too rudely, she drew her cloak more closely round her + shoulders, and without saying another word, moved away. The party looked + after her as, with trembling steps, she passed down the road, and all felt + that pang of shame which is common to the human heart at the sight of a + distress it has not sought to soothe. But this feeling vanished at once + from the breast of Mrs. and Mr. Hobbs, when they saw the girl stop where a + turn of the road brought the gate before her eyes; and for the first time, + they perceived, what the worn cloak had hitherto concealed, that the poor + young thing bore an infant in her arms. She halted, she gazed fondly back. + Even at that instant the despair of her eyes was visible; and then, as she + pressed her lips to the infant’s brow, they heard a convulsive sob—they + saw her turn away, and she was gone! + </p> + <p> + “Well, I declare!” said Mrs. Hobbs. + </p> + <p> + “News for the parish,” said Mr. Hobbs; “and she so young too!—what a + shame!” + </p> + <p> + “The girls about here are very bad nowadays, Jenny,” said the mother to + the bride. + </p> + <p> + “I see now why she wanted Mr. Butler,” quoth Hobbs, with a knowing wink—“the + slut has come to swear!” + </p> + <p> + And it was for this that Alice had supported her strength—her + courage-during the sharp pangs of childbirth; during a severe and crushing + illness, which for months after her confinement had stretched her upon a + peasant’s bed (the object of the rude but kindly charity of an Irish + shealing)—for this, day after day, she had whispered to herself, “I + shall get well, and I will beg my way to the cottage, and find him there + still, and put my little one into his arms, and all will be bright again;”—for + this, as soon as she could walk without aid, had she set out on foot from + the distant land; for this, almost with a dog’s instinct (for she knew not + what way to turn—what county the cottage was placed in; she only + knew the name of the neighbouring town; and that, populous as it was, + sounded strange to the ears of those she asked; and she had often and + often been directed wrong),—for this, I say, almost with a dog’s + faithful instinct, had she, in cold and heat, in hunger and in thirst, + tracked to her old master’s home her desolate and lonely way! And thrice + had she over-fatigued herself—and thrice again been indebted to + humble pity for a bed whereon to lay a feverish and broken frame. And + once, too, her baby—her darling, her life of life, had been ill—had + been near unto death, and she could not stir till the infant (it was a + girl) was well again, and could smile in her face and crow. And thus many, + many months had elapsed, since the day she set out on her pilgrimage, to + that on which she found its goal. But never, save when the child was ill, + had she desponded or abated heart and hope. She should see him again, and + he would kiss her child. And now—no—I cannot paint the might + of that stunning blow! She knew not, she dreamed not, of the kind + precautions Maltravers had taken; and he had not sufficiently calculated + on her thorough ignorance of the world. How could she divine that the + magistrate, not a mile distant from her, could have told her all she + sought to know? Could she but have met the gardener—or the old + woman-servant—all would have been well! These last, indeed, she had + the forethought to ask for. But the woman was dead, and the gardener had + taken a strange service in some distant county. And so died her last gleam + of hope. If one person who remembered the search of Maltravers had but met + and recognised her! But she had been seen by so few—and now the + bright, fresh girl was so sadly altered! Her race was not yet run, and + many a sharp wind upon the mournful seas had the bark to brave before its + haven was found at last. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Patience and sorrow strove + Which should express her goodliest.”—SHAKESPEARE. + + “Je <i>la</i> plains, je <i>la</i> blame, et je suis son appui.” *-VOLTAIRE. +</pre> + <p> + * I pity her, I blame her, and am her support. + </p> + <p> + AND now Alice felt that she was on the wide world alone, with her child—no + longer to be protected, but to protect; and after the first few days of + agony, a new spirit, not indeed of hope, but of endurance, passed within + her. Her solitary wanderings, with God her only guide, had tended greatly + to elevate and confirm her character. She felt a strong reliance on His + mysterious mercy—she felt, too, the responsibility of a mother. + Thrown for so many months upon her own resources, even for the bread of + life, her intellect was unconsciously sharpened, and a habit of patient + fortitude had strengthened a nature originally clinging and femininely + soft. She resolved to pass into some other county, for she could neither + bear the thoughts that haunted the neighbourhood around her, nor think, + without a loathing horror, of the possibility of her father’s return. + Accordingly, one day, she renewed her wanderings—and after a week’s + travel, arrived at a small village. Charity is so common in England, it so + spontaneously springs up everywhere, like the good seed by the roadside, + that she had rarely wanted the bare necessaries of existence. And her + humble manner, and sweet, well-tuned voice, so free from the professional + whine of mendicancy, had usually its charm for the sternest. So she + generally obtained enough to buy bread and a night’s lodging, and, if + sometimes she failed, she could bear hunger, and was not afraid of + creeping into some shed, or, when by the sea-shore, even into some + sheltering cavern. Her child throve too—for God tempers the wind to + the shorn lamb! But now, so far as physical privation went, the worst was + over. + </p> + <p> + It so happened that as Alice was drawing herself wearily along to the + entrance of the village which was to bound her day’s journey, she was met + by a lady, past middle age, in whose countenance compassion was so + visible, that Alice would not beg, for she had a strange delicacy or + pride, or whatever it may be called, and rather begged of the stern than + of those who looked kindly at her—she did not like to lower herself + in the eyes of the last. + </p> + <p> + The lady stopped. + </p> + <p> + “My poor girl, where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Where God pleases, madam,” said Alice. + </p> + <p> + “Humph! and is that your own child?—you are almost a child + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “It is mine, madam,” said Alice, gazing fondly at the infant; “it is my + all!” + </p> + <p> + The lady’s voice faltered. “Are you married?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Married!—Oh, no, madam!” replied Alice, innocently, yet without + blushing, for she never knew that she had done wrong in loving Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + The lady drew gently back, but not in horror—no, in still deeper + compassion; for that lady had virtue, and she knew that the faults of her + sex are sufficiently punished to permit Virtue to pity them without a sin. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry for it,” she said, however, with greater gravity. “Are you + travelling to seek the father?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, madam! I shall never see him again!” And Alice wept. + </p> + <p> + “What!—he has abandoned you—so young, so beautiful!” added the + lady to herself. + </p> + <p> + “Abandoned me!—no, madam; but it is a long tale. Good evening—I + thank you kindly for your pity.” + </p> + <p> + The lady’s eyes ran over. + </p> + <p> + “Stay,” said she; “tell me frankly where you are going, and what is your + object.” + </p> + <p> + “Alas! madam, I am going anywhere, for I have no home; but I wish to live, + and work for my living, in order that my child may not want for anything. + I wish I could maintain myself—he used to say I could.” + </p> + <p> + “He!—your language and manner are not those of a peasant. What can + you do? What do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Music, and work, and—and—” + </p> + <p> + “Music!—this is strange! What were your parents?” + </p> + <p> + Alice shuddered, and hid her face with her hands. + </p> + <p> + The lady’s interest was now fairly warmed in her behalf. + </p> + <p> + “She has sinned,” said she to herself; “but at that age, how can one be + harsh? She must not be thrown upon the world to make sin a habit. Follow + me,” she said, after a little pause; “and think you have found a friend.” + </p> + <p> + The lady then turned from the high-road down a green lane which led to a + park lodge. This lodge she entered; and after a short conversation with + the inmate, beckoned to Alice to join her. + </p> + <p> + “Janet,” said Alice’s new protector to a comely and pleasant-eyed woman, + “this is the young person—you will show her and the infant every + attention. I shall send down proper clothing for her to-morrow, and I + shall then have thought what will be best for her future welfare.” + </p> + <p> + With that the lady smiled benignly upon Alice, whose heart was too full to + speak; and the door of the cottage closed upon her, and Alice thought the + day had grown darker. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Believe me, she has won me much to pity her. + Alas! her gentle nature was not made + To buffet with adversity.”—ROWE. + + “Sober he was, and grave from early youth, + Mindful of forms, but more intent on truth; + In a light drab he uniformly dress’d, + And look serene th’ unruffled mind express’d. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yet might observers in his sparkling eye + Some observation, some acuteness spy + The friendly thought it keen, the treacherous deem’d it sly; + Yet not a crime could foe or friend detect, + His actions all were like his speech correct— + Chaste, sober, solemn, and devout they named + Him who was this, and not of this ashamed.”—CRABBE. + + “I’ll on and sound this secret.”—BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. +</pre> + <p> + MRS. LESLIE, the lady introduced to the reader in the last chapter, was a + woman of the firmest intellect combined (no unusual combination) with the + softest heart. She learned Alice’s history with admiration and pity. The + natural innocence and honesty of the young mother spoke so eloquently in + her words and looks, that Mrs. Leslie, on hearing her tale, found much + less to forgive than she had anticipated. Still she deemed it necessary to + enlighten Alice as to the criminality of the connection she had formed. + But here Alice was singularly dull—she listened in meek patience to + Mrs. Leslie’s lecture; but it evidently made but slight impression on her. + She had not yet seen enough of the social state to correct the first + impressions of the natural: and all she could say in answer to Mrs. Leslie + was: “It may be all very true, madam, but I have been so much better since + I knew him!” + </p> + <p> + But though Alice took humbly any censure upon herself, she would not hear + a syllable insinuated against Maltravers. When, in a very natural + indignation, Mrs. Leslie denounced him as a destroyer of innocence—for + Mrs. Leslie could not learn all that extenuated his offence—Alice + started up with flashing eyes and heaving heart, and would have hurried + from the only shelter she had in the wide world—she would sooner + have died—she would sooner even have seen her child die, than done + that idol of her soul, who, in her eyes, stood alone on some pinnacle + between earth and heaven, the wrong of hearing him reviled. With + difficulty Mrs. Leslie could restrain, with still more difficulty could + she pacify and soothe her; and for the girl’s petulance, which others + might have deemed insolent or ungrateful, the woman-heart of Mrs. Leslie + loved her all the better. The more she saw of Alice, and the more she + comprehended her story and her character, the more was she lost in wonder + at the romance of which this beautiful child had been the heroine, and the + more perplexed she was as to Alice’s future prospects. + </p> + <p> + At length, however, when she became acquainted with Alice’s musical + acquirements, which were, indeed, of no common order, a light broke in + upon her. Here was the source of her future independence. Maltravers, it + will be remembered, was a musician of consummate skill as well as taste, + and Alice’s natural talent for the art had advanced her, in the space of + months, to a degree of perfection which it cost others—which it had + cost even the quick Maltravers—years to obtain. But we learn so + rapidly when our teachers are those we love: and it may be observed that + the less our knowledge, the less perhaps our genius in other things, the + more facile are our attainments in music, which is a very jealous mistress + of the mind. Mrs. Leslie resolved to have her perfected in this art, and + so enable her to become a teacher to others. In the town of C———, + about thirty miles from Mrs. Leslie’s house, though in the same county, + there was no inconsiderable circle of wealthy and intelligent persons; for + it was a cathedral town, and the resident clergy drew around them a kind + of provincial aristocracy. Here, as in most rural towns in England, music + was much cultivated, both among the higher and middle classes. There were + amateur concerts, and glee-clubs, and subscriptions for sacred music; and + once every five years there was the great C——— Festival. + In this town Mrs. Leslie established Alice: she placed her under the roof + of a <i>ci-devant</i> music-master, who, having retired from his + profession, was no longer jealous of rivals, but who, by handsome terms, + was induced to complete the education of Alice. It was an eligible and + comfortable abode, and the music-master and his wife were a good-natured + easy old couple. + </p> + <p> + Three months of resolute and unceasing perseverance, combined with the + singular ductility and native gifts of Alice, sufficed to render her the + most promising pupil the good musician had ever accomplished; and in three + months more, introduced by Mrs. Leslie to many of the families in the + place, Alice was established in a home of her own; and, what with regular + lessons, and occasional assistance at musical parties, she was fairly + earning what her tutor reasonably pronounced to be “a very genteel + independence.” + </p> + <p> + Now, in these arrangements (for we must here go back a little), there had + been one gigantic difficulty of conscience in one party, of feeling in + another, to surmount. Mrs. Leslie saw at once that unless Alice’s + misfortune was concealed, all the virtues and all the talents in the world + could not enable her to retrace the one false step. Mrs. Leslie was a + woman of habitual truth and strict rectitude, and she was sorely perplexed + between the propriety of candour and its cruelty. She felt unequal to take + the responsibility of action on herself; and, after much meditation, she + resolved to confide her scruples to one who, of all whom she knew, + possessed the highest character for moral worth and religious sanctity. + This gentleman, lately a widower, lived at the outskirts of the town + selected for Alice’s future residence, and at that time happened to be on + a visit in Mrs. Leslie’s neighbourhood. He was an opulent man, a banker; + he had once represented the town in parliament, and retiring, from + disinclination to the late hours and onerous fatigues even of an + unreformed House of Commons, he still possessed an influence to return + one, if not both, of the members for the city of C———. + And that influence was always exerted so as best to secure his own + interest with the powers that be, and advance certain objects of ambition + (for he was both an ostentatious and ambitious man in his own way), which + he felt he might more easily obtain by proxy than by his own votes and + voice in parliament—an atmosphere in which his light did not shine. + And it was with a wonderful address that the banker contrived at once to + support the government, and yet, by the frequent expression of liberal + opinions, to conciliate the Whigs and the Dissenters of his neighbourhood. + Parties, political and sectarian, were not then so irreconcilable as they + are now. In the whole county there was no one so respected as this eminent + person, and yet he possessed no shining talents, though a laborious and + energetic man of business. It was solely and wholly the force of moral + character which gave him his position in society. He felt this; he was + sensitively proud of it; he was painfully anxious not to lose an atom of a + distinction that required to be vigilantly secured. He was a very <i>remarkable</i>, + yet not (perhaps could we penetrate all hearts), a very <i>uncommon</i> + character—this banker! He had risen from, comparatively speaking, a + low origin and humble fortunes, and entirely by the scrupulous and sedate + propriety of his outward conduct. With such a propriety he, therefore, + inseparably connected every notion of worldly prosperity and honour. Thus, + though far from a bad man, he was forced into being something of a + hypocrite. Every year he had grown more starch and more saintly. He was + conscience-keeper to the whole town; and it is astonishing how many + persons hardly dared to make a will or subscribe to a charity without his + advice. As he was a shrewd man of this world, as well as an accredited + guide to the next, his advice was precisely of a nature to reconcile the + Conscience and the Interest; and he was a kind of negotiator in the + reciprocal diplomacy of earth and heaven. But our banker was really a + charitable man, and a benevolent man, and a sincere believer. How, then, + was he a hypocrite? Simply because he professed to be far <i>more</i> + charitable, <i>more</i> benevolent, and <i>more</i> pious than he really + was. His reputation had now arrived to that degree of immaculate polish + that the smallest breath, which would not have tarnished the character of + another man, would have fixed an indelible stain upon his. As he affected + to be more strict than the churchman, and was a great oracle with all who + regarded churchmen as lukewarm, so his conduct was narrowly watched by all + the clergy of the orthodox cathedral, good men, doubtless, but not + affecting to be saints, who were jealous at being so luminously outshone + by a layman and an authority of the sectarians. On the other hand, the + intense homage and almost worship he received from his followers kept his + goodness upon a stretch, if not beyond all human power, certainly beyond + his own. For “admiration” (as it is well said somewhere) “is a kind of + superstition which expects miracles.” From nature this gentleman had + received an inordinate share of animal propensities: he had strong + passions, he was by temperament a sensualist. He loved good eating and + good wine—he loved women. The two former blessings of the carnal + life are not incompatible with canonisation; but St. Anthony has shown + that women, however angelic, are not precisely that order of angels that + saints may safely commune with. If, therefore, he ever yielded to + temptations of a sexual nature, it was with profound secrecy and caution; + nor did his right hand know what his left hand did. + </p> + <p> + This gentleman had married a woman much older than himself, but her + fortune had been one of the necessary stepping-stones in his career. His + exemplary conduct towards this lady, ugly as well as old, had done much + towards increasing the odour of his sanctity. She died of an ague, and the + widower did not shock probabilities by affecting too severe a grief. + </p> + <p> + “The Lord’s will be done!” said he; “she was a good woman, but we should + not set our affections too much upon His perishable creatures!” + </p> + <p> + This was all he was ever heard to say on the matter. He took an elderly + gentlewoman, distantly related to him, to manage his house, and sit at the + head of the table; and it was thought not impossible, though the widower + was past fifty, that he might marry again. + </p> + <p> + Such was the gentleman called in by Mrs. Leslie, who, of the same + religious opinions, had long known and revered him, to decide the affairs + of Alice and of Conscience. + </p> + <p> + As this man exercised no slight or fugitive influence over Alice Darvil’s + destinies, his counsels on the point in discussion ought to be fairly + related. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” said Mrs. Leslie, concluding the history, “you will perceive, + my dear sir, that this poor young creature has been less culpable than she + appears. From the extraordinary proficiency she has made in music, in a + time that, by her own account, seems incredibly short; I should suspect + her unprincipled betrayer must have been an artist—a professional + man. It is just possible that they may meet again, and (as the ranks + between them cannot be so very disproportionate) that he may marry her. I + am sure that he could not do a better or a wiser thing, for she loves him + too fondly, despite her wrongs. Under these circumstances, would it be a—a—a + culpable disguise of truth to represent her as a married woman—separated + from her husband—and give her the name of her seducer? Without such + a precaution you will see, sir, that all hope of settling her reputably in + life—all chance of procuring her any creditable independence, is out + of the question. Such is my dilemma. What is your advice?—palatable + or not, I shall abide by it.” + </p> + <p> + The banker’s grave and saturnine countenance exhibited a slight degree of + embarrassment at the case submitted to him. He began brushing away, with + the cuff of his black coat, some atoms of dust that had settled on his + drab small-clothes; and, after a slight pause, he replied, “Why, really, + dear madam, the question is one of much delicacy—I doubt if men + could be good judges upon it; your sex’s tact and instinct on these + matters are better—much better than our sagacity. There is much in + the dictates of your own heart; for to those who are in the grace of the + Lord He vouchsafes to communicate His pleasure by spiritual hints and + inward suggestions!” + </p> + <p> + “If so, my dear sir, the matter is decided; for my heart whispers me that + this slight deviation from truth would be a less culpable offence than + turning so young and, I had almost said, so innocent a creature adrift + upon the world. I may take your opinion as my sanction.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, really, I can scarcely say so much as that,” said the banker, with a + slight smile. “A deviation from truth cannot be incurred without some + forfeiture of strict duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in any case? Alas, I was afraid so!” said Mrs. Leslie, despondingly. + </p> + <p> + “In any case! Oh, there <i>may</i> be cases! But had I not better see the + young woman, and ascertain that your benevolent heart has not deceived + you?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would,” said Mrs. Leslie; “she is now in the house. I will + ring for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Should we not be alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly; I will leave you together.” + </p> + <p> + Alice was sent for, and appeared. + </p> + <p> + “This pious gentleman,” said Mrs. Leslie, “will confer with you for a few + moments, my child. Do not be afraid; he is the best of men.” With these + words of encouragement the good lady vanished, and Alice saw before her a + tall dark man, with a head bald in front, yet larger behind than before, + with spectacles upon a pair of shrewd, penetrating eyes, and an outline of + countenance that showed he must have been handsome in earlier manhood. + </p> + <p> + “My young friend,” said the banker, seating himself, after a deliberate + survey of the fair countenance that blushed beneath his gaze, “Mrs. Leslie + and myself have been conferring upon your temporal welfare. You have been + unfortunate, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, you are very young; we must not be too severe upon youth. You + will never do so again?” + </p> + <p> + “Do what, please you, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “What! Humph! I mean that you will be more rigid, more circumspect. Men + are deceitful; you must be on your guard against them. You are handsome, + child, very handsome—more’s the pity.” And the banker took Alice’s + hand and pressed it with great unction. Alice looked at him gravely and + drew the hand away instinctively. + </p> + <p> + The banker lowered his spectacles, and gazed at her without their aid; his + eyes were still fine and expressive. “What is your name?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Alice—Alice Darvil, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Alice, we have been considering what is best for you. You wish to + earn your own livelihood, and perhaps marry some honest man hereafter.” + </p> + <p> + “Marry, sir—never!” said Alice, with great earnestness, her eyes + filling with tears. + </p> + <p> + “And why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I shall never see <i>him</i> on earth, and they do not marry in + heaven, sir.” + </p> + <p> + The banker was moved, for he was not worse than his neighbours, though + trying to make them believe he was so much better. + </p> + <p> + “Well, time enough to talk of that; but in the meanwhile you would support + yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. His child ought to be a burden to none—nor I either. I + once wished to die, but then who would love my little one? Now I wish to + live.” + </p> + <p> + “But what mode of livelihood would you prefer? Would you go into a family, + in some capacity?—not that of a servant—you are too delicate + for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no—no!” + </p> + <p> + “But, again, why?” asked the banker, soothingly, yet surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Because,” said Alice, almost solemnly, “there are some hours when I feel + I must be alone. I sometimes think I am not all right <i>here</i>,” and + she touched her forehead. “They called me an idiot before I knew <i>him</i>!—No, + I could not live with others, for I can only cry when nobody but my child + is with me.” + </p> + <p> + This was said with such unconscious, and therefore with such pathetic, + simplicity, that the banker was sensibly affected. He rose, stirred the + fire, resettled himself, and, after a pause, said emphatically: “Alice, I + will be your friend. Let me believe you will deserve it.” + </p> + <p> + Alice bent her graceful head, and seeing that he had sunk into an + abstracted silence, she thought it time for her to withdraw. + </p> + <p> + “She is, indeed, beautiful,” said the banker, almost aloud, when he was + alone; “and the old lady is right—she is as innocent as if she had + not fallen. I wonder—” Here he stopped short, and walked to the + glass over the mantelpiece, where he was still gazing on his own features, + when Mrs. Leslie returned. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sir,” said she, a little surprised at this seeming vanity in so + pious a man. + </p> + <p> + The banker started. “Madam, I honour your penetration as much as your + charity; I think that there is so much to be feared in letting all the + world know this young female’s past error, that, though I dare not advise, + I cannot blame, your concealment of it.” + </p> + <p> + “But, sir, your words have sunk deep into my thoughts; you said every + deviation from truth was a forfeiture of duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly; but there are some exceptions. The world is a bad world, we + are born in sin; and the children of wrath. We do not tell infants all the + truth, when they ask us questions, the proper answers of which would + mislead, not enlighten them. In some things the whole world are infants. + The very science of government is the science of concealing truth—so + is the system of trade. We could not blame the tradesman for not telling + the public that if all his debts were called in he would be a bankrupt.” + </p> + <p> + “And he may marry her after all—this Mr. Butler.” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid—the villain!—Well, madam, I will see to this + poor young thing—she shall not want a guide.” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven reward you! How wicked some people are to call you severe!” + </p> + <p> + “I can bear <i>that</i> blame with a meek temper, madam. Good day.” + </p> + <p> + “Good day. You will remember how strictly confidential has been our + conversation.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a breath shall transpire. I will send you some tracts to-morrow—so + comforting. Heaven bless you!” + </p> + <p> + This difficulty smoothed, Mrs. Leslie, to her astonishment, found that she + had another to contend with in Alice herself. For, first, Alice conceived + that to change her name and keep her secret was to confess that she ought + to be ashamed, rather than proud, of her love to Ernest, and she thought + that so ungrateful to him!—and, secondly, to take his name, to pass + for his wife—what presumption—he would certainly have a right + to be offended! At these scruples Mrs. Leslie well-nigh lost all patience; + and the banker, to his own surprise, was again called in. We have said + that he was an experienced and skilful adviser, which implies the faculty + of persuasion. He soon saw the handle by which Alice’s obstinacy might + always be moved—her little girl’s welfare. He put this so forcibly + before her eyes; he represented the child’s future fate as resting so + much, not only on her own good conduct, but on her outward respectability, + that he prevailed upon her at last; and, perhaps, one argument that he + incidentally used, had as much effect on her as the rest. “This Mr. + Butler, if yet in England, may pass through our town—may visit + amongst us—may hear you spoken of by a name similar to his own, and + curiosity would thus induce him to seek you. Take his name, and you will + always bear an honourable index to your mutual discovery and recognition. + Besides, when you are respectable, honoured, and earning an independence, + he may not be too proud to marry you. But take your own name, avow your + own history, and not only will your child be an outcast, yourself a + beggar, or, at best, a menial dependant, but you lose every hope of + recovering the object of your too-devoted attachment.” + </p> + <p> + Thus Alice was convinced. From that time she became close and reserved in + her communications. Mrs. Leslie had wisely selected a town sufficiently + remote from her own abode to preclude any revelations of her domestics; + and, as Mrs. Butler, Alice attracted universal sympathy and respect from + the exercise of her talents, the modest sweetness of her manners, the + unblemished propriety of her conduct. Somehow or other, no sooner did she + learn the philosophy of concealment than she made a great leap in + knowledge of the world. And, though flattered and courted by the young + loungers of C———, she steered her course with so much + address that she was never persecuted. For there are few men in the world + who make advances where there is no encouragement. + </p> + <p> + The banker observed her conduct with silent vigilance. He met her often, + he visited her often. He was intimate at houses where she attended to + teach or perform. He lent her good books—he advised her—he + preached to her. Alice began to look up to him—to like him—to + consider him as a village girl in Catholic countries may consider a + benevolent and kindly priest. And he—what was his object?—at + that time it is impossible to guess:—he became thoughtful and + abstracted. + </p> + <p> + One day an old maid and an old clergyman met in the High Street of C———. + </p> + <p> + “And how do you do, ma’am?” said the clergyman; “how is the rheumatism?” + </p> + <p> + “Better, thank you, sir. Any news?” + </p> + <p> + The clergyman smiled, and something hovered on his lips, which he + suppressed. + </p> + <p> + “Were you,” the old maid resumed, “at Mrs. Macnab’s last night? Charming + music?” + </p> + <p> + “Charming! How pretty that Mrs. Butler is! and how humble! Knows her + station—so unlike professional people.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed!—What attention a certain banker paid her!” + </p> + <p> + “He! he! he! yes; he is very fatherly—very!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he will marry again; he is always talking of the holy state of + matrimony—a holy state it may be—but Heaven knows, his wife, + poor woman, did not make it a pleasant one.” + </p> + <p> + “There may be more causes for that than we guess of,” said the clergyman, + mysteriously. “I would not be uncharitable, but—” + </p> + <p> + “But what?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, when he was young, our great man was not so correct, I fancy, as he + is now.” + </p> + <p> + “So I have heard it whispered; but nothing against him was ever known.” + </p> + <p> + “Hem—it is very odd!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s very odd?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, but it’s a secret—I dare say it’s all very right.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I sha’n’t say a word. Are you going to the cathedral?—don’t let + me keep you standing. Now, pray proceed!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, yesterday I was doing duty in a village more than twenty + miles hence, and I loitered in the village to take an early dinner; and, + afterwards, while my horse was feeding, I strolled down the green.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—well?” + </p> + <p> + “And I saw a gentleman muffled carefully up, with his hat slouched over + his face, at the door of a cottage, with a little child in his arms, and + he kissed it more fondly than, be we ever so good, we generally kiss other + people’s children; and then he gave it to a peasant woman standing near + him, and mounted his horse, which was tied to the gate, and trotted past + me; and who do you think this was?” + </p> + <p> + “Patience me—I can’t guess!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, our saintly banker. I bowed to him, and I assure you he turned as + red, ma’am, as your waistband.” + </p> + <p> + “My!” + </p> + <p> + “I just turned into the cottage when he was out of sight, for I was + thirsty, and asked for a glass of water, and I saw the child. I declare I + would not be uncharitable, but I thought it monstrous like—you know + whom!” + </p> + <p> + “Gracious! you don’t say—” + </p> + <p> + “I asked the woman ‘if it was hers?’ and she said ‘No,’ but was very + short.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, I must find this out! What is the name of the village?” + </p> + <p> + “Covedale.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know—I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word of this; I dare say there is nothing in it. But I am not much + in favour of your new lights.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I neither. What better than the good old Church of England?” + </p> + <p> + “Madam, your sentiments do you honour; you’ll be sure not to say anything + of our little mystery.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a syllable.” + </p> + <p> + Two days after this three old maids made an excursion to the village of + Covedale, and lo! the cottage in question was shut up—the woman and + the child were gone. The people in the village knew nothing about them—had + seen nothing particular in the woman or child—had always supposed + them mother and daughter; and the gentleman identified by the clerical + inquisitor with the banker had never but once been observed in the place. + </p> + <p> + “The vile old parson,” said the eldest of the old maids, “to take away so + good a man’s character!—and the fly will cost one pound two, with + the baiting!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In this disposition was I, when looking out of my window one + day to take the air, I perceived a kind of peasant who looked + at me very attentively.”—GIL BLAS. +</pre> + <p> + A SUMMER’S evening in a retired country town has something melancholy in + it. You have the streets of a metropolis without their animated bustle—you + have the stillness of the country without its birds and flowers. The + reader will please to bring before him a quiet street in the quiet country + town of C———, in a quiet evening in quiet June; the + picture is not mirthful—two young dogs are playing in the street, + one old dog is watching by a newly-painted door. A few ladies of middle + age move noiselessly along the pavement, returning home to tea: they wear + white muslin dresses, green spencers a little faded, straw poke bonnets + with green or coffee-coloured gauze veils. By twos and threes they have + disappeared within the thresholds of small neat houses, with little + railings, inclosing little green plots. Threshold, house, railing, and + plot, each as like to the other as are those small commodities called + “nest-tables,” which, “even as a broken mirror multiplies,” summon to the + bewildered eye countless iterations of one four-legged individual. + Paradise Place was a set of nest houses. + </p> + <p> + A cow had passed through the streets with a milkwoman behind; two young + and gay shopmen “looking after the gals,” had reconnoitred the street, and + vanished in despair. The twilight advanced—but gently; and though a + star or two were up, the air was still clear. At the open window of one of + the tenements in this street sat Alice Darvil. She had been working (that + pretty excuse to women for thinking), and as the thoughts grew upon her, + and the evening waned, the work had fallen upon her knee, and her hands + dropped mechanically on her lap. Her profile was turned towards the + street; but without moving her head or changing her attitude, her eyes + glanced from time to time to her little girl, who nestled on the ground + beside her, tired with play; and wondering, perhaps, why she was not + already in bed, seemed as tranquil as the young mother herself. And + sometimes Alice’s eyes filled with tears—and then she sighed, as if + to sigh the tears away. But poor Alice, if she grieved, hers was now a + silent and a patient grief. + </p> + <p> + The street was deserted of all other passengers, when a man passed along + the pavement on the side opposite to Alice’s house. His garb was rude and + homely, between that of a labourer and a farmer; but still there was an + affectation of tawdry show about the bright scarlet handkerchief, tied, in + a sailor or smuggler fashion, round the sinewy throat; the hat was set + jauntily on one side, and, dangling many an inch from the gaily-striped + waistcoat, glittered a watch-chain and seals, which appeared suspiciously + out of character with the rest of his attire. The passenger was covered + with dust; and as the street was in a suburb communicating with the + high-road, and formed one of the entrances into the town, he had probably, + after long day’s journey, reached his evening’s destination. The looks of + this stranger wore anxious, restless, and perturbed. In his gait and + swagger there was the recklessness of the professional blackguard; but in + his vigilant, prying, suspicious eyes there was a hang-dog expression of + apprehension and fear. He seemed a man upon whom Crime had set its + significant mark—and who saw a purse with one eye and a gibbet with + the other. Alice did not note the stranger, until she herself had + attracted and centred all his attention. He halted abruptly as he caught a + view of her face—shaded his eyes with his hands as if to gaze more + intently—and at length burst into an exclamation of surprise and + pleasure. At that instant Alice turned, and her gaze met that of the + stranger. The fascination of the basilisk can scarcely more stun and + paralyse its victim than the look of this stranger charmed, with the + appalling glamoury of horror, the eye and soul of Alice Darvil. Her face + became suddenly locked and rigid, her lips as white as marble, her eyes + almost started from their sockets—she pressed her hands convulsively + together, and shuddered—but still she did not move. The man nodded, + and grinned, and then, deliberately crossing the street, gained the door, + and knocked loudly. Still Alice did not stir—her senses seemed to + have forsaken her. Presently the stranger’s loud, rough voice was heard + below, in answer to the accents of the solitary woman-servant whom Alice + kept in her employ; and his strong, heavy tread made the slight staircase + creak and tremble. Then Alice rose as by an instinct, caught her child in + her arms, and stood erect and motionless facing the door. It opened—and + the FATHER and DAUGHTER were once more face to face within the same walls. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Alley, how are you, my blowen?—glad to see your old dad + again, I’ll be sworn. No ceremony, sit down. Ha, ha! snug here—very + snug—we shall live together charmingly. Trade on your own account—eh? + sly!—well, can’t desert your poor old father. Let’s have something + to eat and drink.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, Darvil threw himself at length upon the neat, prim little + chintz sofa, with the air of a man resolved to make himself perfectly at + home. + </p> + <p> + Alice gazed, and trembled violently, but still said nothing—the + power of voice had indeed left her. + </p> + <p> + “Come, why don’t you stir your stumps? I suppose I must wait on myself—fine + manners!—But, ho, ho—a bell, by gosh—mighty grand—never + mind—I am used to call for my own wants.” + </p> + <p> + A hearty tug at the frail bell-rope sent a shrill alarum half-way through + the long lath-and-plaster row of Paradise Place, and left the instrument + of the sound in the hand of its creator. + </p> + <p> + Up came the maid-servant, a formal old woman, most respectable. + </p> + <p> + “Hark ye, old girl!” said Darvil; “bring up the best you have to eat—not + particular—let there be plenty. And I say—a bottle of brandy. + Come, don’t stand there staring like a stuck pig. Budge! Hell and furies! + don’t you hear me?” + </p> + <p> + The servant retreated, as if a pistol had been put to her head, and + Darvil, laughing loud, threw himself again upon the sofa. Alice looked at + him, and, still without saying a word, glided from the room—her + child in her arms. She hurried down-stairs, and in the hall met her + servant. The latter, who was much attached to her mistress, was alarmed to + see her about to leave the house. + </p> + <p> + “Why, marm, where be you going? Dear heart, you have no bonnet on! What is + the matter? Who is this?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried Alice, in agony; “what shall I do?—where shall I fly?” + The door above opened. Alice heard, started, and the next moment was in + the street. She ran on breathlessly, and like one insane. Her mind was, + indeed, for the time, gone; and had a river flowed before her way, she + would have plunged into an escape from a world that seemed too narrow to + hold a father and his child. + </p> + <p> + But just as she turned the corner of a street that led into the more + public thoroughfares, she felt her arm grasped, and a voice called out her + name in surprised and startled accents. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens, Mrs. Butler! Alice! What do I see? What is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, save me!—you are a good man—a great man—save + me—he is returned!” + </p> + <p> + “He! who? Mr. Butler?” said the banker (for that gentleman it was) in a + changed and trembling voice. + </p> + <p> + “No, no—ah, not he!—I did not say <i>he</i>—I said my + father—my, my—ah—look behind—look behind—is + he coming?” + </p> + <p> + “Calm yourself, my dear young friend—no one is near. I will go and + reason with your father. No one shall harm you—I will protect you. + Go back—go back, I will follow—we must not be seen together.” + And the tall banker seemed trying to shrink into a nutshell. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said Alice, growing yet paler, “I cannot go back.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, just follow me to the door—your servant shall get you + your bonnet, and accompany you to my house, where you can wait till I + return. Meanwhile I will see your father, and rid you, I trust, of his + presence.” + </p> + <p> + The banker, who spoke in a very hurried and even impatient voice, waited + for no reply, but took his way to Alice’s house. Alice herself did not + follow, but remained in the very place where she was left, till joined by + her servant, who then conducted her to the rich man’s residence... But + Alice’s mind had not recovered its shock, and her thoughts wandered + alarmingly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Miramont.</i>—Do they chafe roundly? + <i>Andrew.</i>—As they were rubbed with soap, sir, + And now they swear aloud, now calm again + Like a ring of bells, whose sound the wind still utters, + And then they sit in council what to do, + And then they jar again what shall be done?” + BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. +</pre> + <p> + OH! what a picture of human nature it was when the banker and the vagabond + sat together in that little drawing-room, facing each other,—one in + the armchair, one on the sofa! Darvil was still employed on some cold + meat, and was making wry faces at the very indifferent brandy which he had + frightened the formal old servant into buying at the nearest public-house; + and opposite sat the respectable—highly respectable man of forms and + ceremonies, of decencies and quackeries, gazing gravely upon this low, + daredevil ruffian:—the well-to-do hypocrite—the penniless + villain;—the man who had everything to lose—the man who had + nothing in the wide world but his own mischievous, rascally life, a gold + watch, chain and seals, which he had stolen the day before, and thirteen + shillings and threepence halfpenny in his left breeches pocket! + </p> + <p> + The man of wealth was by no means well acquainted with the nature of the + beast before him. He had heard from Mrs. Leslie (as we remember) the + outline of Alice’s history, and ascertained that their joint <i>protegee’s</i> + father was a great blackguard; but he expected to find Mr. Darvil a mere + dull, brutish villain—a peasant-ruffian—a blunt serf, without + brains, or their substitute, effrontery. But Luke Darvil was a clever, + half-educated fellow: he did not sin from ignorance, but had wit enough to + have bad principles, and he was as impudent as if he had lived all his + life in the best society. He was not frightened at the banker’s drab + breeches and imposing air—not he! The Duke of Wellington would not + have frightened Luke Darvil, unless his grace had had the constables for + his <i>aides-de-camp</i>. + </p> + <p> + The banker, to use a homely phrase, was “taken aback.” + </p> + <p> + “Look you here, Mr. What’s-your-name!” said Darvil, swallowing a glass of + the raw alcohol as if it had been water—“look you now—you + can’t humbug me. What the devil do you care about my daughter’s + respectability or comfort, or anything else, grave old dog as you are! It + is my daughter herself you are licking your brown old chaps at!—and, + ‘faith, my Alley is a very pretty girl—very—but queer as + moonshine. You’ll drive a much better bargain with me than with her.” + </p> + <p> + The banker coloured scarlet—he bit his lips and measured his + companion from head to foot (while the latter lolled on the sofa), as if + he were meditating the possibility of kicking him down-stairs. But Luke + Darvil would have thrashed the banker and all his clerks into the bargain. + His frame was like a trunk of thews and muscles, packed up by that careful + dame, Nature, as tightly as possible; and a prizefighter would have + thought twice before he had entered the ring against so awkward a + customer. The banker was a man prudent to a fault, and he pushed his chair + six inches back, as he concluded his survey. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” then said he, very quietly, “do not let us misunderstand each + other. Your daughter is safe from your control—if you molest her, + the law will protect—” + </p> + <p> + “She is not of age,” said Darvil. “Your health, old boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Whether she is of age or not,” returned the banker, unheeding the + courtesy conveyed in the last sentence, “I do not care three straws—I + know enough of the law to know that if she have rich friends in this town, + and you have none, she will be protected and you will go to the + treadmill.” + </p> + <p> + “That is spoken like a sensible man,” said Darvil, for the first time with + a show of respect in his manner; “you now take a practical view of + matters, as we used to say at the spouting-club.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were in your situation, Mr. Darvil, I tell you what I would do. I + would leave my daughter and this town to-morrow morning, and I would + promise never to return, and never to molest her, on condition she allowed + me a certain sum from her earnings, paid quarterly.” + </p> + <p> + “And if I preferred living with her?” + </p> + <p> + “In that case, I, as a magistrate of this town, would have you sent away + as a vagrant, or apprehended—” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” + </p> + <p> + “Apprehended on suspicion of stealing that gold chain and seals which you + wear so ostentatiously.” + </p> + <p> + “By goles, but you’re a clever fellow,” said Darvil, involuntarily; “you + know human natur.” + </p> + <p> + The banker smiled: strange to say, he was pleased with the compliment. + </p> + <p> + “But,” resumed Darvil, helping himself to another slice of beef, “you are + in the wrong box—planted in Queer Street, as <i>we</i> say in + London; for if you care a d—n about my daughter’s respectability, + you will never muzzle her father on suspicion of theft—and so + there’s tit for tat, my old gentleman!” + </p> + <p> + “I shall deny that you are her father, Mr. Darvil; and I think you will + find it hard to prove the fact in any town where I am a magistrate.” + </p> + <p> + “By goles, what a good prig you would have made! You are as sharp as a + gimlet. Surely you were brought up at the Old Bailey!” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Darvil, be ruled. You seem a man not deaf to reason, and I ask you + whether, in any town in this country, a poor man in suspicious + circumstances can do anything against a rich man whose character is + established? Perhaps you are right in the main: I have nothing to do with + that. But I tell you that you shall quit this house in half an hour—that + you shall never enter it again but at your peril; and if you do—within + ten minutes from that time you shall be in the town gaol. It is no longer + a contest between you and your defenceless daughter; it is a contest + between—” + </p> + <p> + “A tramper in fustian, and a gemman as drives a coach,” interrupted + Darvil, laughing bitterly, yet heartily. “Good—good!” + </p> + <p> + The banker rose. “I think you have made a very clever definition,” said + he. “Half an hour—you recollect—good evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay,” said Darvil; “you are the first man I have seen for many a year + that I can take a fancy to. Sit down—sit down, I say, and talk a + bit, and we shall come to terms soon, I dare say;—that’s right. + Lord! how I should like to have you on the roadside instead of within + these four gimcrack walls. Ha! ha! the argufying would be all in my favour + then.” + </p> + <p> + The banker was not a brave man, and his colour changed slightly at the + intimation of this obliging wish. Darvil eyed him grimly and chucklingly. + </p> + <p> + The rich man resumed: “That may or may not be, Mr. Darvil, according as I + might happen or not to have pistols about me. But to the point. Quit this + house without further debate, without noise, without mentioning to any one + else your claim upon its owner—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and the return?” + </p> + <p> + “Ten guineas now, and the same sum quarterly, as long as the young lady + lives in this town, and you never persecute her by word or letter.” + </p> + <p> + “That is forty guineas a year. I can’t live upon it.” + </p> + <p> + “You will cost less in the House of Correction, Mr. Darvil.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, make it a hundred: Alley is cheap at that.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a farthing more,” said the banker, buttoning up his breeches pockets + with a determined air. + </p> + <p> + “Well, out with the shiners.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you promise or not?” + </p> + <p> + “I promise.” + </p> + <p> + “There are your ten guineas. If in half an hour you are not gone—why, + then—” + </p> + <p> + “Then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then you have robbed me of ten guineas, and must take the usual + consequences of robbery.” + </p> + <p> + Darvil started to his feet—his eyes glared—he grasped the + carving-knife before him. + </p> + <p> + “You are a bold fellow,” said the banker, quietly; “but it won’t do. It is + not worth your while to murder me; and I am a man sure to be missed.” + </p> + <p> + Darvil sank down, sullen and foiled. The respectable man was more than a + match for the villain. + </p> + <p> + “Had you been as poor as I,—Gad! what a rogue you would have been!” + </p> + <p> + “I think not,” said the banker; “I believe roguery to be a very bad + policy. Perhaps once I <i>was</i> almost as poor as you are, but I never + turned rogue.” + </p> + <p> + “You never were in my circumstances,” returned Darvil, gloomily. “I was a + gentleman’s son. Come, you shall hear my story. My father was well-born, + but married a maid-servant when he was at college; his family disowned + him, and left him to starve. He died in the struggle against a poverty he + was not brought up to, and my dam went into service again; became + housekeeper to an old bachelor—sent me to school—but mother + had a family by the old bachelor, and I was taken from school and put to + trade. All hated me—for I was ugly; damn them! Mother cut me—I + wanted money—robbed the old bachelor—was sent to gaol, and + learned there a lesson or two how to rob better in future. Mother died,—I + was adrift on the world. The world was my foe—could not make it up + with the world, so we went to war;—you understand, old boy? Married + a poor woman and pretty;—wife made me jealous—had learned to + suspect every one. Alice born—did not believe her mine: not like me—perhaps + a gentleman’s child. I hate—I loathe gentlemen. Got drunk one night—kicked + my wife in the stomach three weeks after her confinement. Wife died—tried + for my life—got off. Went to another county—having had a sort + of education, and being sharp eno’, got work as a mechanic. Hated work + just as I hated gentlemen—for was I not by blood a gentleman? There + was the curse. Alice grew up; never looked on her as my flesh and blood. + Her mother was a w——! Why should not <i>she</i> be one? There, + that’s enough. Plenty of excuse, I think, for all I have ever done. Curse + the world—curse the rich—curse the handsome—curse—curse + all!” + </p> + <p> + “You have been a very foolish man,” said the banker; “and seem to me to + have had very good cards, if you had known how to play them. However, that + is your lookout. It is not yet too late to repent; age is creeping on you.—Man, + there is another world.” + </p> + <p> + The banker said the last words with a tone of solemn and even dignified + adjuration. + </p> + <p> + “You think so—do you?” said Darvil, staring at him. + </p> + <p> + “From my soul I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you are not the sensible man I took you for,” replied Darvil, drily; + “and I should like to talk to you on that subject.” + </p> + <p> + But our Dives, however sincere a believer, was by no means one + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “At whose control + Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul.” + </pre> + <p> + He had words of comfort for the pious, but he had none for the sceptic—he + could soothe, but he could not convert. It was not in his way; besides, he + saw no credit in making a convert of Luke Darvil. Accordingly, he again + rose with some quickness, and said: + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; that is useless, I fear, and I have no time to spare; and so + once more good night to you.” + </p> + <p> + “But you have not arranged where my allowance is to be sent.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! true; I will guarantee it. You will find my name sufficient + security.” + </p> + <p> + “At least, it is the best I can get,” returned Darvil, carelessly; “and + after all, it is not a bad chance day’s work. But I’m sure I can’t say + where the money shall be sent. I don’t know a man who would not grab it.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then—the best thing (I speak as a man of business) will + be to draw on me for ten guineas quarterly. Wherever you are staying, any + banker can effect this for you. But mind, if ever you overdraw the account + stops.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said Darvil; “and when I have finished the bottle I shall + be off.” + </p> + <p> + “You had better,” replied the banker, as he opened the door. + </p> + <p> + The rich man returned home hurriedly. “So Alice, after all, has some + gentle blood in her veins,” thought he. “But that father—no, it will + never do. I wish he were hanged and nobody the wiser. I should very much + like to arrange the matter without marrying; but then—scandal—scandal—scandal. + After all, I had better give up all thoughts of her. She is monstrous + handsome, and so—humph:—I shall never grow an old man.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Began to bend down his admiring eyes + On all her touching looks and qualities, + Turning their shapely sweetness every way + Till ‘twas his food and habit day by day.” + LEIGH HUNT. +</pre> + <p> + THERE must have been a secret something about Alice Darvil singularly + captivating, that (associated as she was with images of the most sordid + and the vilest crimes) left her still pure and lovely alike in the eyes of + a man as fastidious as Ernest Maltravers, and of a man as influenced by + all the thoughts and theories of the world as the shrewd banker of C———. + Amidst things foul and hateful had sprung up this beautiful flower, as if + to preserve the inherent heavenliness and grace of human nature, and + proclaim the handiwork of God in scenes where human nature had been most + debased by the abuses of social art; and where the light of God Himself + was most darkened and obscured. That such contrasts, though rarely and as + by chance, are found, every one who has carefully examined the wastes and + deserts of life must own. I have drawn Alice Darvil scrupulously from + life, and I can declare that I have not exaggerated hue or lineament in + the portrait. I do not suppose, with our good banker, that she owed + anything, unless it might be a greater delicacy of form and feature, to + whatever mixture of gentle blood was in her veins. But, somehow or other, + in her original conformation there was the happy bias of the plantes + towards the Pure and the Bright. For, despite Helvetius, a common + experience teaches us that though education and circumstances may mould + the mass, Nature herself sometimes forms the individual, and throws into + the clay, or its spirit, so much of beauty or deformity, that nothing can + utterly subdue the original elements of character. From sweets one draws + poison—from poisons another extracts but sweets. But I, often deeply + pondering over the psychological history of Alice Darvil, think that one + principal cause why she escaped the early contaminations around her was in + the slow and protracted development of her intellectual faculties. Whether + or not the brutal violence of her father had in childhood acted through + the nerves upon the brain, certain it is that until she knew Maltravers—until + she loved—till she was cherished—her mind had seemed torpid + and locked up. True, Darvil had taught her nothing, nor permitted her to + be taught anything; but that mere ignorance would have been no + preservation to a quick, observant mind. It was the bluntness of the + senses themselves that operated tike an armour between her mind and the + vile things around her. It was the rough, dull covering of the chrysalis, + framed to bear rude contact and biting weather, that the butterfly might + break forth, winged and glorious, in due season. Had Alice been a quick + child, Alice would have probably grown up a depraved and dissolute woman; + but she comprehended, she understood little or nothing, till she found an + inspirer in that affection which inspires both beast and man; which makes + the dog (in his natural state one of the meanest of the savage race) a + companion, a guardian, a protector, and raises Instinct half-way to the + height of Reason. + </p> + <p> + The banker had a strong regard for Alice; and when he reached home, he + heard with great pain that she was in a high state of fever. She remained + beneath his roof that night, and the elderly gentlewoman, his relation and + <i>gouvernante</i>, attended her. The banker slept but little; and the + next morning his countenance was unusually pale. Towards daybreak Alice + had fallen into a sound and refreshing sleep; and when, on waking, she + found, by a note from her host, that her father had left her house, and + she might return in safety and without fear, a violent flood of tears, + followed by long and grateful prayer, contributed to the restoration of + her mind and nerves. Imperfect as this young woman’s notions of abstract + right and wrong still were, she was yet sensible to the claims of a father + (no matter how criminal) upon his child: for feelings with her were so + good and true, that they supplied in a great measure the place of + principles. She knew that she could not have lived under the same roof + with her dreadful parent; but she still felt an uneasy remorse at thinking + he had been driven from that roof in destitution and want. She hastened to + dress herself and seek an audience with her protector; and the latter + found with admiration and pleasure that he had anticipated her own + instantaneous and involuntary design in the settlement made upon Darvil. + He then communicated to Alice the compact he had already formed with her + father, and she wept and kissed his hand when she heard, and secretly + resolved that she would work hard to be enabled to increase the sum + allowed. Oh, if her labours could serve to retrieve a parent from the + necessity of darker resources for support! Alas! when crime has become a + custom, it is like gaming or drinking—the excitement is wanting; and + had Luke Darvil been suddenly made inheritor of the wealth of a + Rothschild, he would either still have been a villain in one way or the + other; or <i>ennui</i> would have awakened conscience, and he would have + died of the change of habit. + </p> + <p> + Our banker always seemed more struck by Alice’s moral feelings than even + by her physical beauty. Her love for her child, for instance, impressed + him powerfully, and he always gazed upon her with softer eyes when he saw + her caressing or nursing the little fatherless creature, whose health was + now delicate and precarious. It is difficult to say whether he was + absolutely in love with Alice; the phrase is too strong, perhaps, to be + applied to a man past fifty, who had gone through emotions and trials + enough to wear away freshness from his heart. His feelings altogether for + Alice, the designs he entertained towards her, were of a very complicated + nature; and it will be long, perhaps, before the reader can thoroughly + comprehend them. He conducted Alice home that day; but he said little by + the way, perhaps because his female relation, for appearance’ sake, + accompanied them also. He, however, briefly cautioned Alice on no account + to communicate to any one that it was her father who had been her visitor; + and she still shuddered too much at the reminiscence to appear likely to + converse on it. The banker also judged it advisable to be so far + confidential with Alice’s servant as to take her aside, and tell her that + the inauspicious stranger of the previous evening had been a very distant + relation of Mrs. Butler, who, from a habit of drunkenness, had fallen into + evil and disorderly courses. The banker added with a sanctified air that + he trusted, by a little serious conversation, he had led the poor man to + better notions, and that he had gone home with an altered mind to his + family. “But, my good Hannah,” he concluded, “you know you are a superior + person, and above the vulgar sin of indiscriminate gossip; therefore, + mention what has occurred to no one; it can do no good to Mrs. Butler—it + may hurt the man himself, who is well-to-do—better off than he + seems; and who, I hope, with grace, may be a sincere penitent; and it will + also—but that is nothing—very seriously displease me. By the + by, Hannah, I shall be able to get your grandson into the Free School.” + </p> + <p> + The banker was shrewd enough to perceive that he had carried his point; + and he was walking home, satisfied, on the whole, with the way matters had + been arranged, when he was met by a brother magistrate. + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” said the latter, “and how are you, my good sir? Do you know that we + have had the Bow Street officers here, in search of a notorious villain + who has broken from prison? He is one of the most determined and dexterous + burglars in all England, and the runners have hunted him into our town. + His very robberies have tracked him by the way. He robbed a gentleman the + day before yesterday of his watch, and left him for dead on the road—this + was not thirty miles hence.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless me!” said the banker, with emotion; “and what is the wretch’s + name?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, he has as many aliases as a Spanish grandee; but I believe the last + name he has assumed is Peter Watts.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said our friend, relieved,—“well, have the runners found him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but they are on his scent. A fellow answering to his description was + seen by the man at the toll-bar, at daybreak this morning, on the way to F———; + the officers are after him.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope he may meet with his deserts—and crime is never unpunished + even in this world. My best compliments to your lady:—and how is + little Jack?—Well! glad to hear it—fine boy, little Jack! good + day.” + </p> + <p> + “Good day, my dear sir. Worthy man, that!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But who is this? thought he, a demon vile. + With wicked meaning and a vulgar style; + Hammond they call him—they can give the name + Of man to devils. Why am I so tame? + Why crush I not the viper? Fear replied, + Watch him a while, and let his strength be tried.” + CRABBE. +</pre> + <p> + THE next morning, after breakfast, the banker took his horse—a + crop-eared, fast-trotting hackney—and merely leaving word that he + was going upon business into the country, and should not return to dinner, + turned his back on the spires of C———. + </p> + <p> + He rode slowly, for the day was hot. The face of the country, which was + fair and smiling, might have tempted others to linger by the way; but our + hard and practical man of the world was more influenced by the weather + than the loveliness of the scenery. He did not look upon Nature with the + eye of imagination; perhaps a railroad, had it then and there existed, + would have pleased him better than the hanging woods, the shadowy valleys, + and the changeful river that from time to time beautified the landscape on + either side the road. But, after all, there is a vast deal of hypocrisy in + the affected admiration for Nature;—and I don’t think one person in + a hundred cares for what lies by the side of a road, so long as the road + itself is good, hills levelled, and turnpikes cheap. + </p> + <p> + It was midnoon, and many miles had been passed, when the banker turned + down a green lane and quickened his pace. At the end of about + three-quarters of an hour, he arrived at a little solitary inn, called + “The Angler,”—put up his horse, ordered his dinner at six o’clock—begged + to borrow a basket to hold his fish—and it was then apparent that a + longish cane he had carried with him was capable of being extended into a + fishing-rod. He fitted in the various joints with care, as if to be sure + no accident had happened to the implement by the journey—pried + anxiously into the contents of a black case of lines and flies—slung + the basket behind his back, and while his horse was putting down his nose + and whisking about his tail, in the course of those nameless coquetries + that horses carry on with hostlers—our worthy brother of the rod + strode rapidly through some green fields, gained the riverside, and began + fishing with much semblance of earnest interest in the sport. He had + caught one trout, seemingly by accident—for the astonished fish was + hooked up on the outside of its jaw—probably while in the act, not + of biting, but of gazing at, the bait, when he grew discontented with the + spot he had selected; and, after looking round as if to convince himself + that he was not liable to be disturbed or observed (a thought hateful to + the fishing fraternity), he stole quickly along the margin, and finally + quitting the riverside altogether, struck into a path that, after a sharp + walk of nearly all hour, brought him to the door of a cottage. He knocked + twice, and then entered of his own accord—nor was it till the summer + sun was near its decline that the banker regained his inn. His simple + dinner, which they had delayed in wonder at the protracted absence of the + angler, and in expectation of the fishes he was to bring back to be fried, + was soon despatched; his horse was ordered to the door, and the red clouds + in the west already betokened the lapse of another day, as he spurred from + the spot on the fast-trotting hackney, fourteen miles an hour. + </p> + <p> + “That ‘ere gemman has a nice bit of blood,” said the hostler, scratching + his ear. + </p> + <p> + “Oiy,—who be he?” said a hanger-on of the stables. + </p> + <p> + “I dooan’t know. He has been here twice afoar, and he never cautches + anything to sinnify—he be mighty fond of fishing, surely.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, away sped the banker—milestone on milestone glided by—and + still, scarce turning a hair, trotted gallantly out the good hackney. But + the evening grew darker, and it began to rain; a drizzling, persevering + rain, that wets a man through ere he is aware of it. After his fiftieth + year, a gentleman who has a tender regard for himself does not like to get + wet; and the rain inspired the banker, who was subject to rheumatism, with + the resolution to take a short cut along the fields. There were one or two + low hedges by this short way, but the banker had been there in the spring, + and knew every inch of the ground. The hackney leaped easily—and the + rider had a tolerably practised seat—and two miles saved might just + prevent the menaced rheumatism: accordingly, our friend opened a white + gate, and scoured along the fields without any misgivings as to the + prudence of his choice. He arrived at his first leap—there was the + hedge, its summit just discernible in the dim light. On the other side, to + the right was a haystack, and close by this haystack seemed the most + eligible place for clearing the obstacle. Now since the banker had visited + this place, a deep ditch, that served as a drain, had been dug at the + opposite base of the hedge, of which neither horse nor man was aware, so + that the leap was far more perilous than was anticipated. Unconscious of + this additional obstacle, the rider set off in a canter. The banker was + high in air, his loins bent back, his rein slackened, his right hand + raised knowingly—when the horse took fright at an object crouched by + the haystack—swerved, plunged midway into the ditch, and pitched its + rider two or three yards over its head. The banker recovered himself + sooner than might have been expected; and, finding himself, though bruised + and shaken, still whole and sound, hastened to his horse. But the poor + animal had not fared so well as its master, and its off-shoulder was + either put out or dreadfully sprained. It had scrambled its way out of the + ditch, and there it stood disconsolate by the hedge, as lame as one of the + trees that, at irregular intervals, broke the symmetry of the barrier. On + ascertaining the extent of his misfortune, the banker became seriously + uneasy; the rain increased—he was several miles yet from home—he + was in the midst of houseless fields, with another leap before him—the + leap he had just passed behind—and no other egress that he knew of + into the main road. While these thoughts passed through his brain, he + became suddenly aware that he was not alone. The dark object that had + frightened his horse rose slowly from the snug corner it had occupied by + the haystack, and a gruff voice that made the banker thrill to the marrow + of his bones, cried, “Holla, who the devil are you?” + </p> + <p> + Lame as his horse was, the banker instantly put his foot into the stirrup; + but before he could mount, a heavy gripe was laid on his shoulder—and + turning round with as much fierceness as he could assume, he saw—what + the tone of the voice had already led him to forebode—the ill-omened + and cut-throat features of Luke Darvil. + </p> + <p> + “Ha! ha! my old annuitant, my clever feelosofer—jolly old boy—how + are you?—give us a fist. Who would have thought to meet you on a + rainy night, by a lone haystack, with a deep ditch on one side, and no + chimney-pot within sight? Why, old fellow, I, Luke Darvil,—I, the + vagabond—I whom you would have sent to the treadmill for being poor, + and calling on my own daughter—I am as rich as you are here—and + as great, and as strong, and as powerful.” + </p> + <p> + And while he spoke, Darvil, who was really an undersized man, seemed to + swell and dilate, till he appeared half a head taller than the shrinking + banker, who was five feet eleven inches without his shoes. + </p> + <p> + “E-hem!” said the rich man, clearing his throat, which seemed to him + uncommonly husky; “I do not know whether I insulted your poverty, my dear + Mr. Darvil—I hope not; but this is hardly a time for talking—pray + let me mount, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Not a time for talking!” interrupted Darvil angrily; “it’s just the time + to my mind: let me consider,—ay, I told you that whenever we met by + the roadside it would be my turn to have the best of the argufying.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say—I dare say, my good fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “Fellow not me!—I won’t be fellowed now. I say I have the best of it + here—man to man—I am your match.” + </p> + <p> + “But why quarrel with me?” said the banker, coaxingly; “I never meant you + harm, and I am sure you cannot mean me harm.” + </p> + <p> + “No!—and why?” asked Darvil, coolly;—“why do you think I can + mean you no harm?” + </p> + <p> + “Because your annuity depends on me.” + </p> + <p> + “Shrewdly put—we’ll argufy that point. My life is a bad one, not + worth more than a year’s purchase; now, suppose you have more than forty + pounds about you—it may be better worth my while to draw my knife + across your gullet than to wait for the quarter-day’s ten pounds a time. + You see it’s all a matter of calculation, my dear, Mr. What’s-your-name!” + </p> + <p> + “But,” replied the banker, and his teeth began to chatter, “I have not + forty pounds about me.” + </p> + <p> + “How do I know that?—you say so. Well, in the town yonder your word + goes for more than mine; I never gainsaid you when you put that to me, did + I? But here, by the haystack, my word is better than yours; and if I say + you must and shall have forty pounds about you, let’s see whether you dare + contradict me.” + </p> + <p> + “Look you, Darvil,” said the banker, summoning up all his energy and + intellect, for his moral power began now to back his physical cowardice, + and he spoke calmly, and even bravely, though his heart throbbed aloud + against his breast, and you might have knocked him down with a feather—“the + London runners are even now hot after you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!—you lie!” + </p> + <p> + “Upon my honour I speak the truth; I heard the news last evening. They + tracked you to C———; they tracked you out of the town; a + word from me would have given you into their hands. I said nothing—you + are safe—you may yet escape. I will even help you to fly the + country, and live out your natural date of years, secure and in peace.” + </p> + <p> + “You did not say that the other day in the snug drawing-room; you see I + have the best of it now—own that.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” said the banker. + </p> + <p> + Darvil chuckled, and rubbed his hands. + </p> + <p> + The man of wealth once more felt his importance, and went on. “This is one + side of the question. On the other, suppose you rob and murder me, do you + think my death will lessen the heat of the pursuit against you? The whole + country will be in arms, and before forty-eight hours are over you will be + hunted down like a mad dog.” + </p> + <p> + Darvil was silent, as if in thought; and after a pause, replied: “Well, + you are a ‘cute one after all. What have you got about you? you know you + drove a hard bargain the other day—now it’s my market—fustian + has riz—kersey has fell.” + </p> + <p> + “All I have about me shall be yours,” said the banker, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Give it me, then.” + </p> + <p> + “There!” said the banker, placing his purse and pocketbook into Darvil’s + bands. + </p> + <p> + “And the watch?” + </p> + <p> + “The watch?—well there!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + The banker’s senses were sharpened by fear, but they were not so sharp as + those of Darvil; he heard nothing but the rain pattering on the leaves, + and the rush of water in the ditch at hand. Darvil stooped and listened—till, + raising himself again, with a deep-drawn breath, he said, “I think there + are rats in the haystack; they will be running over me in my sleep; but + they are playful creturs, and I like ‘em. And now, my <i>dear</i> sir, I + am afraid I must put an end to you!” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens, what do you mean? How?” + </p> + <p> + “Man, there is another world!” quoth the ruffian, mimicking the banker’s + solemn tone in their former interview. “So much the better for you! In + that world they don’t tell tales.” + </p> + <p> + “I swear I will never betray you.” + </p> + <p> + “You do?—swear it, then.” + </p> + <p> + “By all my hopes of earth and heaven!” + </p> + <p> + “What a d——-d coward you be!” said Darvil, laughing + scornfully. “Go—you are safe. I am in good humour with myself again. + I crow over you, for no man can make me tremble. And villain as you think + me, while you fear me you cannot despise—you respect me. Go, I say—go.” + </p> + <p> + The banker was about to obey, when suddenly, from the haystack, a broad, + red light streamed upon the pair, and the next moment Darvil was seized + from behind, and struggling in the gripe of a man nearly as powerful as + himself. The light, which came from a dark-lanthorn, placed on the ground, + revealed the forms of a peasant in a smock-frock, and two stout-built, + stalwart men, armed with pistols—besides the one engaged with + Darvil. + </p> + <p> + The whole of this scene was brought as by the trick of the stage—as + by a flash of lightning—as by the change of a showman’s + phantasmagoria—before the astonished eyes of the banker. He stood + arrested and spell-bound, his hand on his bridle, his foot on his stirrup. + A moment more and Darvil had clashed his antagonist on the ground; he + stood at a little distance, his face reddened by the glare of the lanthorn + and fronting his assailants—that fiercest of all beasts, a desperate + man at bay! He had already succeeded in drawing forth his pistols, and he + held one in each hand—his eyes flashing from beneath his bent brows + and turning quickly from foe to foe! At last those terrible eyes rested on + the late reluctant companion of his solitude. + </p> + <p> + “So <i>you</i> then betrayed me,” he said, very slowly, and directed his + pistol to the head of the dismounted horseman. + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” cried one of the officers, for such were Darvil’s assailants; + “fire away in this direction, my hearty—we’re paid for it. The + gentleman knew nothing at all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, by G—!” cried the banker, startled out of his sanctity. + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall keep my shot,” said Darvil; “and mind, the first who + approaches me is a dead man.” + </p> + <p> + It so happened that the robber and the officers were beyond the distance + which allows sure mark for a pistol-shot, and each party felt the + necessity of caution. + </p> + <p> + “Your time is up, my swell cove!” cried the head of the detachment; “you + have had your swing, and a long one it seems to have been—you must + now give in. Throw down your barkers, or we must make mutton of you, and + rob the gallows.” + </p> + <p> + Darvil did not reply, and the officers, accustomed to hold life cheap, + moved on towards him—their pistols cocked and levelled. + </p> + <p> + Darvil fired—one of the men staggered and fell. With a kind of + instinct Darvil had singled out the one with whom he had before wrestled + for life. The ruffian waited not for the others—he turned and fled + along the fields. + </p> + <p> + “Zounds, he is off!” cried the other two, and they rushed after him in + pursuit. A pause—a shot—another—an oath—a groan—and + all was still. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all up with him now,” said one of the runners, in the distance; “he + dies game.” + </p> + <p> + At these words, the peasant, who had before skulked behind the haystack, + seized the lanthorn from the ground, and ran to the spot. The banker + involuntarily followed. + </p> + <p> + There lay Luke Darvil on the grass—still living, but a horrible and + ghastly spectacle. One ball had pierced his breast, another had shot away + his jaw. His eyes rolled fearfully, and he tore up the grass with his + hands. + </p> + <p> + The officers looked coldly on. “He was a clever fellow!” said one. + </p> + <p> + “And has given us much trouble,” said the other; “let us see to Will.” + </p> + <p> + “But he’s not dead yet,” said the banker, shuddering. + </p> + <p> + “Sir, he cannot live a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Darvil raised himself bolt upright—shook his clenched fist at his + conquerors, and a fearful gurgling howl, which the nature of his wounds + did not allow him to syllable into a curse, came from his breast—with + that he fell flat on his back—a corpse. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, sir,” said the elder officer, turning away, “you had a + narrow escape—but how came you here?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather, how came <i>you</i> here?” + </p> + <p> + “Honest Hodge there, with the lanthorn, had marked the fellow skulk behind + the haystack, when he himself was going out to snare rabbits. He had seen + our advertisement of Watts’ person, and knew that we were then at a public + house some miles off. He came to us—conducted us to the spot—we + heard voices—showed up the glim—and saw our man. Hodge, you + are a good subject, and love justice.” + </p> + <p> + “Yees, but I shall have the rewourd,” said Hodge, showing his teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Talk o’ that by and by,” said the officer. “Will, how are you, man?” + </p> + <p> + “Bad,” groaned the poor runner, and a rush of blood from the lips followed + the groan. + </p> + <p> + It was many days before the ex-member for C——— + sufficiently recovered the tone of his mind to think further of Alice; + when he did, it was with great satisfaction that he reflected that Darvil + was no more, and that the deceased ruffian was only known to the + neighbourhood by the name of Peter Watts. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK V. + </h2> + <h3> + PARODY. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My hero, turned author, lies mute in this section, + You may pass by the place if you’re bored by reflection: + But if honest enough to be fond of the Muse, + Stay, and read where you’re able, and sleep where you choose. + THEOC. <i>Epig. in Hippon</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “My genius spreads her wing, + And flies where Britain courts the western spring. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, + I see the lords of human kind pass by, + Intent on high designs."-GOLDSMITH. +</pre> + <p> + I HAVE no respect for the Englishman who re-enters London after long + residence abroad without a pulse that beats quick and a heart that heaves + high. The public buildings are few, and, for the most part, mean; the + monuments of antiquity not comparable to those which the pettiest town in + Italy can boast of; the palaces are sad rubbish; the houses of our peers + and princes are shabby and shapeless heaps of brick. But what of all this? + the spirit of London is in her thoroughfares—her population! What + wealth—what cleanliness—what order—what animation! How + majestic, and yet how vivid, is the life that runs through her myriad + veins! How, as the lamps blaze upon you at night, and street after street + glides by your wheels, each so regular in its symmetry, so equal in its + civilization—how all speak of the CITY OF FREEMEN. + </p> + <p> + Yes, Maltravers felt his heart swell within him as the post-horses whirled + on his dingy carriage—over Westminster Bridge—along Whitehall—through + Regent Street—towards one of the quiet and private-house-like hotels + that are scattered round the neighbourhood of Grosvenor Square. + </p> + <p> + Ernest’s arrival had been expected. He had written from Paris to Cleveland + to announce it; and Cleveland had, in reply, informed him that he had + engaged apartments for him at Mivart’s. The smiling waiters ushered him + into a spacious and well-aired room—the armchair was already wheeled + by the fire—a score or so of letters strewed the table, together + with two of the evening papers. And how eloquently of busy England do + those evening papers speak! A stranger might have felt that he wanted no + friend to welcome him—the whole room smiled on him a welcome. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers ordered his dinner and opened his letters: they were of no + importance; one from his steward, one from his banker, another about the + county races, a fourth from a man he had never heard of, requesting the + vote and powerful interest of Mr. Maltravers for the county of B———, + should the rumour of a dissolution be verified; the unknown candidate + referred Mr. Maltravers to his “well-known public character.” From these + epistles Ernest turned impatiently, and perceived a little three-cornered + note which had hitherto escaped his attention. It was from Cleveland, + intimating that he was in town; that his health still precluded his going + out, but that he trusted to see his dear Ernest as soon as he arrived. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was delighted at the prospect of passing his evening so + agreeably; he soon despatched his dinner and his newspapers, and walked in + the brilliant lamplight of a clear frosty evening of early December in + London, to his friend’s house in Curzon Street: a small house, + bachelor-like and unpretending; for Cleveland spent his moderate though + easy fortune almost entirely at his country villa. The familiar face of + the old valet greeted Ernest at the door, and he only paused to hear that + his guardian was nearly recovered to his usual health, ere he was in the + cheerful drawing-room, and—since Englishmen do not embrace—returning + the cordial gripe of the kindly Cleveland. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear Ernest,” said Cleveland, after they had gone through the + preliminary round of questions and answers, “here you are at last: Heaven + be praised; and how well you are looking—how much you are improved! + It is an excellent period of the year for your <i>debut</i> in London. I + shall have time to make you intimate with people before the whirl of ‘the + season’ commences.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I thought of going to Burleigh, my country-place. I have not seen it + since I was a child.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! you have had solitude enough at Como, if I may trust to your + letter; you must now mix with the great London world; and you will enjoy + Burleigh the more in the summer.” + </p> + <p> + “I fancy this great London world will give me very little pleasure; it may + be pleasant enough to young men just let loose from college, but your + crowded ball-rooms and monotonous clubs will be wearisome to one who has + grown fastidious before his time. <i>J’ai vecu beaucoup dans peu d’annees</i>. + I have drawn in youth too much upon the capital of existence to be highly + delighted with the ostentatious parsimony with which our great men + economise pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t judge before you have gone through the trial,” said Cleveland: + “there is something in the opulent splendour, the thoroughly sustained + magnificence, with which the leaders of English fashion conduct even the + most insipid amusements, that is above contempt. Besides, you need not + necessarily live with the butterflies. There are plenty of bees that will + be very happy to make your acquaintance. Add to this, my dear Ernest, the + pleasure of being made of—of being of importance in your own + country. For you are young, well-born, and sufficiently handsome to be an + object of interest to mothers and to daughters; while your name, and + property, and interest, will make you courted by men who want to borrow + your money and obtain your influence in your county. No, Maltravers, stay + in London—amuse yourself your first year, and decide on your + occupation and career the next; but reconnoitre before you give battle.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was not ill-pleased to follow his friend’s advice, since by so + doing he obtained his friend’s guidance and society. Moreover, he deemed + it wise and rational to see, face to face, the eminent men in England, + with whom, if he fulfilled his promise to De Montaigne, he was to run the + race of honourable rivalry. Accordingly, he consented to Cleveland’s + propositions. + </p> + <p> + “And have you,” said he, hesitating, as he loitered by the door after the + stroke of twelve had warned him to take his leave—“have you never + heard anything of my—my—the unfortunate Alice Darvil?” + </p> + <p> + “Who?—Oh, that poor young woman; I remember!—not a syllable.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers sighed deeply and departed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Je trouve que c’est une folie de vouloir etudier le monde en + simple spectateur. * * * Dans l’ecole du monde, comme dans + cette de l’amour, il faut commencer par pratiquer cc qu’on veut + apprendre.” *—ROUSSEAU. +</pre> + <p> + * I find that it is a folly to wish to study the world like a simple + spectator. * * * In the school of the world, as in that of love, it is + necessary to begin by practising what we wish to learn. + </p> + <p> + ERNEST MALTRAVERS was now fairly launched upon the wide ocean of London. + Amongst his other property was a house in Seamore Place—that quiet, + yet central street, which enjoys the air without the dust of the park. It + had been hitherto let, and, the tenant now quitting very opportunely, + Maltravers was delighted to secure so pleasant a residence: for he was + still romantic enough to desire to look out upon trees and verdure rather + than brick houses. He indulged only in two other luxuries: his love of + music tempted him to an opera-box, and he had that English feeling which + prides itself in the possession of beautiful horses,—a feeling that + enticed him into an extravagance on this head that baffled the competition + and excited the envy of much richer men. But four thousand a year goes a + great way with a single man who does not gamble, and is too philosophical + to make superfluities wants. + </p> + <p> + The world doubled his income, magnified his old country-seat into a superb + chateau, and discovered that his elder brother, who was only three or four + years older than himself, had no children. The world was very courteous to + Ernest Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + It was, as Cleveland said, just at that time of year when people are at + leisure to make new acquaintances. A few only of the most difficult houses + in town were open; and their doors were cheerfully expanded to the + accomplished ward of the popular Cleveland. Authors and statesmen, and + orators, and philosophers—to all he was presented;—all seemed + pleased with him, and Ernest became the fashion before he was conscious of + the distinction. But he had rightly foreboded. He had commenced life too + soon; he was disappointed; he found some persons he could admire, some + whom he could like, but none with whom he could grow intimate, or for whom + he could feel an interest. Neither his heart nor his imagination was + touched; all appeared to him like artificial machines; he was discontented + with things like life, but in which something or other was wanting. He + more than ever recalled the brilliant graces of Valerie de Ventadour, + which had thrown a charm over the most frivolous circles; he even missed + the perverse and fantastic vanity of Castruccio. The mediocre poet seemed + to him at least less mediocre than the worldlings about him. Nay, even the + selfish good spirits and dry shrewdness of Lumley Ferrers would have been + an acceptable change to the dull polish and unrevealed egotism of jealous + wits and party politicians. “If these are the flowers of the parterre, + what must be the weeds?” said Maltravers to himself, returning from a + party at which he had met half a score of the most orthodox lions. + </p> + <p> + He began to feel the aching pain of satiety. + </p> + <p> + But the winter glided away—the season commenced, and Maltravers was + whirled on with the rest into the bubbling vortex. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And crowds commencing mere vexation, + Retirement sent its invitation.”—SHENSTONE. +</pre> + <p> + THE tench, no doubt, considers the pond in which he lives as the Great + World. There is no place, however stagnant, which is not the great world + to the creatures that move about, in it. People who have lived all their + lives in a village still talk of the world as if they had ever seen it! An + old woman in a hovel does not put her nose out of her door on a Sunday + without thinking she is going amongst the pomps and vanities of the great + world. <i>Ergo</i>, the great world is to all of us the little circle in + which we live. But as fine people set the fashion, so the circle of fine + people is called the Great World <i>par excellence</i>. Now this great + world is not a bad thing when we thoroughly understand it; and the London + great world is at least as good as any other. But then we scarcely do + understand that or anything else in our <i>beaux jours</i>,—which, + if they are sometimes the most exquisite, are also often the most + melancholy and the most wasted portion of our life. Maltravers had not yet + found out either <i>the set</i> that pleased him or the species of + amusement that really amused. Therefore he drifted on and about the vast + whirlpool, making plenty of friends—going to balls and dinners—and + bored with both as men are who have no object in society. Now the way + society is enjoyed is to have a pursuit, a <i>metier</i> of some kind, and + then to go into the world, either to make the individual object a social + pleasure, or to obtain a reprieve from some toilsome avocation. Thus, if + you are a politician—politics at once make an object in your closet, + and a social tie between others and yourself when you are in the world. + The same may be said of literature, though in a less degree; and though, + as fewer persons care about literature than politics, your companions must + be more select. If you are very young, you are fond of dancing; if you are + very profligate, perhaps you are fond of flirtations with your friend’s + wife. These last are objects in their way: but they don’t last long, and, + even with the most frivolous, are not occupations that satisfy the whole + mind and heart, in which there is generally an aspiration after something + useful. It is not vanity alone that makes a man of the <i>mode</i> invent + a new bit or give his name to a new kind of carriage; it is the influence + of that mystic yearning after utility, which is one of the master-ties + between the individual and the species. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was not happy—that is a lot common enough; but he was not + amused—and that is a sentence more insupportable. He lost a great + part of his sympathy with Cleveland, for, when a man is not amused, he + feels an involuntary contempt for those who are. He fancies they are + pleased with trifles which his superior wisdom is compelled to disdain. + Cleveland was of that age when we generally grow social—for by being + rubbed long and often against the great loadstone of society, we obtain, + in a thousand little minute points, an attraction in common with our + fellows. Their petty sorrows and small joys—their objects of + interest or employment, at some time or other have been ours. We gather up + a vast collection of moral and mental farthings of exchange: and we + scarcely find any intellect too poor, but what we can deal with it in some + way. But in youth, we are egotists and sentimentalists, and Maltravers + belonged to the fraternity who employ + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The heart in passion and the head in rhymes.” + </pre> + <p> + At length—just when London begins to grow most pleasant—when + flirtations become tender, and water-parties numerous—when birds + sing in the groves of Richmond, and whitebait refresh the statesman by the + shores of Greenwich,—Maltravers abruptly fled from the gay + metropolis, and arrived, one lovely evening in July, at his own ivy-grown + porch of Burleigh. + </p> + <p> + What a soft, fresh, delicious evening it was! He had quitted his carriage + at the lodge, and followed it across the small but picturesque park alone + and on foot. He had not seen the place since childhood—he had quite + forgotten its aspect. He now wondered how he could have lived anywhere + else. The trees did not stand in stately avenues, nor did the antlers of + the deer wave above the sombre fern; it was not the domain of a grand + seigneur, but of an old, long-descended English squire. Antiquity spoke in + the moss-grown palings in the shadowy groves, in the sharp gable-ends and + heavy mullions of the house, as it now came in view, at the base of a hill + covered with wood—and partially veiled by the shrubs of the + neglected pleasure-ground, separated from the park by the invisible ha-ha. + There, gleamed in the twilight the watery face of the oblong fish-pool, + with its old-fashioned willows at each corner—there, grey and + quaint, was the monastic dial—and there was the long terrace walk, + with discoloured and broken vases, now filled with the orange or the aloe, + which, in honour of his master’s arrival, the gardener had extracted from + the dilapidated green-house. The very evidence of neglect around, the very + weeds and grass on the half-obliterated road, touched Maltravers with a + sort of pitying and remorseful affection for his calm and sequestered + residence. And it was not with his usual proud step and erect crest that + he passed from the porch to the solitary library, through a line of his + servants:—the two or three old retainers belonging to the place were + utterly unfamiliar to him, and they had no smile for their stranger lord. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Lucian.</i> He that is born to be a man neither should nor can + be anything nobler, greater, and better than a man. + + “<i>Peregrine.</i> But, good Lucian, for the very reason that he may + not become less than a man, he should be always striving to be + more.”—WIELAND’S <i>Peregrinus Proteus</i>. +</pre> + <p> + IT was two years from the date of the last chapter before Maltravers again + appeared in general society. These two years had sufficed to produce a + revolution in his fate. Ernest Maltravers had lost the happy rights of the + private individual; he had given himself to the Public; he had surrendered + his name to men’s tongues, and was a thing that all had a right to praise, + to blame, to scrutinise, to spy. Ernest Maltravers had become an author. + </p> + <p> + Let no man tempt Gods and Columns, without weighing well the consequences + of his experiment. He who publishes a book, attended with a moderate + success, passes a mighty barrier. He will often look back with a sigh of + regret at the land he has left for ever. The beautiful and decent + obscurity of hearth and home is gone. He can no longer feel the just + indignation of manly pride when he finds himself ridiculed or reviled. He + has parted with the shadow of his life. His motives may be misrepresented, + his character belied; his manners, his person, his dress, the “very trick + of his walk” are all fair food for the cavil and the caricature. He can + never go back, he cannot even pause; he has chosen his path, and all the + natural feelings that make the nerve and muscle of the active being urge + him to proceed. To stop short is to fail. He has told the world that he + will make a name; and he must be set down as a pretender, or toil on till + the boast be fulfilled. Yet Maltravers thought nothing of all this when, + intoxicated with his own dreams and aspirations, he desired to make a + world his confidant; when from the living nature, and the lore of books, + and the mingled result of inward study and external observation, he sought + to draw forth something that might interweave his name with the + pleasurable associations of his kind. His easy fortune and lonely state + gave him up to his own thoughts and contemplations; they suffused his + mind, till it ran over upon the page which makes the channel that connects + the solitary Fountain with the vast Ocean of Human Knowledge. The + temperament of Maltravers was, as we have seen, neither irritable nor + fearful. He formed himself, as a sculptor forms, with a model before his + eyes and an ideal in his heart. He endeavoured, with labour and patience, + to approach nearer and nearer with every effort to the standard of such + excellence as he thought might ultimately be attained by a reasonable + ambition; and when, at last, his judgment was satisfied, he surrendered + the product with a tranquil confidence to a more impartial tribunal. + </p> + <p> + His first work was successful; perhaps for this reason—that it bore + the stamp of the Honest and the Real. He did not sit down to report of + what he had never seen, to dilate on what he had never felt. A quiet and + thoughtful observer of life, his descriptions were the more vivid, because + his own first impressions were not yet worn away. His experience had sunk + deep; not on the arid surface of matured age, but in the fresh soil of + youthful emotions. Another reason, perhaps, that obtained success for his + essay was, that he had more varied and more elaborate knowledge than young + authors think it necessary to possess. He did not, like Cesarini, attempt + to make a show of words upon a slender capital of ideas. Whether his style + was eloquent or homely; it was still in him a faithful transcript of + considered and digested thought. A third reason—and I dwell on these + points not more to elucidate the career of Maltravers than as hints which + may be useful to others—a third reason why Maltravers obtained a + prompt and favourable reception from the public was, that he had not + hackneyed his peculiarities of diction and thought in that worst of all + schools for the literary novice—the columns of a magazine. + Periodicals form an excellent mode of communication between the public and + an author <i>already</i> established, who has lost the charm of novelty, + but gained the weight of acknowledged reputation; and who, either upon + politics or criticism, seeks for frequent and continuous occasions to + enforce his peculiar theses and doctrines. But, upon the young writer, + this mode of communication, if too long continued, operates most + injuriously both as to his future prospects and his own present taste and + style. With respect to the first, it familiarises the public to his + mannerism (and all writers worth reading have mannerism) in a form to + which the said public are not inclined to attach much weight. He + forestalls in a few months what ought to be the effect of years; namely, + the wearying a world soon nauseated with the <i>toujours perdrix</i>. With + respect to the last, it induces a man to write for momentary effects; to + study a false smartness of style and reasoning; to bound his ambition of + durability to the last day of the month; to expect immediate returns for + labour; to recoil at the “hope deferred” of serious works on which + judgment is slowly formed. The man of talent who begins young at + periodicals, and goes on long, has generally something crude and stunted + about both his compositions and his celebrity. He grows the oracle of + small coteries; and we can rarely get out of the impression that he is + cockneyfied and conventional. Periodicals sadly mortgaged the claims that + Hazlitt, and many others of his contemporaries, had upon a vast + reversionary estate of Fame. But I here speak too politically; to some the + <i>res angustoe domi</i> leave no option. And, as Aristotle and the Greek + proverb have it, we cannot carve out all things with the knife of the + Delphic cutler. + </p> + <p> + The second work that Maltravers put forth, at an interval of eighteen + months from the first, was one of a graver and higher nature; it served to + confirm his reputation: and that is success enough for a second work, + which is usually an author’s “<i>pons asinorum</i>.” He who, after a + triumphant first book, does not dissatisfy the public with a second, has a + fair chance of gaining a fixed station in literature. But now commenced + the pains and perils of the after-birth. By a maiden effort an author + rarely makes enemies. His fellow-writers are not yet prepared to consider + him as a rival; if he be tolerably rich, they unconsciously trust that he + will not become a regular, or, as they term it, “a professional” author: + he did something just to be talked of; he may write no more, or his second + book may fail. But when that second book comes out, and does not fail, + they begin to look about them; envy wakens, malice begins. And all the old + school—gentlemen who have retired on their pensions of renown—regard + him as an intruder: then the sneer, then the frown, the caustic irony, the + biting review, the depreciating praise. The novice begins to think that he + is further from the goal than before he set out upon the race. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers had, upon the whole, a tolerably happy temperament; but he was + a very proud man, and he had the nice soul of a courageous, honourable, + punctilious gentleman. He thought it singular that society should call + upon him, as a gentleman, to shoot his best friend, if that friend + affronted him with a rude word; and yet that, as an author, every fool and + liar might, with perfect impunity, cover reams of paper with the most + virulent personal abuse of him. + </p> + <p> + It was one evening in the early summer that, revolving anxious and + doubtful thoughts, Ernest sauntered gloomily along his terrace, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And watched with wistful eyes the setting sun.” + </pre> + <p> + when he perceived a dusty travelling carriage whirled along the road by + the ha-ha, and a hand waved in recognition from the open window. His + guests had been so rare, and his friends were so few, that Maltravers + could not conjecture who was his intended visitant. His brother, he knew, + was in London. Cleveland, from whom he had that day heard, was at his + villa. Ferrers was enjoying himself in Vienna. Who could it be? We may say + of solitude what we please; but, after two years of solitude, a visitor is + a pleasurable excitement. Maltravers retraced his steps, entered his + house, and was just in time to find himself almost in the arms of De + Montaigne. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Quid tam dextro pede concipis ut te, + Conatus non poeniteat, votique peracti?” *—JUV. +</pre> + <p> + * What, under such happy auspices do you conceive that you may not repent + of your endeavour and accomplished wish? + </p> + <p> + “YES,” said De Montaigne, “in my way I also am fulfilling my destiny. I am + a member of the <i>Chambre des Deputes</i>, and on a visit to England upon + some commercial affairs. I found myself in your neighbourhood, and, of + course, could not resist the temptation: so you must receive me as your + guest for some days.” + </p> + <p> + “I congratulate you cordially on your senatorial honours. I have already + heard of your rising name.” + </p> + <p> + “I return the congratulations with equal warmth. You are bringing my + prophecies to pass. I have read your works with increased pride at our + friendship.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers sighed slightly, and half turned away. + </p> + <p> + “The desire of distinction,” said he, after a pause, “grows upon us till + excitement becomes disease. The child who is born with the mariner’s + instinct laughs with glee when his paper bark skims the wave of a pool. By + and by nothing will content him but the ship and the ocean.—Like the + child is the author.” + </p> + <p> + “I am pleased with your simile,” said De Montaigne, smiling. “Do not spoil + it, but go on with your argument.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers continued: “Scarcely do we win the applause of a moment, ere we + summon the past and conjecture the future. Our contemporaries no longer + suffice for competitors, our age for the Court to pronounce on our claims: + we call up the Dead as our only true rivals—we appeal to Posterity + as our sole just tribunal. Is this vain in us? Possibly. Yet such vanity + humbles. ‘Tis then only we learn all the difference between Reputation and + Fame—between To-Day and Immortality!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think,” replied De Montaigne, “that the dead did not feel the same + when they first trod the path that leads to the life beyond life? Continue + to cultivate the mind, to sharpen by exercise the genius, to attempt to + delight or to instruct your race; and even supposing you fall short of + every model you set before you—supposing your name moulder with your + dust, still you will have passed life more nobly than the unlaborious + herd. Grant that you win not that glorious accident, ‘a name below,’ how + can you tell but what you may have fitted yourself for high destiny and + employ in the world not of men, but of spirits? The powers of the mind are + things that cannot be less immortal than the mere sense of identity; their + acquisitions accompany us through the Eternal Progress; and we may obtain + a lower or a higher grade hereafter, in proportion as we are more or less + fitted by the exercise of our intellect to comprehend and execute the + solemn agencies of God. The wise man is nearer to the angels than the fool + is. This may be an apocryphal dogma, but it is not an impossible theory.” + </p> + <p> + “But we may waste the sound enjoyments of actual life in chasing the hope + you justly allow to be ‘apocryphal;’ and our knowledge may go for nothing + in the eyes of the Omniscient.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” said De Montaigne, smiling; “but answer me honestly. By the + pursuits of intellectual ambition do you waste the sound enjoyments of + life? If so, you do not pursue the system rightly. Those pursuits ought + only to quicken your sense for such pleasures as are the true relaxations + of life. And this, with you peculiarly, since you are fortunate enough not + to depend for subsistence upon literature;—did you do so, I might + rather advise you to be a trunkmaker than an author. A man ought not to + attempt any of the highest walks of Mind and Art, as the mere provision of + daily bread; not literature alone, but everything else of the same degree. + He ought not to be a statesman, or an orator, or a philosopher, as a thing + of pence and shillings: and usually all men, save the poor poet, feel this + truth insensibly.” + </p> + <p> + “This may be fine preaching,” said Maltravers; “but you may be quite sure + that the pursuit of literature is a pursuit apart from the ordinary + objects of life, and you cannot command the enjoyments of both.” + </p> + <p> + “I think otherwise,” said De Montaigne; “but it is not in a country house + eighty miles from the capital, without wife, guests, or friends, that the + experiment can be fairly made. Come, Maltravers, I see before you a brave + career, and I cannot permit you to halt at the onset.” + </p> + <p> + “You do not see all the calumnies that are already put forth against me, + to say nothing of all the assurances (and many by clever men) that there + is nothing in me!” + </p> + <p> + “Dennis was a clever man, and said the same thing of your Pope. Madame de + Sevigne was a clever woman, but she thought Racine would never be very + famous. Milton saw nothing in the first efforts of Dryden that made him + consider Dryden better than a rhymester. Aristophanes was a good judge of + poetry, yet how ill he judged of Euripides! But all this is commonplace, + and yet you bring arguments that a commonplace answers in evidence against + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “But it is unpleasant not to answer attacks—not to retaliate on + enemies.” + </p> + <p> + “Then answer attacks, and retaliate on enemies.” + </p> + <p> + “But would that be wise?” + </p> + <p> + “If it give you pleasure—it would not please <i>me</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, De Montaigne, you are reasoning Socratically. I will ask you + plainly and bluntly, would you advise an author to wage war on his + literary assailants, or to despise them?” + </p> + <p> + “Both; let him attack but few, and those rarely. But it is his policy to + show that he is one whom it is better not to provoke too far. The author + always has the world on his side against the critics, if he choose his + opportunity. And he must always recollect that he is ‘A STATE’ in himself, + which must sometimes go to war in order to procure peace. The time for war + or for peace must be left to the State’s own diplomacy and wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + “You would make us political machines.” + </p> + <p> + “It would make every man’s conduct more or less mechanical; for system is + the triumph of mind over matter; the just equilibrium of all the powers + and passions may seem like machinery. Be it so. Nature meant the world—the + creation—man himself, for machines.” + </p> + <p> + “And one must even be in a passion mechanically, according to your + theories.” + </p> + <p> + “A man is a poor creature who is not in a passion sometimes; but a very + unjust, or a very foolish one, if he be in a passion with the wrong + person, and in the wrong place and time. But enough of this, it is growing + late.” + </p> + <p> + “And when will Madame visit England?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not yet, I fear. But you will meet Cesarini in London this year or + the next. He is persuaded that you did not see justice done to his poems, + and is coming here as soon as his indolence will let him, to proclaim your + treachery in a biting preface to some toothless satire.” + </p> + <p> + “Satire!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; more than one of your poets made their way by a satire, and Cesarini + is persuaded he shall do the same. Castruccio is not as far-sighted as his + namesake, the Prince of Lucca. Good night, my dear Ernest.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When with much pains this boasted learning’s got, + ‘Tis an affront to those who have it not.” + CHURCHILL: <i>The Author</i>. +</pre> + <p> + THERE was something in De Montaigne’s conversation, which, without actual + flattery, reconciled Maltravers to himself and his career. It served less, + perhaps, to excite than to sober and brace his mind. De Montaigne could + have made no man rash, but he could have made many men energetic and + persevering. The two friends had some points in common; but Maltravers had + far more prodigality of nature and passion about him—had more of + flesh and blood, with the faults and excellences of flesh and blood. De + Montaigne held so much to his favourite doctrine of moral equilibrium, + that he had really reduced himself in much to a species of clockwork. As + impulses are formed from habits, so the regularity of De Montaigne’s + habits made his impulses virtuous and just, and he yielded to them as + often as a hasty character might have done; but then those impulses never + urged to anything speculative or daring. De Montaigne could not go beyond + a certain defined circle of action. He had no sympathy for any reasonings + based purely on the hypotheses of the imagination: he could not endure + Plato, and he was dumb to the eloquent whispers of whatever was refining + in poetry or mystical in wisdom. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers, on the contrary, not disdaining Reason, ever sought to assist + her by the Imaginative Faculty, and held all philosophy incomplete and + unsatisfactory that bounded its inquiries to the limits of the Known and + Certain. He loved the inductive process; but he carried it out to + Conjecture as well as Fact. He maintained that, by a similar hardihood, + all the triumphs of science, as well as art, had been accomplished—that + Newton, that Copernicus, would have done nothing if they had not imagined + as well as reasoned, guessed as well as ascertained. Nay, it was an + aphorism with him, that the very soul of philosophy is conjecture. He had + the most implicit confidence in the operations of the mind and the heart + properly formed, and deemed that the very excesses of emotion and thought, + in men well trained by experience and study, are conducive to useful and + great ends. But the more advanced years, and the singularly practical + character of De Montaigne’s views, gave him a superiority in argument over + Maltravers which the last submitted to unwillingly. While, on the other + hand, De Montaigne secretly felt that his young friend reasoned from a + broader base, and took in a much wider circumference; and that he was, at + once, more liable to failure and error, and more capable of new discovery + and of intellectual achievement. But their ways in life being different, + they did not clash; and De Montaigne, who was sincerely interested in + Ernest’s fate, was contented to harden his friend’s mind against the + obstacles in his way, and leave the rest to experiment and to Providence. + They went up to London together: and De Montaigne returned to Paris. + Maltravers appeared once more in the haunts of the gay and great. He felt + that his new character had greatly altered his position. He was no longer + courted and caressed for the same vulgar and adventitious circumstances of + fortune, birth, and connections, as before—yet for circumstances + that to him seemed equally unflattering. He was not sought for his merit, + his intellect, his talents; but for his momentary celebrity. He was an + author in fashion, and run after as anything else in fashion might have + been. He was invited, less to be talked to than to be stared at. He was + far too proud in his temper, and too pure in his ambition, to feel his + vanity elated by sharing the enthusiasm of the circles with a German + prince or an industrious flea. Accordingly he soon repelled the advances + made to him, was reserved and supercilious to fine ladies, refused to be + the fashion, and became very unpopular with the literary exclusives. They + even began to run down the works, because they were dissatisfied with the + author. But Maltravers had based his experiments upon the vast masses of + the general Public. He had called the PEOPLE of his own and other + countries to be his audience and his judges; and all the coteries in the + world could have not injured him. He was like the member for an immense + constituency, who may offend individuals, so long as he keep his footing + with the body at large. But while he withdrew himself from the insipid and + the idle, he took care not to become separated from the world. He formed + his own society according to his tastes: took pleasure in the manly and + exciting topics of the day; and sharpened his observation and widened his + sphere as an author, by mixing freely and boldly with all classes as a + citizen. But literature became to him as art to the artist—as his + mistress to the lover—an engrossing and passionate delight. He made + it his glorious and divine profession—he loved it as a profession—he + devoted to its pursuits and honours his youth, cares, dreams—his + mind, and his heart, and his soul. He was a silent but intense enthusiast + in the priesthood he had entered. From LITERATURE he imagined had come all + that makes nations enlightened and men humane. And he loved Literature the + more, because her distinctions were not those of the world—because + she had neither ribbands, nor stars, nor high places at her command. A + name in the deep gratitude and hereditary delight of men—this was + the title she bestowed. Hers was the Great Primitive Church of the world, + without Popes or Muftis—sinecures, pluralities and hierarchies. Her + servants spoke to the earth as the prophets of old, anxious only to be + heard and believed. Full of this fanaticism, Ernest Maltravers pursued his + way in the great procession of the myrtle-bearers to the sacred shrine. He + carried the thyrsus, and he believed in the god. By degrees his fanaticism + worked in him the philosophy which De Montaigne would have derived from + sober calculation; it made him indifferent to the thorns in the path, to + the storms in the sky. He learned to despise the enmity he provoked, the + calumnies that assailed him. Sometimes he was silent, but sometimes he + retorted. Like a soldier who serves a cause, he believed that when the + cause was injured in his person, the weapons confided to his hands might + be wielded without fear and without reproach. Gradually he became feared + as well as known. And while many abused him, none could contemn. + </p> + <p> + It would not suit the design of this work to follow Maltravers step by + step in his course. I am only describing the principal events, not the + minute details, of his intellectual life. Of the character of his works it + will be enough to say that, whatever their faults, they were original—they + were his own. He did not write according to copy, nor compile from + commonplace books. He was an artist, it is true,—for what is genius + itself but art? but he took laws, and harmony, and order, from the great + code of Truth and Nature: a code that demands intense and unrelaxing study—though + its first principles are few and simple: that study Maltravers did not + shrink from. It was a deep love of truth that made him a subtle and + searching analyst, even in what the dull world considers trifles; for he + knew that nothing in literature is in itself trifling—that it is + often but a hairsbreadth that divides a truism from a discovery. He was + the more original, because he sought rather after the True than the New. + No two minds are ever the same; and therefore any man who will give us + fairly and frankly the results of his own impressions, uninfluenced by the + servilities of imitation, will be original. But it was not from + originality, which really made his predominant merit, that Maltravers + derived his reputation, for his originality was not of that species which + generally dazzles the vulgar—it was not extravagant nor <i>bizarre</i>—he + affected no system and no school. Many authors of his day seemed more + novel and <i>unique</i> to the superficial. Profound and durable invention + proceeds by subtle and fine gradations—it has nothing to do with + those jerks and starts, those convulsions and distortions, which belong + not to the vigour and health, but to the epilepsy and disease, of + Literature. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Being got out of town, the first thing I did was to give my + mule her head.”—<i>Gil Blas</i>. +</pre> + <p> + ALTHOUGH the character of Maltravers was gradually becoming more hard and + severe,—although as his reason grew more muscular, his imagination + lost something of its early bloom, and he was already very different from + the wild boy who had set the German youths in a blaze, and had changed + into a Castle of Indolence the little cottage tenanted with Poetry and + Alice,—he still preserved many of his old habits; he loved, at + frequent intervals, to disappear from the great world—to get rid of + books and friends, and luxury and wealth, and make solitary excursions, + sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, through this fair garden of + England. + </p> + <p> + It was one soft May-day that he found himself on such an expedition, + slowly riding through one of the green lanes of ———shire. + His cloak and his saddle-bags comprised all his baggage, and the world was + before him “where to choose his place of rest.” The lane wound at length + into the main road, and just as he came upon it he fell in with a gay + party of equestrians. + </p> + <p> + Foremost of its cavalcade rode a lady in a dark green habit, mounted on a + thoroughbred English horse, which she managed with so easy a grace that + Maltravers halted in involuntary admiration. He himself was a consummate + horseman, and he had the quick eye of sympathy for those who shared the + accomplishment. He thought, as he gazed, that he had never seen but one + woman whose air and mien on horseback were so full of that nameless + elegance which skill and courage in any art naturally bestow—that + woman was Valerie de Ventadour. Presently, to his great surprise, the lady + advanced from her companions, neared Maltravers, and said, in a voice + which he did not at first distinctly recognise—“Is it possible?—do + I see Mr. Maltravers?” + </p> + <p> + She paused a moment, and then threw aside her veil, and Ernest beheld—Madame + de Ventadour! By this time a tall, thin gentleman had joined the + Frenchwoman. + </p> + <p> + “Has <i>madame</i> met with an acquaintance?” said he; “and, if so, will + she permit me to partake her pleasure?” + </p> + <p> + The interruption seemed a relief to Valerie;—she smiled and + coloured. + </p> + <p> + “Let me introduce you to Mr. Maltravers. Mr. Maltravers, this is my host, + Lord Doningdale.” + </p> + <p> + The two gentlemen bowed, the rest of the cavalcade surrounded the trio, + and Lord Doningdale, with a stately yet frank courtesy, invited Maltravers + to return with the party to his house, which was about four miles distant. + As may be supposed, Ernest readily accepted the invitation. The cavalcade + proceeded, and Maltravers hastened to seek an explanation from Valerie. It + was soon given. Madame de Ventadour had a younger sister, who had lately + married a son of Lord Doningdale. The marriage had been solemnized in + Paris, and Monsieur and Madame de Ventadour had been in England a week on + a visit to the English peer. + </p> + <p> + The <i>rencontre</i> was so sudden and unexpected that neither recovered + sufficient self-possession for fluent conversation. The explanation given, + Valerie sank into a thoughtful silence, and Maltravers rode by her side + equally taciturn, pondering on the strange chance which, after the lapse + of years, had thrown them again together. + </p> + <p> + Lord Doningdale, who at first lingered with his other visitors, now joined + them, and Maltravers was struck with his high-bred manner, and a singular + and somewhat elaborate polish in his emphasis and expression. They soon + entered a noble park, which attested far more care and attention than are + usually bestowed upon those demesnes, so peculiarly English. Young + plantations everywhere contrasted the venerable groves—new cottages + of picturesque design adorned the outskirts—and obelisks and + columns, copied from the antique, and evidently of recent workmanship, + gleamed upon them as they neared the house—a large pile, in which + the fashion of Queen Anne’s day had been altered into the French roofs and + windows of the architecture of the Tuileries. “You reside much in the + country, I am sure, my lord,” said Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Lord Doningdale, with a pensive air, “this place is greatly + endeared to me. Here his Majesty Louis XVIII., when in England, honoured + me with an annual visit. In compliment to him, I sought to model my poor + mansion into an humble likeness of his own palace, so that he might as + little as possible miss the rights he had lost. His own rooms were + furnished exactly like those he had occupied at the Tuileries. Yes, the + place is endeared to me—I think of the old times with pride. It is + something to have sheltered a Bourbon in his misfortunes.” + </p> + <p> + “It cost <i>milord</i> a vast sum to make these alterations,” said Madame + de Ventadour, glancing archly at Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes,” said the old lord; and his face, lately elated, became overcast—“nearly + three hundred thousand pounds: but what then?—<i>‘Les souvenirs, + madame, sont sans prix</i>!’” + </p> + <p> + “Have you visited Paris since the restoration, Lord Doningdale,” asked + Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + His lordship looked at him sharply, and then turned his eye to Madame de + Ventadour. + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said Valerie; laughing, “I did not dictate the question.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Lord Doningdale, “I have been at Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “His Majesty must have been delighted to return your lordship’s + hospitality.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Doningdale looked a little embarrassed, and made no reply, but put + his horse into a canter. + </p> + <p> + “You have galled our host,” said Valerie, smiling. “Louis XVIII. and his + friends lived here as long as they pleased, and as sumptuously as they + could; their visits half ruined the owner, who is the model of a <i>gentilhomme</i> + and <i>preux chevalier</i>. He went to Paris to witness their triumph; he + expected, I fancy, the order of the St. Esprit. Lord Doningdale has royal + blood in his veins. His Majesty asked him once to dinner, and, when he + took leave, said to him, ‘We are happy, Lord Doningdale, to have thus + requited our obligations to your lordship.’ Lord Doningdale went back in + dudgeon, yet he still boasts of his <i>souvenirs</i>, poor man.” + </p> + <p> + “Princes are not grateful, neither are republics,” said Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, who is grateful,” rejoined Valerie, “except a dog and a woman?” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers found himself ushered into a vast dressing-room, and was + informed, by a French valet, that in the country Lord Doningdale dined at + six—the first bell would ring in a few minutes. While the valet was + speaking, Lord Doningdale himself entered the room. His lordship had + learned, in the meanwhile, that Maltravers was of the great and ancient + commoner’s house whose honours were centred in his brother; and yet more, + that he was the Mr. Maltravers whose writings every one talked of, whether + for praise or abuse. Lord Doningdale had the two characteristics of a + high-bred gentleman of the old school—respect for birth and respect + for talent; he was, therefore, more than ordinarily courteous to Ernest, + and pressed him to stay some days with so much cordiality, that Maltravers + could not but assent. His travelling toilet was scanty, but Maltravers + thought little of dress. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “It is the soul that sees. The outward eyes + Present the object, but the mind descries; + And thence delight, disgust, or cool indifference rise. + “CRABBE. +</pre> + <p> + WHEN Maltravers entered the enormous saloon, hung with damask, and + decorated with the ponderous enrichments and furniture of the time of + Louis XIV. (that most showy and barbarous of all tastes, which has nothing + in it of the graceful, nothing of the picturesque, and which, nowadays, + people who should know better imitate with a ludicrous servility), he + found sixteen persons assembled. His host stepped up from a circle which + surrounded him, and formally presented his new visitor to the rest. He was + struck with the likeness which the sister of Valerie bore to Valerie + herself; but it was a sobered and chastened likeness—less handsome, + less impressive. Mrs. George Herbert—such was the name she now owned—was + a pretty, shrinking, timid girl, fond of her husband, and mightily awed by + her father-in-law. Maltravers sat by her, and drew her into conversation. + He could not help pitying the poor lady, when he found she was to live + altogether at Doningdale Park—remote from all the friends and habits + of her childhood—alone, so far as the affections were concerned, + with a young husband, who was passionately fond of field-sports, and who, + from the few words Ernest exchanged with him, seemed to have only three + ideas—his dogs, his horses, and his wife. Alas! the last would soon + be the least in importance. It is a sad position—that of a lively + young Frenchwoman entombed in an English country-house! Marriages with + foreigners are seldom fortunate experiments. But Ernest’s attention was + soon diverted from the sister by the entrance of Valerie herself, leaning + on her husband’s arm. Hitherto he had not very minutely observed what + change time had effected in her—perhaps he was half afraid. He now + gazed at her with curious interest. Valerie was still extremely handsome, + but her face had grown sharper, her form thinner and more angular; there + was something in her eye and lip, discontented, restless, almost + querulous:—such is the too common expression in the face of those + born to love, and condemned to be indifferent. The little sister was more + to be envied of the two—come what may, she loved her husband, such + as he was, and her heart might ache, but it was not with a void. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur de Ventadour soon shuffled up to Maltravers—his nose longer + than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Hein—hein—how d’ye do—how d’ye do?—charmed to see + you—saw madame before me—hein—hein—I suspect—I + suspect—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maltravers, will you give Madame de Ventadour your arm?” said Lord + Doningdale, as he stalked on to the dining-room with a duchess on his own. + </p> + <p> + “And you have left Naples,” said Maltravers: “left it for good?” + </p> + <p> + “We do not think of returning.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a charming place—how I loved it!—how well I remember + it!” Ernest spoke calmly—it was but a general remark. + </p> + <p> + Valerie sighed gently. + </p> + <p> + During dinner, the conversation between Maltravers and Madame de Ventadour + was vague and embarrassed. Ernest was no longer in love with her—he + had outgrown that youthful fancy. She had exercised influence over him—the + new influences that he had created had chased away her image. Such is + life. Long absences extinguish all the false lights, though not the true + ones. The lamps are dead in the banquet-room of yesterday; but a thousand + years hence, and the stars we look on to-night will burn as brightly. + Maltravers was no longer in love with Valerie. But Valerie—ah, + perhaps <i>hers</i> had been true love! + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was surprised when he came to examine the state of his own + feelings—he was surprised to find that his pulse did not beat + quicker at the touch of one whose very glance had once thrilled him to the + soul—he was surprised, but rejoiced. He was no longer anxious to + seek, but to shun excitement, and he was a better and a higher being than + he had been on the shores of Naples. + </p> +<div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> <img src="images/{0239}.jpg" alt="{0239}" width="100%" /><br /> </div> <h5> <a href="images/{0239}.jpg"> <img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> </h5> + + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Whence that low voice, a whisper from the heart, + That told of days long past?”—WORDSWORTH. +</pre> + <p> + ERNEST stayed several days at Lord Doningdale’s, and every day he rode out + with Valerie, but it was with a large party; and every evening he + conversed with her, but the whole world might have overheard what they + said. In fact, the sympathy that had once existed between the young + dreamer and the proud, discontented woman had in much passed away. + Awakened to vast and grand objects, Maltravers was a dreamer no more. + Inured to the life of trifles she had once loathed, Valerie had settled + down into the usages and thoughts of the common world—she had no + longer the superiority of earthly wisdom over Maltravers, and his romance + was sobered in its eloquence, and her ear dulled to its tone. Still Ernest + felt a deep interest in her, and still she seemed to feel a sensitive + pride in his career. + </p> + <p> + One evening Maltravers had joined a circle in which Madame de Ventadour, + with more than her usual animation, presided—and to which, in her + pretty, womanly, and thoroughly French way, she was lightly laying down + the law on a hundred subjects—Philosophy, Poetry, Sevres china, and + the balance of power in Europe. Ernest listened to her, delighted, but not + enchanted. Yet Valerie was not natural that night—she was speaking + from forced spirits. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Madame de Ventadour at last, tired, perhaps of the part she + had been playing, and bringing to a sudden close an animated description + of the then French court—“well, see now if we ought not to be + ashamed of ourselves—our talk has positively interrupted the music. + Did you see Lord Doningdale stop it with a bow to me, as much as to say, + with his courtly reproof, ‘It shall not disturb you, madam’? I will no + longer be accessory to your crime of bad taste!” + </p> + <p> + With this the Frenchwoman rose, and, gliding through the circle, retired + to the further end of the room. Ernest followed her with his eyes. + Suddenly she beckoned to him, and he approached and seated himself by her + side. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maltravers,” said Valerie, then, with great sweetness in her voice,—“I + have not yet expressed to you the delight I have felt from your genius. In + absence you have suffered me to converse with you—your books have + been to me dear friends; as we shall soon part again, let me now tell you + of this, frankly and without compliment.” + </p> + <p> + This paved the way to a conversation that approached more on the precincts + of the past than any they had yet known. But Ernest was guarded; and + Valerie watched his words and looks with an interest she could not conceal—an + interest that partook of disappointment. + </p> + <p> + “It is an excitement,” said Valerie, “to climb a mountain, though it + fatigue; and though the clouds may even deny us a prospect from its summit—it + is an excitement that gives a very universal pleasure, and that seems + almost as if it were the result of a common human instinct which makes us + desire to rise—to get above the ordinary thoroughfares and level of + life. Some such pleasure you must have in intellectual ambition, in which + the mind is the upward traveller.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not the <i>ambition</i> that pleases,” replied Maltravers, “it is + the following a path congenial to our tastes, and made dear to us in a + short time by habit. The moments in which we look beyond our work, and + fancy ourselves seated beneath the Everlasting Laurel, are few. It is the + work itself, whether of action or literature, that interests and excites + us. And at length the dryness of toil takes the familiar sweetness of + custom. But in intellectual labour there is another charm—we become + more intimate with our own nature. The heart and the soul grow friends, as + it were, and the affections and the aspirations unite. Thus, we are never + without society—we are never alone; all that we have read, learned + and discovered, is company to us. This is pleasant,” added Maltravers, “to + those who have no clear connections in the world without.” + </p> + <p> + “And is that your case?” asked Valerie, with a timid smile. + </p> + <p> + “Alas, yes! and since I conquered one affection,—Madame de + Ventadour, I almost think I have outlived the capacity of loving. I + believe that when we cultivate very largely the reason or the imagination, + we blunt, to a certain extent, our young susceptibilities to the fair + impressions of real life. From ‘idleness,’ says the old Roman poet, ‘Love + feeds his torch.’” + </p> + <p> + “You are too young to talk thus.” + </p> + <p> + “I speak as I feel.” + </p> + <p> + Valerie said no more. Shortly afterwards Lord Doningdale approached them, + and proposed that they should make an excursion the next day to see the + ruins of an old abbey, some few miles distant. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If I should meet thee + After long years, + How shall I greet thee?”—BYRON. +</pre> + <p> + IT was a smaller party than usual the next day, consisting only of Lord + Doningdale, his son George Herbert, Valerie and Ernest. They were + returning from the ruins, and the sun, now gradually approaching the west, + threw its slant rays over the gardens and houses of a small, picturesque + town, or, perhaps, rather village, on the high North Road. It is one of + the prettiest places in England, that town or village, and boasts an + excellent old-fashioned inn, with a large and quaint pleasure-garden. It + was through the long and straggling street that our little party slowly + rode, when the sky became suddenly overcast, and, a few large hailstones + falling, gave notice of an approaching storm. + </p> + <p> + “I told you we should not get safely through the day,” said George + Herbert. “Now we are in for it.” + </p> + <p> + “George, that is a vulgar expression,” said Lord Doningdale, buttoning up + his coat. While he spoke, a vivid flash of lightning darted across their + very path, and the sky grew darker and darker. + </p> + <p> + “We may as well rest at the inn,” said Maltravers: “the storm is coming on + apace, and Madame de Ventadour—” + </p> + <p> + “You are right,” interrupted Lord Doningdale; and he put his horse into a + canter. + </p> + <p> + They were soon at the door of the old hotel. Bells rang dogs barked—hostlers + ran. A plain, dark, travelling post-chariot was before the inn-door; and, + roused perhaps by the noise below, a lady in the “first-floor front, No. + 2,” came to the window. This lady owned the travelling-carriage, and was + at this time alone in that apartment. As she looked carelessly at the + party, her eyes rested on one form—she turned pale, uttered a faint + cry, and fell senseless on the floor. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Lord Doningdale and his guests were shown into the room next to + that tenanted by the lady. Properly speaking, both the rooms made one long + apartment for balls and county meetings, and the division was formed by a + thin partition, removable at pleasure. The hail now came on fast and + heavy, the trees groaned, the thunder roared; and in the large, dreary + room there was a palpable and oppressive sense of coldness and discomfort. + Valerie shivered—a fire was lighted—and the Frenchwoman drew + near to it. + </p> + <p> + “You are wet, my dear lady,” said Lord Doningdale. “You should take off + that close habit, and have it dried.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; what matters it?” said Valerie bitterly, and almost rudely. + </p> + <p> + “It matters everything,” said Ernest; “pray be ruled.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you care for me?” murmured Valerie. + </p> + <p> + “Can you ask that question?” replied Ernest, in the same tone, and with + affectionate and friendly warmth. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, the good old lord had summoned the chambermaid, and, with the + kindly imperiousness of a father, made Valerie quit the room. The three + gentlemen, left together, talked of the storm, wondered how long it would + last, and debated the propriety of sending to Doningdale for the carriage. + While they spoke, the hail suddenly ceased, though clouds in the distant + horizon were bearing heavily up to renew the charge. George Herbert, who + was the most impatient of mortals, especially of rainy weather in a + strange place, seized the occasion, and insisted on riding to Doningdale, + and sending back the carriage. + </p> + <p> + “Surely a groom would do as well, George,” said the father. + </p> + <p> + “My dear father, no; I should envy the rogue too much. I am bored to death + here. Marie will be frightened about us. Brown Bess will take me back in + twenty minutes. I am a hardy fellow, you know. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Away darted the young sportsman, and in two minutes they saw him spur + gaily from the inn-door. + </p> + <p> + “It is very odd that <i>I</i> should have such a son,” said Lord + Doningdale, musingly,—“a son who cannot amuse himself indoors for + two minutes together. I took great pains with his education, too. Strange + that people should weary so much of themselves that they cannot brave the + prospect of a few minutes passed in reflection—that a shower and the + resources of their own thoughts are evils so galling—very strange + indeed. But it is a confounded climate this, certainly. I wonder when it + will clear up.” + </p> + <p> + Thus muttering, Lord Doningdale walked, or rather marched, to and fro the + room, with his hands in his coat pockets, and his whip sticking + perpendicularly out of the right one. Just at this moment the waiter came + to announce that his lordship’s groom was without, and desired much to see + him. Lord Doningdale had then the pleasure of learning that his favourite + grey hackney, which he had ridden, winter and summer, for fifteen years, + was taken with shivers, and, as the groom expressed it, seemed to have + “the colic in its bowels!” + </p> + <p> + Lord Doningdale turned pale, and hurried to the stables without saying a + word. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers, who, plunged in thought, had not overheard the low and brief + conference between master and groom, remained alone, seated by the fire, + his head buried in his bosom, and his arms folded. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, the lady, who occupied the adjoining chamber, had recovered + slowly from her swoon. She put both hands to her temples, as if trying to + recollect her thoughts. Hers was a fair, innocent, almost childish face; + and now, as a smile shot across it, there was something so sweet and + touching in the gladness it shed over that countenance, that you could not + have seen it without strong and almost painful interest. For it was the + gladness of a person who has known sorrow. Suddenly she started up, and + said: “No, then! I do not dream. He is come back—he is here—all + will be well again! Ha! it is his voice. Oh, bless him, it is <i>his</i> + voice!” She paused, her finger on her lip, her face bent down. A low and + indistinct sound of voices reached her straining ear through the thin door + that divided her from Maltravers. She listened intently, but she could not + overhear the import. Her heart beat violently. “He is not alone!” she + murmured, mournfully. “I will wait till the sound ceases, and then I will + venture in!” + </p> + <p> + And what was the conversation carried on in that chamber? We must return + to Ernest. He was sitting in the same thoughtful posture when Madame de + Ventadour returned. + </p> + <p> + The Frenchwoman coloured when she found herself alone with Ernest, and + Ernest himself was not at his ease. + </p> + <p> + “Herbert has gone home to order the carriage, and Lord Doningdale has + disappeared, I scarce know whither. You do not, I trust, feel the worse + for the rain?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Valerie. + </p> + <p> + “Shall you have any commands in London?” asked Maltravers; “I return to + town to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “So soon!” and Valerie sighed. “Ah!” she added, after a pause, “we shall + not meet again for years, perhaps. Monsieur de Ventadour is to be + appointed ambassador to the Court and so—and so—. Well, it is + no matter. What has become of the friendship we once swore to each other?” + </p> + <p> + “It is here,” said Maltravers, laying his hand on his heart. “Here, at + least, lies the half of that friendship which was my charge; and more than + friendship, Valerie de Ventadour—respect—admiration—gratitude. + At a time of life when passion and fancy, most strong, might have left me + an idle and worthless voluptuary, you convinced me that the world has + virtue, and that woman is too noble to be our toy—the idol of + to-day, the victim of to-morrow. Your influence, Valerie, left me a more + thoughtful man—I hope a better one.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Madame de Ventadour, strongly affected; “I bless you for what + you tell me: you cannot know—you cannot guess how sweet it is to me. + Now I recognise you once more. What—what did my resolution cost me? + Now I am repaid!” + </p> + <p> + Ernest was moved by her emotion, and by his own remembrances; he took her + hand, and pressing it with frank and respectful tenderness—“I did + not think, Valerie,” said he, “when I reviewed the past, I did not think + that you loved me—I was not vain enough for that; but, if so, how + much is your character raised in my eyes—how provident, how wise + your virtue! Happier and better for both, our present feelings, each to + each, than if we had indulged a brief and guilty dream of passion, at war + with all that leaves passion without remorse, and bliss without alloy. Now—” + </p> + <p> + “Now,” interrupted Valerie, quickly, and fixing on him her dark eyes—“now + you love me no longer! Yet it is better so. Well, I will go back to my + cold and cheerless state of life, and forget once more that Heaven endowed + me with a heart!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Valerie! esteemed, revered, still beloved, not indeed with the fires + of old, but with a deep, undying, and holy tenderness, speak not thus to + me. Let me not believe you unhappy; let me think that, wise, sagacious, + brilliant as you are, you have employed your gifts to reconcile yourself + to a common lot. Still let me look up to you when I would despise the + circles in which you live, and say: ‘On that pedestal an altar is yet + placed, to which the heart may bring the offerings of the soul.’” + </p> + <p> + “It is in vain—in vain that I struggle,” said Valerie, half-choked + with emotion, and clasping her hands passionately. “Ernest, I love you + still—I am wretched to think you love me no more: I would give you + nothing—yet I exact all; my youth is going—my beauty dimmed—my + very intellect is dulled by the life I lead; and yet I ask from you that + which your young heart once felt for me. Despise me, Maltravers, I am not + what I seemed—I am a hypocrite—despise me.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Ernest, again possessing himself of her hand, and falling on + his knee by her side. “No, never-to-be-forgotten, ever-to-be-honoured + Valerie, hear me.” As he spoke, he kissed the hand he held; with the + other, Valerie covered her face and wept bitterly, but in silence. Ernest + paused till the burst of her feelings had subsided, her hand still in his—still + warmed by his kisses—kisses as pure as cavalier ever impressed on + the hand of his queen. + </p> + <p> + At this time, the door communicating with the next room gently opened. A + fair form—a form fairer and younger than that of Valerie de + Ventadour—entered the apartment; the silence had deceived her—she + believed that Maltravers was alone. She had entered with her heart upon + her lips; love, sanguine, hopeful love, in every vein, in every thought—she + had entered dreaming that across that threshold life would dawn upon her + afresh—that all would be once more as it had been, when the common + air was rapture. Thus she entered; and now she stood spell-bound, + terror-stricken, pale as death—life turned to stone—youth—hope—bliss + were for ever over to her! Ernest kneeling to another was all she saw! For + this had she been faithful and true amidst storm and desolation; for this + had she hoped—dreamed—lived. They did not note her; she was + unseen—unheard. And Ernest, who would have gone barefoot to the end + of the earth to find her, was in the very room with her, and knew it not! + </p> + <p> + “Call me again <i>beloved</i>!” said Valerie, very softly. + </p> + <p> + “Beloved Valerie, hear me.” + </p> + <p> + These words were enough for the listener; she turned noiselessly away: + humble as that heart was, it was proud. The door closed on her—she + had obtained the wish of her whole being—Heaven had heard her prayer—she + had once more seen the lover of her youth; and thenceforth all was night + and darkness to her. What matter what became of her? One moment, what an + effect it produces upon years!—ONE MOMENT!—virtue, crime, + glory, shame, woe, rapture, rest upon moments! Death itself is but a + moment, yet Eternity is its successor! + </p> + <p> + “Hear me!” continued Ernest, unconscious of what had passed—“hear + me; let us be what human nature and worldly forms seldom allow those of + opposite sexes to be—friends to each other, and to virtue also—friends + through time and absence—friends through all the vicissitudes of + life—friends on whose affection shame and remorse never cast a shade—friends + who are to meet hereafter! Oh! there is no attachment so true, no tie so + holy, as that which is founded on the old chivalry of loyalty and honour; + and which is what love would be, if the heart and the soul were + unadulterated by clay.” + </p> + <p> + There was in Ernest’s countenance an expression so noble, in his voice a + tone so thrilling, that Valerie was brought back at once to the nature + which a momentary weakness had subdued. She looked at him with an admiring + and grateful gaze, and then said, in a calm but low voice, “Ernest, I + understand you; yes, your friendship is dearer to me than love.” + </p> + <p> + At this time they heard the voice of Lord Doningdale on the stairs. + Valerie turned away. Maltravers, as he rose, extended his hand; she + pressed it warmly, and the spell was broken, the temptation conquered, the + ordeal passed. While Lord Doningdale entered the room, the carriage, with + Herbert in it, drove to the door. In a few minutes the little party were + within the vehicle. As they drove away, the hostlers were harnessing the + horses to the dark green travelling-carriage. From the window, a sad and + straining eye gazed upon the gayer equipage of the peer—that eye + which Maltravers would have given his whole fortune to meet again. But he + did not look up; and Alice Darvil turned away, and her fate was fixed! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Strange fits of passion I have known. + And I will dare to tell.”—WORDSWORTH. + + Is meditated action.”—WORDSWORTH. +</pre> + <p> + MALTRAVERS left Doningdale the next day. He had no further conversation + with Valerie; but when he took leave of her, she placed in his hand a + letter, which he read as he rode slowly through the beech avenues of the + park. Translated, it ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “Others would despise me for the weakness I showed—but you will not! + It is the sole weakness of a life. None can know what I have passed + through—what hours of dejection and gloom. I, whom so many envy! + Better to have been a peasant girl, with love, than a queen whose life is + but a dull mechanism. You, Maltravers, I never forgot in absence; and your + image made yet more wearisome and trite the things around me. Years + passed, and your name was suddenly on men’s lips. I heard of you wherever + I went—I could not shut you from me. Your fame was as if you were + conversing by my side. We met at last, suddenly and unexpectedly. I saw + that you loved me no more, and that thought conquered all my resolves: + anguish subdues the nerves of the mind as sickness those of the body. And + thus I forgot, and humbled, and might have undone myself. Juster and + better thoughts are once more awakened within me, and when we meet again I + shall be worthy of your respect. I see how dangerous are that luxury of + thought, that sin of discontent which I indulged. I go back to life, + resolved to vanquish all that can interfere with its claims and duties. + Heaven guide and preserve you, Ernest. Think of me as one whom you will + not blush to have loved—whom you will not blush hereafter to present + to your wife. With so much that is soft, as well as great within you, you + were not formed like me—to be alone. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “FAREWELL!” + </pre> + <p> + Maltravers read, and re-read this letter; and when he reached his home, he + placed it carefully amongst the things he most valued. A lock of Alice’s + hair lay beside it—he did not think that either was dishonoured by + the contact. + </p> + <p> + With an effort, he turned himself once more to those stern yet high + connections which literature makes with real life. Perhaps there was a + certain restlessness in his heart which induced him ever to occupy his + mind. That was one of the busiest years of his life—the one in which + he did most to sharpen jealousy and confirm fame. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In effect he entered my apartment.”—<i>Gil Blas</i>. + + “‘I am surprised,’ said he, ‘at the caprice of Fortune, + who sometimes delights in loading an execrable author + with favours, whilst she leaves good writers to perish + for want.’”—<i>Gil Blas</i>. +</pre> + <p> + IT was just twelve months after his last interview with Valerie, and + Madame de Ventadour had long since quitted England, when one morning, as + Maltravers sat alone in his study, Castruccio Cesarini was announced. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear Castruccio, how are you?” cried Maltravers, eagerly, as the + opening door presented the form of the Italian. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Castruccio, with great stiffness, and speaking in French, + which was his wont when he meant to be distant—“sir, I do not come + to renew our former acquaintance—you are a great man [here a bitter + sneer], I an obscure one [here Castruccio drew himself up]—I only + come to discharge a debt to you which I find I have incurred.” + </p> + <p> + “What tone is this, Castruccio; and what debt do you speak of?” + </p> + <p> + “On my arrival in town yesterday,” said the poet solemnly, “I went to the + man whom you deputed some years since to publish my little volume, to + demand an account of its success; and I found that it had cost one hundred + and twenty pounds, deducting the sale of forty-nine copies which had been + sold. <i>Your</i> books sell some thousands, I am told. It is well + contrived—mine fell still-born, no pains were taken with it—no + matter—[a wave of the hand]. You discharged this debt, I repay you: + there is a cheque for the money. Sir, I have done! I wish you a good day, + and health to enjoy <i>your</i> reputation.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Cesarini, this is folly.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is folly; for there is no folly equal to that of throwing away + friendship in a world where friendship is so rare. You insinuate that I am + to blame for any neglect which your work experienced. Your publisher can + tell you that I was more anxious about your book than I have ever been + about my own.” + </p> + <p> + “And the proof is that forty-nine copies were sold!” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Castruccio; sit down, and listen to reason;” and Maltravers + proceeded to explain, and soothe, and console. He reminded the poor poet + that his verses were written in a foreign tongue—that even English + poets of great fame enjoyed but a limited sale for their works—that + it was impossible to make the avaricious public purchase what the stupid + public would not take an interest in—in short, he used all those + arguments which naturally suggested themselves as best calculated to + convince and soften Castruccio; and he did this with so much evident + sympathy and kindness, that at length the Italian could no longer justify + his own resentment. A reconciliation took place, sincere on the part of + Maltravers, hollow on the part of Cesarini; for the disappointed author + could not forgive the successful one. + </p> + <p> + “And how long shall you stay in London?” + </p> + <p> + “Some months.” + </p> + <p> + “Send for your luggage, and be my guest.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I have taken lodgings that suit me. I am formed for solitude.” + </p> + <p> + “While you stay here, you will, however, go into the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I have some letters of introduction, and I hear that the English can + honour merit, even in an Italian.” + </p> + <p> + “You hear the truth, and it will amuse you, at least, to see our eminent + men. They will receive you most hospitably. Let me assist you as a + cicerone.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, your <i>valuable</i> time!” + </p> + <p> + “Is at your disposal: but where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “It is Sunday, and I have had my curiosity excited to hear a celebrated + preacher—Mr. ———, who they tell me, is now more + talked of than <i>any author</i> in London.” + </p> + <p> + “They tell you truly—I will go with you—I myself have not yet + heard him, but proposed to do so this very day.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you not jealous of a man so much spoken of?” + </p> + <p> + “Jealous!—why, I never set up for a popular preacher!—<i>ce + n’est pas mon metier</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were a <i>successful</i> author, I should be jealous if the + dancing-dogs were talked of.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear Cesarini, I am sure you would not. You are a little irritated + at present by natural disappointment; but the man who has as much success + as he deserves is never morbidly jealous, even of a rival in his own line. + Want of success sours us; but a little sunshine smiles away the vapours. + Come, we have no time to lose.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers took his hat, and the two young men bent their way to ——— + Chapel. Cesarini still retained the singular fashion of his dress, though + it was now made of handsomer materials, and worn with more coxcombry and + pretension. He had much improved in person—had been admired in + Paris, and told that he looked like a man of genius—and, with his + black ringlets flowing over his shoulders, his long moustache, his broad + Spanish-shaped hat, and eccentric garb, he certainly did not look like + other people. He smiled with contempt at the plain dress of his companion. + “I see,” said he, “that you follow the fashion, and look as if you passed + your life with <i>elegans</i> instead of students. I wonder you condescend + to such trifles as fashionably-shaped hats and coats.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be worse trifling to set up for originality in hats and coats, + at least in sober England. I was born a gentleman, and I dress my outward + frame like others of my order. Because I am a writer, why should I affect + to be different from other men?” + </p> + <p> + “I see that you are not above the weakness of your countryman Congreve,” + said Cesarini, “who deemed it finer to be a gentleman than an author.” + </p> + <p> + “I always thought that anecdote misconstrued. Congreve had a proper and + manly pride, to my judgment, when he expressed a dislike to be visited + merely as a raree-show.” + </p> + <p> + “But is it policy to let the world see that an author is like other + people? Would he not create a deeper personal interest if he showed that + even in person alone he was unlike the herd? He ought to be seen seldom—not + to stale his presence—and to resort to the arts that belong to the + royalty of intellect as well as the royalty of birth.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say an author, by a little charlatanism of that nature, might be + more talked of—might be more adored in the boarding-schools, and + make a better picture in the exhibition. But I think, if his mind be + manly, he would lose in self-respect at every quackery of the sort. And my + philosophy is, that to respect oneself is worth all the fame in the + world.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini sneered and shrugged his shoulders; it was quite evident that the + two authors had no sympathy with each other. + </p> + <p> + They arrived at last at the chapel, and with some difficulty procured + seats. + </p> + <p> + Presently the service began. The preacher was a man of unquestionable + talent and fervid eloquence; but his theatrical arts, his affected dress, + his artificial tones and gestures; and, above all, the fanatical mummeries + which he introduced into the House of God, disgusted Maltravers, while + they charmed, entranced, and awed Cesarini. The one saw a mountebank and + impostor—the other recognised a profound artist and an inspired + prophet. + </p> + <p> + But while the discourse was drawing towards a close, while the preacher + was in one of his most eloquent bursts—the ohs! and ahs! of which + were the grand prelude to the pathetic peroration—the dim outline of + a female form, in the distance, riveted the eyes and absorbed the thoughts + of Maltravers. The chapel was darkened, though it was broad daylight; and + the face of the person that attracted Ernest’s attention was concealed by + her head-dress and veil. But that bend of the neck, so simply graceful, so + humbly modest, recalled to his heart but one image. Every one has, + perhaps, observed that there is a physiognomy (if the bull may be + pardoned) of <i>form</i> as well as face, which it rarely happens that two + persons possess in common. And this, with most, is peculiarly marked in + the turn of the head, the outline of the shoulders, and the ineffable + something that characterises the postures of each individual in repose. + The more intently he gazed, the more firmly Ernest was persuaded that he + saw before him the long-lost, the never-to-be-forgotten mistress of his + boyish days, and his first love. On one side of the lady in question sat + an elderly gentleman, whose eyes were fixed upon the preacher; on the + other, a beautiful little girl, with long fair ringlets, and that cast of + features which, from its exquisite delicacy and expressive mildness, + painters and poets call the “angelic.” These persons appeared to belong to + the same party. Maltravers literally trembled, so great were his + impatience and agitation. Yet still, the dress of the supposed likeness of + Alice, the appearance of her companions, were so evidently above the + ordinary rank, that Ernest scarcely ventured to yield to the suggestions + of his own heart. Was it possible that the daughter of Luke Darvil, thrown + upon the wide world, could have risen so far beyond her circumstances and + station? At length the moment came when he might resolve his doubts—the + discourse was concluded—the extemporaneous prayer was at an end—the + congregation broke up, and Maltravers pushed his way, as well as he could, + through the dense and serried crowd. But every moment some vexatious + obstruction, in the shape of a fat gentleman or three close-wedged ladies, + intercepted his progress. He lost sight of the party in question amidst + the profusion of tall bonnets and waving plumes. He arrived at last, + breathless and pale as death (so great was the struggle within him), at + the door of the chapel. He arrived in time to see a plain carriage with + servants in grey undress liveries, driving from the porch—and caught + a glimpse, within the vehicle, of the golden ringlets of a child. He + darted forward, he threw himself almost before the horses. The coachman + drew in, and with an angry exclamation, very much like an oath, whipped + his horses aside and went off. But that momentary pause sufficed.—“It + is she—it is! O Heaven, it is Alice!” murmured Maltravers. The whole + place reeled before his eyes, and he clung, overpowered and unconscious, + to a neighbouring lamp-post for support. But he recovered himself with an + agonising effort, as the thought struck upon this heart that he was about + to lose sight of her again for ever. And he rushed forward, like one + frantic, in pursuit of the carriage. But there was a vast crowd of other + carriages, besides stream upon stream of foot-passengers,—for the + great and the gay resorted to that place of worship, as a fashionable + excitement in a dull day. And after a weary and a dangerous chase, in + which he had been nearly run over three times, Maltravers halted at last, + exhausted and in despair. Every succeeding Sunday, for months, he went to + the same chapel, but in vain; in vain, too, he resorted to every public + haunt of dissipation and amusement. Alice Darvil he beheld no more! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Tell me, sir, + Have you cast up your state, rated your land, + And find it able to endure the charge?” + <i>The Noble Gentleman</i>. +</pre> + <p> + By degrees, as Maltravers sobered down from the first shock of that + unexpected meeting, and from the prolonged disappointment that followed + it, he became sensible of a strange kind of happiness or contentment. + Alice was not in poverty, she was not eating the unhallowed bread of vice, + or earning the bitter wages of laborious penury. He saw her in reputable, + nay, opulent circumstances. A dark nightmare, that had often, amidst the + pleasures of youth, or the triumphs of literature, weighed upon his + breast, was removed. He breathed more freely—he could sleep in + peace. His conscience could no longer say to him, “She who slept upon thy + bosom is a wanderer upon the face of the earth—exposed to every + temptation, perishing perhaps for want.” That single sight of Alice had + been like the apparition of the injured Dead conjured up at Heraclea—whose + sight could pacify the aggressor and exorcise the spectres of remorse. He + was reconciled with himself, and walked on to the Future with a bolder + step and a statelier crest. Was she married to that staid and + sober-looking personage whom he had beheld with her? was that child the + offspring of their union? He almost hoped so—it was better to lose + than to destroy her. Poor Alice! could she have dreamed, when she sat at + his feet gazing up into his eyes, that a time would come when Maltravers + would thank Heaven for the belief that she was happy with another? + </p> + <p> + Ernest Maltravers now felt a new man: the relief of conscience operated on + the efforts of his genius. A more buoyant and elastic spirit entered into + them—they seemed to breathe as with a second youth. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Cesarini threw himself into the fashionable world, and to his + own surprise was <i>feted</i> and caressed. In fact, Castruccio was + exactly the sort of person to be made a lion of. The letters of + introduction that he had brought from Paris were addressed to those great + personages in England between whom and personages equally great in France + politics makes a bridge of connection. Cesarini appeared to them as an + accomplished young man, brother-in-law to a distinguished member of the + French Chamber. Maltravers, on the other hand, introduced him to the + literary dilettanti, who admire all authors that are not rivals. The + singular costume of Cesarini, which would have revolted persons in an + Englishman, enchanted them in an Italian. He looked, they said, like a + poet. Ladies like to have verses written to them, and Cesarini, who talked + very little, made up for it by scribbling eternally. The young man’s head + soon grew filled with comparisons between himself in London and Petrarch + at Avignon. As he had always thought that fame was in the gift of lords + and ladies, and had no idea of the multitude, he fancied himself already + famous. And, since one of his strongest feelings was his jealousy of + Maltravers, he was delighted at being told he was a much more interesting + creature than that haughty personage, who wore his neckcloth like other + people, and had not even those indispensable attributes of genius—black + curls and a sneer. Fine society, which, as Madame de Stael well says, + depraves the frivolous mind and braces the strong one, completed the ruin + of all that was manly in Cesarini’s intellect. He soon learned to limit + his desire of effect or distinction to gilded saloons; and his vanity + contented itself upon the scraps and morsels from which the lion heart of + true ambition turns in disdain. But this was not all. Cesarini was envious + of the greater affluence of Maltravers. His own fortune was in a small + capital of eight or nine thousand pounds: but, thrown in the midst of the + wealthiest society in Europe, he could not bear to sacrifice a single + claim upon its esteem. He began to talk of the satiety of wealth, and + young ladies listened to him with remarkable interest when he did so—he + obtained the reputation of riches—he was too vain not to be charmed + with it. He endeavoured to maintain the claim by adopting the extravagant + excesses of the day. He bought horses—he gave away jewels—he + made love to a marchioness of forty-two, who was very kind to him and very + fond of <i>ecarte</i>—he gambled—he was in the high road to + destruction. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Perchance you say that gold’s the arch-exceller, + And to be rich is sweet?—EURIP. <i>Ion.</i>, line 641. + + * * * ‘Tis not to be endured, + To yield our trodden path and turn aside, + Giving our place to knaves.—<i>Ibid.</i>, line 648 +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “L’adresse et l’artifice out passe dans mon coeur; + Qu’ou a sous cet habit et d’esprit et de ruse.” *—REGNARD. +</pre> + <p> + * Subtility and craft have taken possession of my heart; but under this + habit one exhibits both shrewdness and wit. + </p> + <p> + IT was a fine morning in July, when a gentleman who had arrived in town + the night before—after an absence from England of several years—walked + slowly and musingly up the superb thoroughfare which connects the Regent’s + park with St. James’s. + </p> + <p> + He was a man, who, with great powers of mind, had wasted his youth in a + wandering vagabond kind of life, but who had worn away the love of + pleasure, and began to awaken to a sense of ambition. + </p> + <p> + “It is astonishing how this city is improved,” said he to himself. + “Everything gets on in this world with a little energy and bustle—and + everybody as well as everything. My old cronies, fellows not half so + clever as I am, are all doing well. There’s Tom Stevens, my very fag at + Eton—snivelling little dog he was too!—just made + under-secretary of state. Pearson, whose longs and shorts I always wrote, + is now head-master to the human longs and shorts of a public school—editing + Greek plays, and booked for a bishopric. Collier, I see by the papers, is + leading his circuit—and Ernest Maltravers (but <i>he</i> had some + talent) has made a name in the world. Here am I, worth them all put + together, who have done nothing but spend half my little fortune in spite + of all my economy. Egad, this must have an end. I must look to the main + chance; and yet, just when I want his help the most, my worthy uncle + thinks fit to marry again. Humph—I’m too good for this world.” + </p> + <p> + While thus musing, the soliloquist came in direct personal contact with a + tall gentleman, who carried his head very high in the air, and did not + appear to see that he had nearly thrown our abstracted philosopher off his + legs. + </p> + <p> + “Zounds, sir, what do you mean?” cried the latter. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your par—” began the other, meekly, when his arm was seized, + and the injured man exclaimed, “Bless me, sir, is it indeed <i>you</i> + whom I see?” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!—Lumley?” + </p> + <p> + “The same; and how fares it, any dear uncle? I did not know you were in + London. I only arrived last night. How well you are looking!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, Heaven be praised, I am pretty well.” + </p> + <p> + “And happy in your new ties? You must present me to Mrs. Templeton.” + </p> + <p> + “Ehem,” said Mr. Templeton, clearing his throat, and with a slight but + embarrassed smile, “I never thought I should marry again.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>L’homme propose et Dieu dispose</i>,” observed Lumley Ferrers; for it + was he. + </p> + <p> + “Gently, my dear nephew,” replied Mr. Templeton, gravely; “those phrases + are somewhat sacrilegious; I am an old-fashioned person, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Ten thousand apologies.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>One</i> apology will suffice; these hyperboles of phrase are almost + sinful.” + </p> + <p> + “Confounded old prig!” thought Ferrers; but he bowed sanctimoniously. + </p> + <p> + “My dear uncle, I have been a wild fellow in my day; but with years comes + reflection; and under your guidance, if I may hope for it, I trust to grow + a wiser and a better man.” + </p> + <p> + “It is well, Lumley,” returned the uncle, “and I am very glad to see you + returned to your own country. Will you dine with me to-morrow? I am living + near Fulham. You had better bring your carpet-bag, and stay with me some + days; you will be heartily welcome, especially if you can shift without a + foreign servant. I have a great compassion for papists, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear uncle, do not fear; I am not rich enough to have a foreign + servant, and have not travelled over three-quarters of the globe without + learning that it is possible to dispense with a valet.” + </p> + <p> + “As to being rich enough,” observed Mr. Templeton, with a calculating air, + “seven hundred and ninety-five pounds ten shillings a year will allow a + man to keep two servants, if he pleases; but I am glad to find you + economical at all events. We meet to-morrow, then, at six o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Au revoir</i>—I mean, God bless you. + </p> + <p> + “Tiresome old gentleman that,” muttered Ferrers, “and not so cordial as + formerly; perhaps his wife is <i>enceinte</i>, and he is going to do me + the injustice of having another heir. I must look to this; for without + riches, I had better go back and live <i>au cinquieme</i> at Paris.” + </p> + <p> + With this conclusion, Lumley quickened his pace, and soon arrived at + Seamore Place. In a few moments more he was in the library well stored + with books, and decorated with marble busts and images from the studios of + Canova and Thorwaldsen. + </p> + <p> + “My master, sir, will be down immediately,” said the servant who admitted + him; and Ferrers threw himself on a sofa, and contemplated the apartment + with an air half envious and half cynical. + </p> + <p> + Presently the door opened, and “My dear Ferrers!” “Well, <i>mon cher</i>, + how are you?” were the salutations hastily exchanged. + </p> + <p> + After the first sentences of inquiry, gratulation, and welcome, had + cleared the way for more general conversation,—“Well, Maltravers,” + said Ferrers, “so here we are together again, and after a lapse of so many + years! both older, certainly; and you, I suppose, wiser. At all events, + people think you so; and that’s all that’s important in the question. Why, + man, you are looking as young as ever, only a little paler and thinner; + but look at me—I am not very <i>much</i> past thirty, and I am + almost an old man; bald at the temples, crows’ feet, too, eh! Idleness + ages one damnably.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh, Lumley, I never saw you look better. And are you really come to + settle in England?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if I can afford it. But at my age, and after having seen so much, + the life of an idle, obscure <i>garcon</i> does not content me. I feel + that the world’s opinion, which I used to despise, is growing necessary to + me. I want to be something. What can I be? Don’t look alarmed, I won’t + rival you. I dare say literary reputation is a fine thing, but I desire + some distinction more substantial and worldly. You know your own country; + give me a map of the roads to Power.” + </p> + <p> + “To Power! Oh, nothing but law, politics, and riches.” + </p> + <p> + “For law I am too old; politics, perhaps, might suit me; but riches, my + dear Ernest—ah, how I long for a good account with my banker!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, patience and hope. Are you are not a rich uncle’s heir?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” said Ferrers, very dolorously; “the old gentleman has + married again, and may have a family.” + </p> + <p> + “Married!—to whom?” + </p> + <p> + “A widow, I hear; I know nothing more, except that she has a child + already. So you see she has got into a cursed way of having children. And + perhaps, by the time I’m forty, I shall see a whole covey of cherubs + flying away with the great Templeton property!” + </p> + <p> + “Ha, ha; your despair sharpens your wit, Lumley; but why not take a leaf + out of your uncle’s book, and marry yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “So I will when I can find an heiress. If that is what you meant to say—it + is a more sensible suggestion than any I could have supposed to come from + a man who writes books, especially poetry: and your advice is not to be + despised. For rich I will be; and as the fathers (I don’t mean of the + Church, but in Horace) told the rising generation, the first thing is to + resolve to be rich, it is only the second thing to consider how.” + </p> + <p> + “Meanwhile, Ferrers, you will be my guest.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll dine with you to-day; but to-morrow I am off to Fulham, to be + introduced to my aunt. Can’t you fancy her?—grey <i>gros-de-Naples</i> + gown: gold chain with an eyeglass; rather fat; two pugs, and a parrot! + ‘Start not, this is fancy’s sketch!’ I have not yet seen the respectable + relative with my physical optics. What shall we have for dinner? Let me + choose, you were always a bad caterer.” As Ferrers thus rattled on, + Maltravers felt himself growing younger: old times and old adventures + crowded fast upon him; and the two friends spent a most agreeable day + together. It was only the next morning that Maltravers, in thinking over + the various conversations that had passed between them, was forced + reluctantly to acknowledge that the inert selfishness of Lumley Ferrers + seemed now to have hardened into a resolute and systematic want of + principle, which might, perhaps, make him a dangerous and designing man, + if urged by circumstances into action. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Dauph.</i> Sir, I must speak to you. I have been long your + despised kinsman. + + “<i>Morose.</i> Oh, what thou wilt, nephew.”—EPICENE. + + “Her silence is dowry eno’—exceedingly soft spoken; thrifty + of her speech, that spends but six words a day.”—<i>Ibid.</i> +</pre> + <p> + THE coach dropped Mr. Ferrers at the gate of a villa about three miles + from town. The lodge-keeper charged himself with the carpet-bag, and + Ferrers strolled, with his hands behind him (it was his favourite mode of + disposing of them), through the beautiful and elaborate pleasure-grounds. + </p> + <p> + “A very nice, snug little box (jointure-house, I suppose)! I would not + grudge that, I’m sure, if I had but the rest. But here, I suspect, comes + madam’s first specimen of the art of having a family.” This last thought + was extracted from Mr. Ferrers’s contemplative brain by a lovely little + girl, who came running up to him, fearless and spoilt as she was; and, + after indulging a tolerable stare, exclaimed, “Are you come to see papa, + sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Papa!—the deuce!”—thought Lumley; “and who is papa, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, mamma’s husband. He is not my papa by rights.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not, my love; not by rights—I comprehend.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am going to see your papa by wrongs—Mr. Templeton.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, this way, then.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very fond of Mr. Templeton, my little angel.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure I am. You have not seen the rocking-horse he is going to give + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, sweet child! And how is mamma?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, poor, dear mamma,” said the child, with a sudden change of voice, and + tears in her eyes. “Ah, she is not well!” + </p> + <p> + “In the family way, to a dead certainty!” muttered Ferrers with a groan: + “but here is my uncle. Horrid name! Uncles were always wicked fellows. + Richard the Third and the man who did something or other to the babes in + the wood were a joke to my hard-hearted old relation, who has robbed me + with a widow! The lustful, liquorish old—My <i>dear</i> sir, I’m so + glad to see you!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Templeton, who was a man very cold in his manners, and always either + looked over people’s heads or down upon the ground, just touched his + nephew’s outstretched hand, and telling him he was welcome, observed that + it was a very fine afternoon. + </p> + <p> + “Very, indeed; sweet place this; you see, by the way, that I have already + made acquaintance with my fair cousin-in-law. She is very pretty.” + </p> + <p> + “I really think she is,” said Mr. Templeton, with some warmth, and gazing + fondly at the child, who was now throwing buttercups up in the air, and + trying to catch them. Mr. Ferrers wished in his heart that they had been + brickbats! + </p> + <p> + “Is she like her mother?” asked the nephew. + </p> + <p> + “Like whom, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Her mother—Mrs. Templeton.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not very; there is an air, perhaps, but the likeness is not + remarkably strong. Would you not like to go to your room before dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. Can I not first be presented to Mrs. Tem—” + </p> + <p> + “She is at her devotions, Mr. Lumley,” interrupted Mr. Templeton, grimly. + </p> + <p> + “The she-hypocrite!” thought Ferrers. “Oh, I am delighted that your pious + heart has found so congenial a helpmate!” + </p> + <p> + “It is a great blessing, and I am grateful for it. This is the way to the + house.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley, now formally installed in a grave bedroom, with dimity curtains + and dark-brown paper with light-brown stars on it, threw himself into a + large chair, and yawned and stretched with as much fervour as if he could + have yawned and stretched himself into his uncle’s property. He then + slowly exchanged his morning dress for a quiet suit of black, and thanked + his stars that, amidst all his sins, he had never been a dandy, and had + never rejoiced in a fine waistcoat—a criminal possession that he + well knew would have entirely hardened his uncle’s conscience against him. + He tarried in his room till the second bell summoned him to descend; and + then, entering the drawing-room, which had a cold look even in July, found + his uncle standing by the mantelpiece, and a young, slight, handsome + woman, half-buried in a huge but not comfortable <i>fauteuil</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Your aunt, Mrs. Templeton; madam, my nephew, Mr. Lumley Ferrers,” said + Templeton, with a wave of the hand. + </p> + <p> + “John,—dinner!” + </p> + <p> + “I hope I am not late!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Templeton, gently, for he had always liked his nephew, and + began now to thaw towards him a little on seeing that Lumley put a good + face upon the new state of affairs. + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear boy—no; but I think order and punctuality cardinal + virtues in a well-regulated family.” + </p> + <p> + “Dinner, sir,” said the butler, opening the folding-doors at the end of + the room. + </p> + <p> + “Permit me,” said Lumley, offering his arm to his aunt. “What a lovely + place this is!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Templeton said something in reply, but what it was Ferrers could not + discover, so low and choked was the voice. + </p> + <p> + “Shy,” thought he: “odd for a widow! but that’s the way those + husband-buriers take us in!” + </p> + <p> + Plain as was the general furniture of the apartment, the natural + ostentation of Mr. Templeton broke out in the massive value of the plate, + and the number of the attendants. He was a rich man, and he was proud of + his riches: he knew it was respectable to be rich, and he thought it was + moral to be respectable. As for the dinner, Lumley knew enough of his + uncle’s tastes to be prepared for viands and wines that even he + (fastidious gourmand as he was) did not despise. + </p> + <p> + Between the intervals of eating, Mr. Ferrers endeavoured to draw his aunt + into conversation, but he found all his ingenuity fail him. There was, in + the features of Mrs. Templeton, an expression of deep but calm melancholy, + that would have saddened most persons to look upon, especially in one so + young and lovely. It was evidently something beyond shyness or reserve + that made her so silent and subdued, and even in her silence there was so + much natural sweetness, that Ferrers could not ascribe her manner to + haughtiness or the desire to repel. He was rather puzzled; “for though,” + thought he, sensibly enough, “my uncle is not a youth, he is a very rich + fellow; and how any widow, who is married again to a rich old fellow, can + be melancholy, passes my understanding!” + </p> + <p> + Templeton, as if to draw attention from his wife’s taciturnity, talked + more than usual. He entered largely into politics, and regretted that in + times so critical he was not in parliament. + </p> + <p> + “Did I possess your youth and your health, Lumley, I would not neglect my + country—Popery is abroad.” + </p> + <p> + “I myself should like very much to be in parliament,” said Lumley, boldly. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you would,” returned the uncle, drily. “Parliament is very + expensive—only fit for those who have a large stake in the country. + Champagne to Mr. Ferrers.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley bit his lip, and spoke little during the rest of the dinner. Mr. + Templeton, however, waxed gracious by the time the dessert was on the + table; and began cutting up a pineapple, with many assurances to Lumley + that gardens were nothing without pineries. “Whenever you settle in the + country, nephew, be sure you have a pinery.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,” said Lumley, almost bitterly, “and a pack of hounds, and a + French cook; they will all suit my fortune very well.” + </p> + <p> + “You are more thoughtful on pecuniary matters than you used to be,” said + the uncle. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” replied Ferrers, solemnly, “in a very short time I shall be what is + called a middle-aged man.” + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” said the host. + </p> + <p> + There was another silence. Lumley was a man, as we have said, or implied + before, of great knowledge of human nature, at least the ordinary sort of + it, and he now revolved in his mind the various courses it might be wise + to pursue towards his rich relation. He saw that, in delicate fencing, his + uncle had over him the same advantage that a tall man has over a short one + with the physical sword-play;—by holding his weapon in a proper + position, he kept the other at arm’s length. There was a grand reserve and + dignity about the man who had something to give away, of which Ferrers, + however actively he might shift his ground and flourish his rapier, could + not break the defence. He determined, therefore, upon a new game, for + which his frankness of manner admirably adapted him. Just as he formed + this resolution, Mrs. Templeton rose, and with a gentle bow, and soft + though languid smile, glided from the room. The two gentlemen resettled + themselves, and Templeton pushed the bottle to Ferrers. + </p> + <p> + “Help yourself, Lumley! your travels seem to have deprived you of your + high spirits—you are pensive.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Ferrers, abruptly, “I wish to consult you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, young man! you have been guilty of some excess—you have gambled—you + have—” + </p> + <p> + “I have done nothing, sir, that should make me less worthy your esteem. I + repeat, I wish to consult you; I have outlived the hot days of my youth—I + am now alive to the claims of the world. I have talents, I believe; and I + have application, I know. I wish to fill a position in the world that may + redeem my past indolence, and do credit to my family. Sir, I set your + example before me, and I now ask your counsel, with the determination to + follow it.” + </p> + <p> + Templeton was startled; he half shaded his face with his hand, and gazed + searchingly upon the high forehead and bold eyes of his nephew. “I believe + you are sincere,” said he, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “You may well believe so, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I will think of this. I like an honourable ambition—not too + extravagant a one,—<i>that</i> is sinful; but a <i>respectable</i> + station in the world is a proper object of desire, and wealth is a + blessing; because,” added the rich man, taking another slice of the + pineapple,—“it enables us to be of use to our fellow-creatures!” + </p> + <p> + “Sir, then,” said Ferrers, with daring animation—“then I avow that + my ambition is precisely of the kind you speak of. I am obscure, I desire + to be reputably known; my fortune is mediocre, I desire it to be great. I + ask you for nothing—I know your generous heart; but I wish + independently to work out my own career.” + </p> + <p> + “Lumley,” said Templeton, “I never esteemed you so much as I do now. + Listen to me—I will confide in you; I think the government are under + obligations to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it,” exclaimed Ferrers, whose eyes sparkled at the thought of a + sinecure—for sinecures then existed! + </p> + <p> + “And,” pursued the uncle, “I intend to ask them a favour in return.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I think—mark me—with management and address, I may—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Obtain a barony for myself and heirs; I trust I shall soon have a + family!” + </p> + <p> + Had somebody given Lumley Ferrers a hearty cuff on the ear, he would have + thought less of it than of this wind-up of his uncle’s ambitious projects. + His jaws fell, his eyes grew an inch larger, and he remained perfectly + speechless. + </p> + <p> + “Ay,” pursued Mr. Templeton, “I have long dreamed this; my character is + spotless, my fortune great. I have ever exerted my parliamentary influence + in favour of ministers; and, in this commercial country, no man has higher + claims than Richard Templeton to the honours of a virtuous, loyal, and + religious state. Yes, my boy,—I like your ambition—you see I + have some of it myself; and since you are sincere in your wish to tread in + my footsteps, I think I can obtain you a junior partnership in a highly + respectable establishment. Let me see; your capital now is— + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, sir,” interrupted Lumley, colouring with indignation despite + himself; “I honour commerce much, but my paternal relations are not such + as would allow me to enter into trade. And permit me to add,” continued + he, seizing with instant adroitness the new weakness presented to him—“permit + me to add, that those relations, who have been ever kind to me, would, + properly managed, be highly efficient in promoting your own views of + advancement; for your sake I would not break with them. Lord Saxingham is + still a minister—nay, he is in the cabinet.” + </p> + <p> + “Hem—Lumley—hem!” said Templeton, thoughtfully; “we will + consider—we will consider. Any more wine?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I thank you, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll just take my evening stroll, and think over matters. You can + rejoin Mrs. Templeton. And I say, Lumley,—I read prayers at nine + o’clock. Never forget your Maker, and He will not forget you. The barony + will be an excellent thing—eh?—an English peerage—yes—an + English peerage! very different from your beggarly countships abroad!” + </p> + <p> + So saying, Mr. Templeton rang for his hat and cane, and stepped into the + lawn from the window of the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “‘The world’s mine oyster, which I with sword will open,’” muttered + Ferrers; “I would mould this selfish old man to my purpose; for, since I + have neither genius to write nor eloquence to declaim, I will at least see + whether I have not cunning to plot and courage to act. Conduct—conduct—conduct—there + lies my talent; and what is conduct but a steady walk from a design to its + execution?” + </p> + <p> + With these thoughts Ferrers sought Mrs. Templeton. He opened the + folding-doors very gently, for all his habitual movements were quick and + noiseless, and perceived that Mrs. Templeton sat by the window, and that + she seemed engrossed with a book which lay open on a little work-table + before her. + </p> + <p> + “Fordyce’s <i>Advice to Young Married Women</i>, I suppose. Sly jade! + However, I must not have her against me.” + </p> + <p> + He approached; still Mrs. Templeton did not note him; nor was it till he + stood facing her that he himself observed that her tears were falling fast + over the page. + </p> + <p> + He was a little embarrassed, and, turning towards the window, affected to + cough, and then said, without looking at Mrs. Templeton, “I fear I have + disturbed you.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered the same low, stifled voice that had before replied to + Lumley’s vain attempts to provoke conversation; “it was a melancholy + employment, and perhaps it is not right to indulge in it.” + </p> + <p> + “May I inquire what author so affected you.” + </p> + <p> + “It is but a volume of poems, and I am no judge of poetry; but it contains + thoughts which—which—” Mrs. Templeton paused abruptly, and + Lumley quietly took up the book. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said he, turning to the title-page—“my friend ought to be much + flattered.” + </p> + <p> + “Your friend?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes: this, I see, is by Ernest Maltravers, a very intimate ally of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to see him,” cried Mrs. Templeton, almost with animation. + “I read but little; it was by chance that I met with one of his books, and + they are as if I heard a dear friend speaking to me. Ah! I should like to + see him!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure, madam,” said the voice of a third person, in an austere and + rebuking accent, “I do not see what good it would do your immortal soul to + see a man who writes idle verses, which appear to me, indeed, highly + immoral. I just looked into that volume this morning and found nothing but + trash—love-sonnets, and such stuff.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Templeton made no reply, and Lumley, in order to change the + conversation, which seemed a little too matrimonial for his taste, said, + rather awkwardly, “You are returned very soon, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I don’t like walking in the rain!” + </p> + <p> + “Bless me, it rains, so, it does—I had not observed—” + </p> + <p> + “Are you wet, sir? had you not better—” began the wife timidly. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am, I’m not wet, I thank you. By the by, nephew, this new author + is a friend of yours. I wonder a man of his family should condescend to + turn author. He can come to no good. I hope you will drop his acquaintance—authors + are very unprofitable associates, I’m sure. I trust I shall see no more of + Mr. Maltravers’s books in my house.” + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless, he is well thought of, sir, and makes no mean figure in the + world,” said Lumley, stoutly; for he was by no means disposed to give up a + friend who might be as useful to him as Mr. Templeton himself. + </p> + <p> + “Figure or no figure—I have not had many dealings with authors in my + day; and when I had I always repented it. Not sound, sir, not sound—all + cracked somewhere. Mrs. Templeton, have the kindness to get the + Prayer-book—my hassock must be fresh stuffed, it gives me quite a + pain in my knee. Lumley, will you ring the bell? Your aunt is very + melancholy. True religion is not gloomy; we will read a sermon on + Cheerfulness.” + </p> + <p> + “So, so,” said Mr. Ferrers to himself, as he undressed that night—“I + see that my uncle is a little displeased with my aunt’s pensive face—a + little jealous of her thinking of anything but himself: <i>tant mieux</i>. + I must work upon this discovery; it will not do for them to live too + happily with each other. And what with that lever, and what with his + ambitious projects, I think I see a way to push the good things of this + world a few inches nearer to Lumley Ferrers.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The pride too of her step, as light + Along the unconscious earth she went, + Seemed that of one born with a right + To walk some heavenlier element.” + <i>Loves of the Angels.</i> + + “Can it be + That these fine impulses, these lofty thoughts + Burning with their own beauty, are but given + To make me the low slave of vanity?”—<i>Erinna.</i> + + “Is she not too fair + Even to think of maiden’s sweetest care? + The mouth and brow are contrasts.”—<i>Ibid.</i> +</pre> + <p> + IT was two or three evenings after the date of the last chapter, and there + was what the newspapers call “a select party” in one of the noblest + mansions in London. A young lady, on whom all eyes were bent, and whose + beauty might have served the painter for a model of Semiramis or Zenobia, + more majestic than became her years, and so classically faultless as to + have something cold and statue-like in its haughty lineaments, was moving + through the crowd that murmured applauses as she passed. This lady was + Florence Lascelles, the daughter of Lumley’s great relation, the Earl of + Saxingham, and supposed to be the richest heiress in England. Lord + Saxingham himself drew aside his daughter as she swept along. + </p> + <p> + “Florence,” said he in a whisper, “the Duke of ——— is + greatly struck with you—be civil to him—I am about to present + him.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +So saying, the earl turned to a small, dark, stiff-looking man, of about +twenty-eight years of age, at his left, and introduced the Duke of——- + introduction between the greatest match and the wealthiest heiress in +the peerage. +</pre> + <p> + “Lady Florence,” said Lord Saxingham, “is as fond of horses as yourself, + duke, though not quite so good a judge.” + </p> + <p> + “I confess I <i>do</i> like horses,” said the duke, with an ingenuous air. + </p> + <p> + Lord Saxingham moved away. + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence stood mute—one glance of bright contempt shot from her + large eyes; her lip slightly curled, and she then half turned aside, and + seemed to forget that her new acquaintance was in existence. + </p> + <p> + His grace, like most great personages, was not apt to take offence; nor + could he, indeed, ever suppose that any slight towards the Duke of ——— + could be intended; still he thought it would be proper in Lady Florence to + begin the conversation; for he himself, though not shy, was habitually + silent, and accustomed to be saved the fatigue of defraying the small + charges of society. After a pause, seeing, however, that Lady Florence + remained speechless, he began: + </p> + <p> + “You ride sometimes in the Park, Lady Florence?” + </p> + <p> + “Very seldom.” + </p> + <p> + “It is, indeed, too warm for riding at present.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not say so.” + </p> + <p> + “Hem—I thought you did.” + </p> + <p> + Another pause. + </p> + <p> + “Did you speak, Lady Florence?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I beg pardon—Lord Saxingham is looking very well.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Your picture in the exhibition scarcely does you justice, Lady Florence; + yet Lawrence is usually happy.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very flattering,” said Lady Florence, with a lively and + perceptible impatience in her tone and manner. The young beauty was + thoroughly spoilt—and now all the scorn of a scornful nature was + drawn forth, by observing the envious eyes of the crowd were bent upon one + whom the Duke of ——— was actually talking to. Brilliant + as were her own powers of conversation, she would not deign to exert them—she + was an aristocrat of intellect rather than birth, and she took it into her + head that the duke was an idiot. She was very much mistaken. If she had + but broken up the ice, she would have found that the water below was not + shallow. The duke, in fact, like many other Englishmen, though he did not + like the trouble of showing forth, and had an ungainly manner, was a man + who had read a good deal, possessed a sound head and an honourable mind, + though he did not know what it was to love anybody, to care much for + anything, and was at once perfectly sated and yet perfectly contented; for + apathy is the combination of satiety and content. + </p> + <p> + Still Florence judged of him as lively persons are apt to judge of the + sedate; besides, she wanted to proclaim to him and to everybody else, how + little she cared for dukes and great matches; she, therefore, with a + slight inclination of her head, turned away, and extended her hand to a + dark young man, who was gazing on her with that respectful but + unmistakable admiration which proud women are never proud enough to + despise. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, signor,” said she, in Italian, “I am so glad to see you; it is a + relief, indeed, to find genius in a crowd of nothings.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, the heiress seated herself on one of those convenient couches + which hold but two, and beckoned the Italian to her side. Oh, how the vain + heart of Castruccio Cesarini beat!—what visions of love, rank, + wealth, already flitted before him! + </p> + <p> + “I almost fancy,” said Castruccio, “that the old days of romance are + returned, when a queen could turn from princes and warriors to listen to a + troubadour.” + </p> + <p> + “Troubadours are now more rare than warriors and princes,” replied + Florence, with gay animation, which contrasted strongly with the coldness + she had manifested to the Duke of ———, “and therefore it + would not now be a very great merit in a queen to fly from dulness and + insipidity to poetry and wit.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, say not wit,” said Cesarini; “wit is incompatible with the grave + character of deep feelings;—incompatible with enthusiasm, with + worship;—incompatible with the thoughts that wait upon Lady Florence + Lascelles.” + </p> + <p> + Florence coloured and slightly frowned; but the immense distinction + between her position and that of the young foreigner, with her own + inexperience, both of real life and the presumption of vain hearts, made + her presently forget the flattery that would have offended her in another. + She turned the conversation, however, into general channels, and she + talked of Italian poetry with a warmth and eloquence worthy of the theme. + While they thus conversed, a new guest had arrived, who, from the spot + where he stood, engaged with Lord Saxingham, fixed a steady and + scrutinising gaze upon the pair. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Florence has indeed improved,” said this new guest. “I could not + have conceived that England boasted any one half so beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “She certainly is handsome, my dear Lumley,—the Lascelles cast of + countenance,” replied Lord Saxingham, “and so gifted! She is positively + learned—quite a <i>bas bleu</i>. I tremble to think of the crowd of + poets and painters who will make a fortune out of her enthusiasm. <i>Entre + nous</i>, Lumley, I could wish her married to a man of sober sense, like + the Duke of ———; for sober sense is exactly what she + wants. Do observe, she has been sitting just half an hour flirting with + that odd-looking adventurer, a Signor Cesarini, merely because he writes + sonnets and wears a dress like a stage-player!” + </p> + <p> + “It is the weakness of the sex, my dear lord,” said Lumley; “they like to + patronise, and they dote upon all oddities, from China monsters to cracked + poets. But I fancy, by a restless glance cast every now and then around + the room, that my beautiful cousin has in her something of the coquette.” + </p> + <p> + “There you are quite right, Lumley,” returned Lord Saxingham, laughing; + “but I will not quarrel with her for breaking hearts and refusing hands, + if she do but grow steady at last, and settle into the Duchess of———.” + </p> + <p> + “Duchess of ———!” repeated Lumley, absently; “well, I + will go and present myself. I see she is growing tired of the signor. I + will sound her as to the ducal impressions, my dear lord.” + </p> + <p> + “Do—I dare not,” replied the father; “she is an excellent girl, but + heiresses are always contradictory. It was very foolish to deprive me of + all control over her fortune. Come and see me again soon, Lumley. I + suppose you are going abroad?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I shall settle in England; but of my prospects and plans more + hereafter.” + </p> + <p> + With this, Lumley quietly glided away to Florence. There was something in + Ferrers that was remarkable from its very simplicity. His clear, sharp + features, with the short hair and high brow—the absolute plainness + of his dress, and the noiseless, easy, self-collected calm of all his + motions, made a strong contrast to the showy Italian, by whose side he now + stood. Florence looked up at him with some little surprise at his + intrusion. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you don’t recollect me!” said Lumley, with his pleasant laugh. + “Faithless Imogen, after all your vows of constancy! Behold your Alonzo! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘The worms they crept in and the worms they crept out.’ +</pre> + <p> + “Don’t you remember how you trembled when I told you that true story, as + we + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘Conversed as we sat on the green”? +</pre> + <p> + “Oh!” cried Florence, “it is indeed you, my dear cousin—my dear + Lumley! What an age since we parted!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk of age—it is an ugly word to a man of my years. Pardon, + signor, if I disturb you.” + </p> + <p> + And here Lumley, with a low bow, slid coolly into the place which + Cesarini, who had shyly risen, left vacant for him. Castruccio looked + disconcerted; but Florence had forgotten him in her delight at seeing + Lumley, and Cesarini moved discontentedly away, and seated himself at a + distance. + </p> + <p> + “And I come back,” continued Lumley, “to find you a confirmed beauty and a + professional coquette—don’t blush!” + </p> + <p> + “Do they, indeed, call me a coquette?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes,—for once the world is just.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I do deserve the reproach. Oh, Lumley, how I despise all that I + see and hear!” + </p> + <p> + “What, even the Duke of ———?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I fear even the Duke of ——— is no exception!” + </p> + <p> + “Your father will go mad if he hear you.” + </p> + <p> + “My father!—my poor father!—yes, he thinks the utmost that I, + Florence Lascelles, am made for, is to wear a ducal coronet, and give the + best balls in London.” + </p> + <p> + “And pray what was Florence Lascelles made for?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I cannot answer the question. I fear for Discontent and Disdain.” + </p> + <p> + “You are an enigma—but I will take pains and not rest till I solve + you.” + </p> + <p> + “I defy you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks—better defy than despise. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you must be strangely altered, if I can despise you.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! what do you remember of me?” + </p> + <p> + “That you were frank, bold, and therefore, I suppose, true!—that you + shocked my aunts and my father by your contempt for the vulgar hypocrisies + of our conventional life. Oh, no! I cannot despise you.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley raised his eyes to those of Florence—he gazed on her long and + earnestly—ambitious hopes rose high within him. + </p> + <p> + “My fair cousin,” said he, in an altered and serious tone, “I see + something in your spirit kindred to mine; and I am glad that yours is one + of the earliest voices which confirm my new resolves on my return to busy + England!” + </p> + <p> + “And those resolves?” + </p> + <p> + “Are an Englishman’s—energetic and ambitious.” + </p> + <p> + “Alas, ambition! How many false portraits are there of the great + original!” + </p> + <p> + Lumley thought he had found a clue to the heart of his cousin, and he + began to expatiate, with unusual eloquence, on the nobleness of that + daring sin which “lost angels heaven.” Florence listened to him with + attention, but not with sympathy. Lumley was deceived. His was not an + ambition that could attract the fastidious but high-souled Idealist. The + selfishness of his nature broke out in all the sentiments that he fancied + would seem to her most elevated. Place—power—titles—all + these objects were low and vulgar to one who saw them daily at her feet. + </p> + <p> + At a distance the Duke of ——— continued from time to + time to direct his cold gaze at Florence. He did not like her the less for + not seeming to court him. He had something generous within him, and could + understand her. He went away at last, and thought seriously of Florence as + a wife. Not a wife for companionship, for friendship, for love; but a wife + who could take the trouble of rank off his hands—do him honour, and + raise him an heir, whom he might flatter himself would be his own. + </p> + <p> + From his corner also, with dreams yet more vain and daring, Castruccio + Cesarini cast his eyes upon the queen-like brow of the great heiress. Oh, + yes, she had a soul—she could disdain rank and revere genius! What a + triumph over De Montaigne—Maltravers—all the world, if he, the + neglected poet, could win the hand for which the magnates of the earth + sighed in vain! Pure and lofty as he thought himself, it was her birth and + her wealth which Cesarini adored in Florence. And Lumley, nearer perhaps + to the prize than either—yet still far off—went on conversing, + with eloquent lips and sparkling eyes, while his cold heart was planning + every word, dictating every glance, and laying out (for the most worldly + are often the most visionary) the chart for a royal road to fortune. And + Florence Lascelles, when the crowd had dispersed and she sought her + chamber, forgot all three; and with that morbid romance often peculiar to + those for whom Fate smiles the most, mused over the ideal image of the one + she <i>could</i> love—“in maiden meditation <i>not</i> fancy-free!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In mea vesanas habui dispendia vires, + Et valui poenas fortis in ipse meas.” *—OVID. +</pre> + <p> + * I had the strength of a madman to my own cost, and employed that + strength in my own punishment. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Then might my breast be read within, + A thousand volumes would be written there.” + EARL OF STIRLING. +</pre> + <p> + ERNEST MALTRAVERS was at the height of his reputation; the work which he + had deemed the crisis that was to make or mar him was the most brilliantly + successful of all he had yet committed to the public. Certainly, chance + did as much for it as merit, as is usually the case with works that become + instantaneously popular. We may hammer away at the casket with strong arm + and good purpose, and all in vain; when some morning a careless stroke + hits the right nail on the head, and we secure the treasure. + </p> + <p> + It was at this time, when in the prime of youth—rich, courted, + respected, run after—that Ernest Maltravers fell seriously ill. It + was no active or visible disease, but a general irritability of the + nerves, and a languid sinking of the whole frame. His labours began, + perhaps, to tell against him. In earlier life he had been as active as a + hunter of the chamois, and the hardy exercise of his frame counteracted + the effects of a restless and ardent mind. The change from an athletic to + a sedentary habit of life—the wear and tear of the brain—the + absorbing passion for knowledge which day and night kept all his faculties + in a stretch; made strange havoc in a constitution naturally strong. The + poor author! how few persons understand; and forbear with, and pity him! + He sells his health and youth to a rugged taskmaster. And, O blind and + selfish world, you expect him to be as free of manner, and as pleasant of + cheer, and as equal of mood, as if he were passing the most agreeable and + healthful existence that pleasure could afford to smooth the wrinkles of + the mind, or medicine invent to regulate the nerves of the body. But there + was, besides all this, another cause that operated against the successful + man!—His heart was too solitary. He lived without the sweet + household ties—the connections and amities he formed excited for a + moment, but possessed no charm to comfort or to soothe. Cleveland resided + so much in the country, and was of so much calmer a temperament, and so + much more advanced in age, that, with all the friendship that subsisted + between them, there was none of that daily and familiar interchange of + confidence which affectionate natures demand as the very food of life. Of + his brother (as the reader will conjecture from never having been formally + presented to him) Ernest saw but little. Colonel Maltravers, one of the + gayest and handsomest men of his time, married a fine lady, lived + principally at Paris, except when, for a few weeks in the shooting season, + he filled his country house with companions who had nothing in common with + Ernest: the brothers corresponded regularly every quarter, and saw each + other once a year—this was all their intercourse. Ernest Maltravers + stood in the world alone, with that cold but anxious spectre—Reputation. + </p> + <p> + It was late at night. Before a table covered with the monuments of + erudition and thought sat a young man with a pale and worn countenance. + The clock in the room told with a fretting distinctness every moment that + lessened the journey to the grave. There was an anxious and expectant + expression on the face of the student, and from time to time he glanced to + the clock, and muttered to himself. Was it a letter from some adored + mistress—the soothing flattery from some mighty arbiter of arts and + letters—that the young man eagerly awaited? No; the aspirer was + forgotten in the valetudinarian. Ernest Maltravers was waiting the visit + of his physician, whom at that late hour a sudden thought had induced him + to summon from his rest. At length the well-known knock was heard, and in + a few moments the physician entered. He was one well versed in the + peculiar pathology of book men, and kindly as well as skilful. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mr. Maltravers, what is this? How are we?—not seriously + ill, I hope—no relapse—pulse low and irregular, I see, but no + fever. You are nervous.” + </p> + <p> + “Doctor,” said the student, “I did not send for you at this time of night + from the idle fear or fretful caprice of an invalid. But when I saw you + this morning, you dropped some hints which have haunted me ever since. + Much that it befits the conscience and the soul to attend to without loss + of time depends upon my full knowledge of my real state. If I understand + you rightly, I may have but a short time to live—is it so?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” said the doctor, turning away his face; “you have exaggerated my + meaning. I did not say that you were in what we technically call danger.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I then likely to be a <i>long</i>-lived man?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor coughed—“That is uncertain, my dear young friend,” said + he, after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Be plain with me. The plans of life must be based upon such calculations + as we can reasonably form of its probable duration. Do not fancy that I am + weak enough or coward enough to shrink from any abyss which I have + approached unconsciously; I desire—I adjure—nay, I command you + to be explicit.” + </p> + <p> + There was an earnest and solemn dignity in his patient’s voice and manner + which deeply touched and impressed the good physician. + </p> + <p> + “I will answer you frankly,” said he; “you overwork the nerves and the + brain; if you do not relax, you will subject yourself to confirmed disease + and premature death. For several months—perhaps for years to come—you + should wholly cease from literary labour. Is this a hard sentence? You are + rich and young—enjoy yourself while you can.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers appeared satisfied—changed the conversation—talked + easily on other matters for a few minutes: nor was it till he had + dismissed his physician that he broke forth with the thoughts that were + burning in him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried he aloud, as he rose and paced the room with rapid strides; + “now, when I see before me the broad and luminous path, am I to be + condemned to halt and turn aside? A vast empire rises on my view, greater + than that of Caesars and conquerors—an empire durable and universal + in the souls of men, that time itself cannot overthrow; and Death marches + with me, side by side, and the skeleton hand waves me back to the + nothingness of common men.” + </p> + <p> + He paused at the casement—he threw it open, and leant forth and + gasped for air. Heaven was serene and still, as morning came coldly forth + amongst the waning stars; and the haunts of men, in their thoroughfare of + idleness and of pleasure, were desolate and void. Nothing, save Nature, + was awake. + </p> + <p> + “And if, O stars!” murmured Maltravers, from the depth of his excited + heart—“if I have been insensible to your solemn beauty—if the + Heaven and the Earth had been to me but as air and clay—if I were + one of a dull and dim-eyed herd—I might live on, and drop into the + grave from the ripeness of unprofitable years. It is because I yearn for + the great objects of an immortal being, that life shrinks and shrivels up + like a scroll. Away! I will not listen to these human and material + monitors, and consider life as a thing greater than the things that I + would live for. My choice is made, glory is more persuasive than the + grave.” + </p> + <p> + He turned impatiently from the casement—his eyes flashed—his + chest heaved—he trod the chamber with a monarch’s air. All the + calculations of prudence, all the tame and methodical reasonings with + which, from time to time, he had sought to sober down the impetuous man + into the calm machine, faded away before the burst of awful and commanding + passions that swept over his soul. Tell a man, in the full tide of his + triumphs, that he bears death within him; and what crisis of thought can + be more startling and more terrible! + </p> + <p> + Maltravers had, as we have seen, cared little for fame, till fame had been + brought within his reach: then, with every step he took, new Alps had + arisen. Each new conjecture brought to light a new truth that demanded + enforcement or defence. Rivalry and competition chafed his blood, and kept + his faculties at their full speed. He had the generous race-horse spirit + of emulation. Ever in action, ever in progress, cheered on by the sarcasms + of foes, even more than by the applause of friends, the desire of glory + had become the habit of existence. When we have commenced a career, what + stop is there till the grave?—where is the definite barrier of that + ambition which, like the eastern bird, seems ever on the wing, and never + rests upon the earth? Our names are not settled till our death: the ghosts + of what we have done are made our haunting monitors—our scourging + avengers—if ever we cease to do, or fall short of the younger past. + Repose is oblivion; to pause is to unravel all the web that we have woven—until + the tomb closes over us, and men, just when it is too late, strike the + fair balance between ourselves and our rivals; and we are measured, not by + the least, but by the greatest triumphs we have achieved. Oh, what a + crushing sense of impotence comes over us, when we feel that our frame + cannot support our mind—when the hand can no longer execute what the + soul, actively as ever, conceives and desires!—the quick life tied + to the dead form—the ideas fresh as immortality, gushing forth rich + and golden, and the broken nerves, and the aching frame, and the weary + eyes!—the spirit athirst for liberty and heaven—and the + damning, choking consciousness that we are walled up and prisoned in a + dungeon that must be our burial-place! Talk not of freedom—there is + no such thing as freedom to a man whose body is the gaol, whose + infirmities are the racks, of his genius! + </p> + <p> + Maltravers paused at last, and threw himself on his sofa, wearied and + exhausted. Involuntarily, and as a half unconscious means of escaping from + his conflicting and profitless emotions, he turned to several letters, + which had for hours lain unopened on his table. Every one, the seal of + which he broke, seemed to mock his state—every one seemed to attest + the felicity of his fortunes. Some bespoke the admiring sympathy of the + highest and wisest—one offered him a brilliant opening into public + life—another (it was from Cleveland) was fraught with all the proud + and rapturous approbation of a prophet whose auguries are at last + fulfilled. At that letter Maltravers sighed deeply, and paused before he + turned to the others. The last he opened was in an unknown hand, nor was + any name affixed to it. Like all writers of some note, Maltravers was in + the habit of receiving anonymous letters of praise, censure, warning, and + exhortation—especially from young ladies at boarding schools, and + old ladies in the country; but there was that in the first sentences of + the letter, which he now opened with a careless hand, that riveted his + attention. It was a small and beautiful handwriting, yet the letters were + more clear and bold than they usually are in feminine caligraphy. + </p> + <p> + “Ernest Maltravers,” began this singular effusion, “have you weighed + yourself? Are you aware of your capacities? Do you feel that for you there + may be a more dazzling reputation that that which appears to content you? + You who seem to penetrate into the subtlest windings of the human heart, + and to have examined nature as through a glass—you, whose thoughts + stand forth like armies marshalled in defence of truth, bold and + dauntless, and without a stain upon their glittering armour;—are + you, at your age, and with your advantages, to bury yourself amidst books + and scrolls? Do you forget that action is the grand career for men who + think as you do? Will this word-weighing and picture-writing—the + cold eulogies of pedants—the listless praises of literary idlers, + content all the yearnings of your ambition? You were not made solely for + the closet; ‘The Dreams of Pindus, and the Aonian Maids’ cannot endure + through the noon of manhood. You are too practical for the mere poet, and + too poetical to sink into the dull tenor of a learned life. I have never + seen you, yet I know you—I read your spirit in your page; that + aspiration for something better and greater than the great and the good, + which colours all your passionate revelations of yourself and others—cannot + be satisfied merely by ideal images. You cannot be contented, as poets and + historians mostly are, by becoming great only from delineating great men, + or imagining great events, or describing a great era. Is it not worthier + of you to be what you fancy or relate? Awake, Maltravers, awake! Look into + your heart, and feel your proper destinies. And who am I that thus address + you?—a woman whose soul is filled with you—a woman in whom + your eloquence has awakened, amidst frivolous and vain circles, the sense + of a new existence—a woman who would make you, yourself, the + embodied ideal of your own thoughts and dreams, and who would ask from + earth no other lot than that of following you on the road of fame with the + eyes of her heart. Mistake me not; I repeat that I have never seen you, + nor do I wish it; you might be other than I imagine, and I should lose an + idol, and be left without a worship. I am a kind of visionary Rosicrucian: + it is a spirit that I adore, and not a being like myself. You imagine, + perhaps, that I have some purpose to serve in this—I have no object + in administering to your vanity; and if I judge you rightly, this letter + is one that might make you vain without a blush. Oh, the admiration that + does not spring from holy and profound sources of emotion—how it + saddens us or disgusts! I have had my share of vulgar homage, and it only + makes me feel doubly alone. I am richer than you are—I have youth—I + have what they call beauty. And neither riches, youth, nor beauty ever + gave me the silent and deep happiness I experience when I think of you. + This is a worship that might, I repeat, well make even you vain. Think of + these words, I implore you. Be worthy, not of my thoughts, but of the + shape in which they represent you: and every ray of glory that surrounds + you will brighten my own way, and inspire me with a kindred emulation. + Farewell.—I may write to you again, but you will never discover me; + and in life I pray that we may never meet!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Our list of nobles next let Amri grace.” + <i>Absalom and Achitophel</i>. + + “Sine me vacivum tempus ne quod dem mihi Laboris.” *—TER. +</pre> + <p> + * Suffer me to employ my spare time in some kind of labour. + </p> + <p> + “I CAN’T think,” said one of a group of young men, loitering by the steps + of a clubhouse in St. James’s Street—“I can’t think what has chanced + to Maltravers. Do you observe (as he walks—there—the other + side of the way) how much he is altered? He stoops like an old man, and + hardly ever lifts his eyes from the ground. He certainly seems sick and + sad.” + </p> + <p> + “Writing books, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Or privately married.” + </p> + <p> + “Or growing too rich—rich men are always unhappy beings.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha, Ferrers, how are you?” + </p> + <p> + “So-so. What’s the news?” replied Lumley. + </p> + <p> + “Rattler pays forfeit.” + </p> + <p> + “O! but in politics?” + </p> + <p> + “Hang politics—are you turned politician?” + </p> + <p> + “At my age, what else is there left to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought so, by your hat; all politicians sport odd-looking hats: it is + very remarkable, but that is the great symptom of the disease.” + </p> + <p> + “My hat!—<i>is</i> it odd?” said Ferrers, taking off the commodity + in question, and seriously regarding it. + </p> + <p> + “Why, who ever saw such a brim?” + </p> + <p> + “Glad you think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Ferrers?” + </p> + <p> + “Because it is a prudent policy in this country to surrender something + trifling up to ridicule. If people can abuse your hat or your carriage, or + the shape of your nose, or a wart on your chin, they let slip a thousand + more important matters. ‘Tis the wisdom of the camel-driver, who gives up + his gown for the camel to trample on, that he may escape himself.” + </p> + <p> + “How droll you are, Ferrers! Well, I shall turn in, and read the papers; + and you—” + </p> + <p> + “Shall pay my visits and rejoice in my hat.” + </p> + <p> + “Good day to you; by the by, your friend, Maltravers, has just passed, + looking thoughtful, and talking to himself. What’s the matter with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Lamenting, perhaps, that he, too, does not wear an odd hat for gentlemen + like you to laugh at, and leave the rest of him in peace. Good day.” + </p> + <p> + On went Ferrers, and soon found himself in the Mall of the Park. Here he + was joined by Mr. Templeton. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Lumley,” said the latter (and it may be here remarked that Mr. + Templeton now exhibited towards his nephew a greater respect of manner and + tone than he had thought it necessary to observe before)—“well, + Lumley, and have you seen Lord Saxingham?” + </p> + <p> + “I have, sir; and I regret to say—” + </p> + <p> + “I thought so—I thought it,” interrupted Templeton: “no gratitude in + public men—no wish, in high place, to honour virtue!” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me; Lord Saxingham declares that he should be delighted to forward + your views—that no man more deserves a peerage; but that—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; always <i>buts</i>!” + </p> + <p> + “But that there are so many claimants at present whom it is impossible to + satisfy; and—and—but I feel I ought not to go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Proceed, sir, I beg.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then, Lord Saxingham is (I must be frank) a man who has a great + regard for his own family. Your marriage (a source, my dear uncle, of the + greatest gratification to <i>me</i>) cuts off the probable chance of your + fortune and title, if you acquire the latter, descending to—” + </p> + <p> + “Yourself!” put in Templeton, drily. “Your relation seems, for the first + time, to have discovered how dear your interests are to him.” + </p> + <p> + “For me, individually, sir, my relation does not care a rush—but he + cares a great deal for any member of his house being rich and in high + station. It increases the range and credit of his connections; and Lord + Saxingham is a man whom connections help to keep great. To be plain with + you, he will not stir in this business, because he does not see how his + kinsman is to be benefited, or his house strengthened.” + </p> + <p> + “Public virtue!” exclaimed Templeton. + </p> + <p> + “Virtue, my dear uncle, is a female: as long as she is private property, + she is excellent; but public virtue, like any other public lady, is a + common prostitute.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw!” grunted Templeton, who was too much out of humour to read his + nephew the lecture he might otherwise have done upon the impropriety of + his simile; for Mr. Templeton was one of those men who hold it vicious to + talk of vice as existing in the world; he was very much shocked to hear + anything called by its proper name. + </p> + <p> + “Has not Mrs. Templeton some connections that may be useful to you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir!” cried the uncle, in a voice of thunder. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry to hear it—but we cannot expect all things: you have married + for love—you have a happy home, a charming wife—this is better + than a title and a fine lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Lumley Ferrers, you may spare me your consolations. My wife—” + </p> + <p> + “Loves you dearly, I dare say,” said the imperturbable nephew. “She has so + much sentiment, is so fond of poetry. Oh, yes, she must love one who has + done so much for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Done so much; what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, with your fortune—your station—your just ambition—you, + who might have married any one; nay, by remaining unmarried, have + conciliated all my interested, selfish relations—hang them—you + have married a lady without connections—and what more could you do + for her?” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh, pooh; you don’t know all.” + </p> + <p> + Here Templeton stopped short, as if about to say too much, and frowned; + then, after a pause, he resumed, “Lumley, I have married, it is true. You + may not be my heir, but I will make it up to you—that is, if you + deserve my affection.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear unc—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t interrupt me, I have projects for you. Let our interests be the + same. The title may yet descend to you. I may have no male offspring—meanwhile, + draw on me to any reasonable amount—young men have expenses—but + be prudent, and if you want to get on in the world, never let the world + detect you in a scrape. There, leave me now.” + </p> + <p> + “My best, my heartfelt thanks!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush—sound Lord Saxingham again; I must and will have this bauble—I + have set my heart on it.” So saying, Templeton waved away his nephew, and + musingly pursued his path towards Hyde Park Corner, where his carriage + awaited him. As soon as he entered his demesnes, he saw his wife’s + daughter running across the lawn to greet him. His heart softened; he + checked the carriage and descended: he caressed her, he played with her, + he laughed as she laughed. No parent could be more fond. + </p> + <p> + “Lumley Ferrers has talent to do me honour,” said he, anxiously, “but his + principles seem unstable. However, surely that open manner is the sign of + a good heart.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Ferrers, in high spirits, took his way to Ernest’s house. His + friend was not at home, but Ferrers never wanted a host’s presence in + order to be at home himself. Books were round him in abundance, but + Ferrers was not one of those who read for amusement. He threw himself into + an easy-chair, and began weaving new meshes of ambition and intrigue. At + length the door opened, and Maltravers entered. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Ernest, how ill you are looking!” + </p> + <p> + “I have not been well, but I am now recovering. As physicians recommend + change of air to ordinary patients—so I am about to try change of + habit. Active I must be—action is the condition of my being; but I + must have done with books from the present. You see me in a new + character.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “That of a public man—I have entered parliament.” + </p> + <p> + “You astonish me!—I have read the papers this morning. I see not + even a vacancy, much less an election.” + </p> + <p> + “It is all managed by the lawyer and the banker. In other words, my seat + is a close borough.” + </p> + <p> + “No bore of constituents. I congratulate you, and envy. I wish I were in + parliament myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You! I never fancied you bitten by the political mania.” + </p> + <p> + “Political!—no. But it is the most respectable way, with luck, of + living on the public. Better than swindling.” + </p> + <p> + “A candid way of viewing the question. But I thought at one time you were + half a Benthamite, and that your motto was, ‘The greatest happiness of the + greatest number.’” + </p> + <p> + “The greatest number to me is number <i>one</i>. I agree with the + Pythagoreans—unity is the perfect principle of creation! Seriously, + how can you mistake the principles of opinion for the principles of + conduct? I am a Benthamite, a benevolist, as a logician—but the + moment I leave the closet for the world, I lay aside speculation for + others, and act for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You are, at least, more frank than prudent in these confessions.” + </p> + <p> + “There you are wrong. It is by affecting to be worse than we are that we + become popular—and we get credit for being both honest and practical + fellows. My uncle’s mistake is to be a hypocrite in words: it rarely + answers. Be frank in words, and nobody will suspect hypocrisy in your + designs.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers gazed hard at Ferrers—something revolted and displeased + his high-wrought Platonism in the easy wisdom of his old friend. But he + felt, almost for the first time, that Ferrers was a man to get on in the + world—and he sighed; I hope it was for the world’s sake. + </p> + <p> + After a short conversation on indifferent matters, Cleveland was + announced; and Ferrers, who could make nothing out of Cleveland, soon + withdrew. Ferrers was now becoming an economist in his time. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Maltravers,” said Cleveland, when they were alone, “I am so glad + to see you; for, in the first place, I rejoice to find you are extending + your career of usefulness.” + </p> + <p> + “Usefulness—ah, let me think so! Life is so uncertain and so short, + that we cannot too soon bring the little it can yield into the great + commonwealth of the Beautiful or the Honest; and both belong to and make + up the Useful. But in politics, and in a highly artificial state, what + doubts beset us! what darkness surrounds! If we connive at abuses, we + juggle with our own reason and integrity—if we attack them, how + much, how fatally we may derange that solemn and conventional ORDER which + is the mainspring of the vast machine! How little, too, can one man, whose + talents may not be in that coarse road—in that mephitic atmosphere, + be enabled to effect!” + </p> + <p> + “He may effect a vast deal even without eloquence or labour:—he may + effect a vast deal, if he can set one example, amidst a crowd of selfish + aspirants and heated fanatics, of an honest and dispassionate man. He may + effect more, if he may serve among the representatives of that hitherto + unrepresented thing—Literature; if he redeem, by an ambition above + place and emolument, the character for subservience that court-poets have + obtained for letters—if he may prove that speculative knowledge is + not disjoined from the practical world, and maintain the dignity of + disinterestedness that should belong to learning. But the end of a + scientific morality is not to serve others only, but also to perfect and + accomplish our individual selves; our own souls are a solemn trust to our + own lives. You are about to add to your experience of human motives and + active men; and whatever additional wisdom you acquire will become equally + evident and equally useful, no matter whether it be communicated through + action or in books. Enough of this, my dear Ernest. I have come to dine + with you, and make you accompany me to-night to a house where you will be + welcome, and I think interested. Nay, no excuses. I have promised Lord + Latimer that he shall make your acquaintance, and he is one of the most + eminent men with whom political life will connect you.” + </p> + <p> + And to this change of habits, from the closet to the senate, had + Maltravers been induced by a state of health, which, with most men, would + have been an excuse for indolence. Indolent he could not be; he had truly + said to Ferrers, that “action was the condition of his being.” If THOUGHT, + with its fever and aching tension, had been too severe a taskmaster on the + nerves and brain, the coarse and homely pursuit of practical politics + would leave the imagination and intellect in repose, while it would excite + the hardier qualities and gifts, which animate without exhausting. So, at + least, hoped Maltravers. He remembered the profound saying in one of his + favourite German authors, “that to keep the mind and body in perfect + health, it is necessary to mix habitually and betimes in the common + affairs of men.” And the anonymous correspondent;—had her + exhortations any influence on his decision? I know not. But when Cleveland + left him, Maltravers unlocked his desk, and re-perused the last letter he + had received from the Unknown. The <i>last</i> letter!—yes, those + epistles had now become frequent. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * * * * “Le brillant de votre esprit donne un si grand + eclat a votre teint et a vos yeux, que quoiqu’il semble + que l’esprit ne doit toucher que les oreilles, il est + pourtaut certain que la votre eblouit les yeux.” * + <i>Lettres de Madame de Sevigne</i>. +</pre> + <p> + * The brilliancy of your wit gives so great a lustre to your complexion + and your eyes, that, though it seems that wit should only reach the ears, + it is altogether certain that yours dazzles the eyes. + </p> + <p> + AT Lord Latimer’s house were assembled some hundreds of those persons who + are rarely found together in London society; for business, politics, and + literature draught off the most eminent men, and usually leave to houses + that receive the world little better than indolent rank or ostentatious + wealth. Even the young men of pleasure turn up their noses at parties + now-a-days, and find society a bore. But there are some dozen or two of + houses, the owners of which are both apart from and above the fashion, in + which a foreigner may see, collected under the same roof, many of the most + remarkable men of busy, thoughtful, majestic England. Lord Latimer himself + had been a cabinet minister. He retired from public life on pretence of + ill-health; but, in reality, because its anxious bustle was not congenial + to a gentle and accomplished, but somewhat feeble, mind. With a high + reputation and an excellent cook he enjoyed a great popularity, both with + his own party and the world in general; and he was the centre of a small, + but distinguished circle of acquaintances, who drank Latimer’s wine, and + quoted Latimer’s sayings, and liked Latimer much better, because, not + being author or minister, he was not in their way. + </p> + <p> + Lord Latimer received Maltravers with marked courtesy, and even deference, + and invited him to join his own whist-table, which was one of the highest + compliments his lordship could pay to his intellect. But when his guest + refused the proffered honour, the earl turned him over to the countess, as + having become the property of the womankind; and was soon immersed in his + aspirations for the odd trick. + </p> + <p> + Whilst Maltravers was conversing with Lady Latimer, he happened to raise + his eyes, and saw opposite to him a young lady of such remarkable beauty, + that he could scarcely refrain from an admiring exclamation.—“And + who,” he asked, recovering himself, “is that lady? It is strange that even + I, who go so little into the world, should be compelled to inquire the + name of one whose beauty must already have made her celebrated.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lady Florence Lascelles—she came out last year. She is, indeed, + most brilliant, yet more so in mind and accomplishments than face. I must + be allowed to introduce you.” + </p> + <p> + At this offer, a strange shyness, and as it were reluctant distrust, + seized Maltravers—a kind of presentiment of danger and evil. He drew + back, and would have made some excuse, but Lady Latimer did not heed his + embarrassment, and was already by the side of Lady Florence Lascelles. A + moment more, and beckoning to Maltravers, the countess presented him to + the lady. As he bowed and seated himself beside his new acquaintance, he + could not but observe that her cheeks were suffused with the most lively + blushes, and that she received him with a confusion not common even in + ladies just brought out, and just introduced to “a lion.” He was rather + puzzled than flattered by these tokens of an embarrassment, somewhat akin + to his own; and the first few sentences of their conversation passed off + with a certain awkwardness and reserve. At this moment, to the surprise, + perhaps to the relief, of Ernest, they were joined by Lumley Ferrers. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Lady Florence, I kiss your hands—I am charmed to find you + acquainted with my friend Maltravers.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mr. Ferrers, what makes him so late to-night?” asked the fair + Florence, with a sudden ease, which rather startled Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “A dull dinner, <i>voila tout</i>—I have no other excuse.” And + Ferrers, sliding into a vacant chair on the other side of Lady Florence, + conversed volubly and unceasingly, as if seeking to monopolise her + attention. + </p> + <p> + Ernest had not been so much captivated with the manner of Florence as he + had been struck with her beauty, and now, seeing her apparently engaged + with another, he rose and quietly moved away. He was soon one of a knot of + men who were conversing on the absorbing topics of the day; and as by + degrees the exciting subject brought out his natural eloquence and + masculine sense, the talkers became listeners, the knot widened into a + circle, and he himself was unconsciously the object of general attention + and respect. + </p> + <p> + “And what think you of Mr. Maltravers?” asked Ferrers, carelessly; “does + he keep up your expectations?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence had sunk into a reverie, and Ferrers repeated his question. + </p> + <p> + “He is younger than I imagined him,—and—and—” + </p> + <p> + “Handsomer, I suppose, you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “No! calmer and less animated.” + </p> + <p> + “He seems animated enough now,” said Ferrers; “but your ladylike + conversation failed in striking the Promethean spark. ‘Lay that flattering + unction to your soul.’” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you are right—he must have thought me very—” + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful, no doubt.” + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful!—I hate the word, Lumley. I wish I were not handsome—I + might then get some credit for my intellect.” + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” said Ferrers, significantly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you don’t think so, sceptic,” said Florence, shaking her head with a + slight laugh, and an altered manner. + </p> + <p> + “Does it matter what I think,” said Ferrers, with an attempted touch at + the sentimental, “when Lord This, and Lord That, and Mr. So-and-so, and + Count What-d’ye-call-him, are all making their way to you, to dispossess + me of my envied monopoly?” + </p> + <p> + While Ferrers spoke, several of the scattered loungers grouped around + Florence, and the conversation, of which she was the cynosure, became + animated and gay. Oh, how brilliant she was, that peerless Florence!—with + what petulant and sparkling grace came wit and wisdom, and even genius, + from those ruby lips! Even the assured Ferrers felt his subtle intellect + as dull and coarse to hers, and shrank with a reluctant apprehension from + the arrows of her careless and prodigal repartees. For there was a scorn + in the nature of Florence Lascelles which made her wit pain more + frequently than it pleased. Educated even to learning—courageous + even to a want of feminacy—she delighted to sport with ignorance and + pretension, even in the highest places; and the laugh that she excited was + like lightning;—no one could divine where next it might fall. + </p> + <p> + But Florence, though dreaded and unloved, was yet courted, flattered, and + the rage. For this there were two reasons: first, she was a coquette, and + secondly, she was an heiress. + </p> + <p> + Thus the talkers in the room were divided into two principal groups, over + one of which Maltravers may be said to have presided; over the other, + Florence. As the former broke up, Ernest was joined by Cleveland. + </p> + <p> + “My dear cousin,” said Florence, suddenly, and in a whisper, as she turned + to Lumley, “your friend is speaking of me—I see it. Go, I implore + you, and let me know what he says!” + </p> + <p> + “The commission is not flattering,” said Ferrers, almost sullenly. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, a commission to gratify a woman’s curiosity is ever one of the most + flattering embassies with which we can invest an able negotiator.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I must do your bidding, though I disown the favour.” Ferrers moved + away, and joined Cleveland and Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “She is, indeed, beautiful: so perfect a contour I never beheld: she is + the only woman I ever saw in whom the aquiline features seem more + classical than even the Greek.” + </p> + <p> + “So, that is your opinion of my fair cousin!” cried Ferrers, “you are + caught.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish he were,” said Cleveland. “Ernest is now old enough to settle, and + there is not a more dazzling prize in England—rich, high-born, + lovely, and accomplished.” + </p> + <p> + “And what say you?” asked Lumley, almost impatiently, to Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + “That I never saw one whom I admire more or could love less,” replied + Ernest, as he quitted the rooms. + </p> + <p> + Ferrers looked after him, and muttered to himself; he then rejoined + Florence, who presently rose to depart, and taking Lumley’s arm, said, + “Well, I see my father is looking round for me—and so for once I + will forestall him. Come, Lumley, let us join him; I know he wants to see + you. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Florence, blushing deeply, and almost breathless, as they + crossed the now half-empty apartments. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my cousin?” + </p> + <p> + “You provoke me—well, then, what said your friend?” + </p> + <p> + “That you deserved your reputation of beauty, but that you were not his + style. Maltravers is in love, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “In love?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a pretty Frenchwoman! quite romantic—an attachment of some + years’ standing.” + </p> + <p> + Florence turned away her face, and said no more. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a good fellow, Lumley,” said Lord Saxingham; “Florence is never + more welcome to my eyes than at half-past one o’clock A.M., when I + associate her with thoughts of my natural rest, and my unfortunate + carriage-horses. By the by, I wish you would dine with me next Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “Saturday: unfortunately I am engaged to my uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! he has behaved handsomely to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Templeton pretty well?” + </p> + <p> + “I fancy so.” + </p> + <p> + “As ladies wish to be, etc.?” whispered his lordship. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank Heaven!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if the old man could but make you his heir, we might think twice + about the title.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear lord, stop! one favour—write me a line to hint that + delicately.” + </p> + <p> + “No—no letters; letters always get into the papers.” + </p> + <p> + “But cautiously worded—no danger of publication, on my honour.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll think of it. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Every man should strive to be as good as possible, but not + suppose himself to be the only thing that is good. + —PLOTIN. EN. 11. lib. ix. c. 9. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Deceit is the strong but subtle chain which runs through + all the members of a society, and links them together; + trick or be tricked is the alternative; ‘tis the way of + the world, and without it intercourse would drop.” + <i>Anonymous writer</i> of 1722. + + “A lovely child she was, of looks serene, + And motions which o’er things indifferent shed + The grace and gentleness from whence they came.” + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + “His years but young, but his experience old.”—SHAKESPEARE. + + “He after honour hunts, I after love.”—<i>Ibid.</i> +</pre> + <p> + LUMLEY FERRERS was one of the few men in the world who act upon a + profound, deliberate, and organized system—he had done so even from + a boy. When he was twenty-one, he had said to himself, “Youth is the + season for enjoyment: the triumphs of manhood, the wealth of age, do not + compensate for a youth spent in unpleasurable toils.” Agreeably to this + maxim, he had resolved not to adopt any profession; and being fond of + travel, and of a restless temper, he had indulged abroad in all the + gratifications that his moderate income could afford him: that income went + farther on the Continent than at home, which was another reason for the + prolongation of his travels. Now, when the whims and passions of youth + were sated; and, ripened by a consummate and various knowledge of mankind, + his harder capacities of mind became developed and centred into such + ambition as it was his nature to conceive, he acted no less upon a regular + and methodical plan of conduct, which he carried into details. He had + little or nothing within himself to cross his cold theories by + contradictory practice; for he was curbed by no principles and regulated + but by few tastes: and our tastes are often checks as powerful as our + principles. Looking round the English world, Ferrers saw, that at his age + and with an equivocal position, and no chances to throw away, it was + necessary that he should cast off all attributes of the character of the + wanderer and the <i>garcon</i>. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing respectable in lodgings and a cab,” said Ferrers to + himself—that “<i>self</i>” was his grand confidant!—“nothing + stationary. Such are the appliances of a here-to-day-gone-to-morrow kind + of life. One never looks substantial till one pays rates and taxes, and + has a bill with one’s butcher!” + </p> + <p> + Accordingly, without saying a word to anybody, Ferrers took a long lease + of a large house, in one of those quiet streets that proclaim the owners + do not wish to be made by fashionable situations—streets in which, + if you have a large house, it is supposed to be because you can afford + one. He was very particular in its being a respectable street—Great + George Street, Westminster, was the one he selected. + </p> + <p> + No frippery or baubles, common to the mansions of young bachelors—no + buhl, and marquetrie, and Sevres china, and cabinet pictures, + distinguished the large dingy drawing-rooms of Lumley Ferrers. He bought + all the old furniture a bargain of the late tenant—tea-coloured + chintz curtains, and chairs and sofas that were venerable and solemn with + the accumulated dust of twenty-five years. The only things about which he + was particular were a very long dining-table that would hold + four-and-twenty, and a new mahogany sideboard. Somebody asked him why he + cared about such articles. “I don’t know,” said he “but I observe all + respectable family-men do—there must be something in it—I + shall discover the secret by and by.” + </p> + <p> + In this house did Mr. Ferrers ensconce himself with two middle-aged + maidservants, and a man out of livery, whom he chose from a multitude of + candidates, because the man looked especially well fed. Having thus + settled himself, and told every one that the lease of his house was for + sixty-three years, Lumley Ferrers made a little calculation of his + probable expenditure, which he found, with good management, might amount + to about one-fourth more than his income. + </p> + <p> + “I shall take the surplus out of my capital,” said he, “and try the + experiment for five years; if it don’t do, and pay me profitably, why, + then either men are not to be lived upon, or Lumley Ferrers is a much + duller clog than he thinks himself!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Ferrers had deeply studied the character of his uncle, as a prudent + speculator studies the qualities of a mine in which he means to invest his + capital, and much of his present proceedings was intended to act upon the + uncle as well as upon the world. He saw that the more he could obtain for + himself, not a noisy, social, fashionable reputation, but a good, sober, + substantial one, the more highly Mr. Templeton would consider him, and the + more likely he was to be made his uncle’s heir,—that is, provided + Mrs. Templeton did not supersede the nepotal parasite by indigenous + olive-branches. This last apprehension died away as time passed, and no + signs of fertility appeared. And, accordingly, Ferrers thought he might + prudently hazard more upon the game on which he now ventured to rely. + There was one thing, however, that greatly disturbed his peace; Mr. + Templeton, though harsh and austere in his manner to his wife, was + evidently attached to her; and, above all, he cherished the fondest + affection for his stepdaughter. He was as anxious for her health, her + education, her little childish enjoyments, as if he had been not only her + parent, but a very doting one. He could not bear her to be crossed or + thwarted. Mr. Templeton, who had never spoiled anything before, not even + an old pen (so careful, and calculating, and methodical was he), did his + best to spoil this beautiful child whom he could not even have the vain + luxury of thinking he had produced to the admiring world. Softly, + exquisitely lovely was that little girl; and every day she increased in + the charm of her person, and in the caressing fascination of her childish + ways. Her temper was so sweet and docile, that fondness and petting, + however injudiciously exhibited, only seemed yet more to bring out the + colours of a grateful and tender nature. Perhaps the measured kindness of + more reserved affection might have been the true way of spoiling one whose + instincts were all for exacting and returning love. She was a plant that + suns less warm might have nipped and chilled. But beneath an uncapricious + and unclouded sunshine she sprang up in a luxurious bloom of heart and + sweetness of disposition. + </p> + <p> + Every one, even those who did not generally like children, delighted in + this charming creature, excepting only Mr. Lumley Ferrers. But that + gentleman, less mild than Pope’s Narcissa,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To make a wash, had gladly stewed the child!” + </pre> + <p> + He had seen how very common it is for a rich man, married late in life, to + leave everything to a young widow and her children by her former marriage, + when once attached to the latter; and he sensibly felt that he himself had + but a slight hold over Templeton by the chain of the affections. He + resolved, therefore, as much as possible, to alienate his uncle from his + young wife; trusting that, as the influence of the wife was weakened, that + of the child would be lessened also; and to raise in Templeton’s vanity + and ambition an ally that might supply to himself the want of love. He + pursued his twofold scheme with masterly art and address. He first sought + to secure the confidence and regard of the melancholy and gentle mother; + and in this—for she was peculiarly unsuspicious and inexperienced, + he obtained signal and complete success. His frankness of manner, his + deferential attention, the art with which he warded off from her the + spleen or ill-humour of Mr. Templeton, the cheerfulness that his easy + gaiety threw over a very gloomy house, made the poor lady hail his visits + and trust in his friendship. Perhaps she was glad of any interruption to + <i>tetes-a-tetes</i> with a severe and ungenial husband, who had no + sympathy for the sorrows, of whatever nature they might be, which preyed + upon her, and who made it a point of morality to find fault wherever he + could. + </p> + <p> + The next step in Lumley’s policy was to arm Templeton’s vanity against his + wife, by constantly refreshing his consciousness of the sacrifices he had + made by marriage, and the certainty that he would have attained all his + wishes had he chosen more prudently. By perpetually, but most judiciously, + rubbing this sore point, he, as it were, fixed the irritability into + Templeton’s constitution, and it reacted on all his thoughts, aspiring or + domestic. Still, however, to Lumley’s great surprise and resentment, while + Templeton cooled to his wife, he only warmed to her child. Lumley had not + calculated enough upon the thirst and craving for affection in most human + hearts; and Templeton, though not exactly an amiable man, had some + excellent qualities; if he had less sensitively regarded the opinion of + the world, he would neither have contracted the vocabulary of cant, nor + sickened for a peerage—both his affectation of saintship, and his + gnawing desire of rank, arose from an extraordinary and morbid deference + to opinion, and a wish for worldly honours and respect, which he felt that + his mere talents could not secure to him. But he was, at bottom, a kindly + man—charitable to the poor, considerate to his servants, and had + within him the want to love and be loved, which is one of the desires + wherewith the atoms of the universe are cemented and harmonised. Had Mrs. + Templeton evinced love to him, he might have defied all Lumley’s + diplomacy, been consoled for worldly disadvantages, and been a good and + even uxorious husband. But she evidently did not love him, though an + admirable, patient, provident wife; and her daughter <i>did</i> love him—love + him as well even as she loved her mother; and the hard worldling would not + have accepted a kingdom as the price of that little fountain of pure and + ever-refreshing tenderness. Wise and penetrating as Lumley was, he never + could thoroughly understand this weakness, as he called it; for we never + know men entirely, unless we have complete sympathies with men in all + their natural emotions; and Nature had left the workmanship of Lumley + Ferrers unfinished and incomplete, by denying him the possibility of + caring for anything but himself. + </p> + <p> + His plan for winning Templeton’s esteem and deference was, however, + completely triumphant. He took care that nothing in his <i>menage</i> + should appear “<i>extravagant</i>;” all was sober, quiet, and + well-regulated. He declared that he had so managed as to live within his + income: and Templeton receiving no hint for money, nor aware that Ferrers + had on the Continent consumed a considerable portion of his means, + believed him. Ferrers gave a great many dinners, but he did not go on that + foolish plan which has been laid down by persons who pretend to know life, + as a means of popularity—he did not profess to give dinners better + than other people. He knew that, unless you are a very rich or a very + great man, no folly is equal to that of thinking that you soften the + hearts of your friends by soups <i>a la bisque</i>, and Johannisberg at a + guinea a bottle. They all go away saying, “What right has that d——d + fellow to give a better dinner than we do? What horrid taste! What + ridiculous presumption.” + </p> + <p> + No; though Ferrers himself was a most scientific epicure, and held the + luxury of the palate at the highest possible price, he dieted his friends + on what he termed “respectable fare.” His cook put plenty of flour into + the oyster sauce; cod’s head and shoulders made his invariable fish; and + four <i>entrees</i>, without flavour or pretence, were duly supplied by + the pastry-cook, and carefully eschewed by the host. Neither did Mr. + Ferrers affect to bring about him gay wits and brilliant talkers. He + confined himself to men of substantial consideration, and generally took + care to be himself the cleverest person present; while he turned the + conversation on serious matters crammed for the occasion—politics, + stocks, commerce, and the criminal code. Pruning his gaiety, though he + retained his frankness, he sought to be known as a highly-informed, + painstaking man, who would be sure to rise. His connections, and a certain + nameless charm about him, consisting chiefly in a pleasant countenance, a + bold yet winning candour, and the absence of all <i>hauteur</i> or + pretence, enabled him to assemble round this plain table, which, if it + gratified no taste, wounded no self-love, a sufficient number of public + men of rank, and eminent men of business, to answer his purpose. The + situation he had chosen, so near the Houses of Parliament, was convenient + to politicians, and, by degrees, the large dingy drawing-rooms became a + frequent resort for public men to talk over those thousand underplots by + which a party is served or attached. Thus, though not in parliament + himself, Ferrers became insensibly associated with parliamentary men and + things, and the ministerial party, whose politics he espoused, praised him + highly, made use of him, and meant, some day or other, to do something for + him. + </p> + <p> + While the career of this able and unprincipled man thus opened—and + of course the opening was not made in a day—Ernest Maltravers was + ascending by a rough, thorny, and encumbered path, to that eminence on + which the monuments of men are built. His success in public life was not + brilliant nor sudden. For, though he had eloquence and knowledge, he + disdained all oratorical devices; and though he had passion and energy, he + could scarcely be called a warm partisan. He met with much envy, and many + obstacles; and the gracious and buoyant sociality of temper and manners + that had, in early youth, made him the idol of his contemporaries at + school or college, had long since faded away into a cold, settled, and + lofty, though gentle reserve, which did not attract towards him the animal + spirits of the herd. But though he spoke seldom, and heard many, with half + his powers, more enthusiastically cheered, he did not fail of commanding + attention and respect; and though no darling of cliques and parties, yet + in that great body of the people who were ever the audience and tribunal + to which, in letters or in politics, Maltravers appealed, there was + silently growing up, and spreading wide, a belief in his upright + intentions, his unpurchasable honour, and his correct and well-considered + views. He felt that his name was safely invested, though the return for + the capital was slow and moderate. He was contented to abide his time. + </p> + <p> + Every day he grew more attached to that true philosophy which makes a man, + as far as the world will permit, a world to himself; and from the height + of a tranquil and serene self-esteem, he felt the sun shine above him, + when malignant clouds spread sullen and ungenial below. He did not despise + or wilfully shock opinion, neither did he fawn upon and flatter it. Where + he thought the world should be humoured, he humoured—where + contemned, he contemned it. There are many cases in which an honest, + well-educated, high-hearted individual is a much better judge than the + multitude of what is right and what is wrong; and in these matters he is + not worth three straws if he suffer the multitude to bully or coax him out + of his judgment. The Public, if you indulge it, is a most damnable gossip, + thrusting its nose into people’s concerns, where it has no right to make + or meddle; and in those things, where the Public is impertinent, + Maltravers scorned and resisted its interference as haughtily as he would + the interference of any insolent member of the insolent whole. It was this + mixture of deep love and profound respect for the eternal PEOPLE, and of + calm, passionless disdain for that capricious charlatan, the momentary + PUBLIC, which made Ernest Maltravers an original and solitary thinker; and + an actor, in reality modest and benevolent, in appearance arrogant and + unsocial. “Pauperism, in contradistinction to poverty,” he was wont to + say, “is the dependence upon other people for existence, not on our own + exertions; there is a moral pauperism in the man who is dependent on + others for that support of moral life—self-respect.” + </p> + <p> + Wrapped in this philosophy, he pursued his haughty and lonesome way, and + felt that in the deep heart of mankind, when prejudices and envies should + die off, there would be a sympathy with his motives and his career. So far + as his own health was concerned, the experiment had answered. No mere + drudgery of business—late hours and dull speeches—can produce + the dread exhaustion which follows the efforts of the soul to mount into + the higher air of severe thought or intense imagination. Those faculties + which had been overstrained now lay fallow—and the frame rapidly + regained its tone. Of private comfort and inspiration Ernest knew but + little. He gradually grew estranged from his old friend Ferrers, as their + habits became opposed. Cleveland lived more and more in the country, and + was too well satisfied with his quondam pupil’s course of life and + progressive reputation to trouble him with exhortation or advice. Cesarini + had grown a literary lion, whose genius was vehemently lauded by all the + reviews—on the same principle as that which induces us to praise + foreign singers or dead men;—we must praise something, and we don’t + like to praise those who jostle ourselves. Cesarini had therefore grown + prodigiously conceited—swore that England was the only country for + true merit; and no longer concealed his jealous anger at the wider + celebrity of Maltravers. Ernest saw him squandering away his substance, + and prostituting his talents to drawing-room trifles, with a compassionate + sigh. He sought to warn him, but Cesarini listened to him with such + impatience that he resigned the office of monitor. He wrote to De + Montaigne, who succeeded no better. Cesarini was bent on playing his own + game. And to one game, without a metaphor, he had at last come. His + craving for excitement vented itself at Hazard, and his remaining guineas + melted daily away. + </p> + <p> + But De Montaigne’s letters to Maltravers consoled him for the loss of less + congenial friends. The Frenchman was now an eminent and celebrated man; + and his appreciation of Maltravers was sweeter to the latter than would + have been the huzzas of crowds. But, all this while, his vanity was + pleased and his curiosity roused by the continued correspondence of his + unseen Egeria. That correspondence (if so it may be called, being all on + one side) had now gone on for a considerable time, and he was still wholly + unable to discover the author: its tone had of late altered—it had + become more sad and subdued—it spoke of the hollowness as well as + the rewards of fame; and, with a touch of true womanly sentiment, often + hinted more at the rapture of soothing dejection, than of sharing triumph. + In all these letters, there was the undeniable evidence of high intellect + and deep feeling; they excited a strong and keen interest in Maltravers, + yet the interest was not that which made him wish to discover, in order + that he might love, the writer. They were for the most part too full of + the irony and bitterness of a man’s spirit, to fascinate one who + considered that gentleness was the essence of a woman’s strength. Temper + spoke in them, no less than mind and heart, and it was not the sort of + temper which a man who loves women to be womanly could admire. + </p> + <p> + “I hear you often spoken of” (ran one of these strange epistles), “and I + am almost equally angry whether fools presume to praise or to blame you. + This miserable world we live in, how I loathe and disdain it!—yet I + desire you to serve and to master it! Weak contradiction, effeminate + paradox! Oh! rather a thousand times that you would fly from its mean + temptations and poor rewards!—if the desert were your dwelling-place + and you wished one minister, I could renounce all—wealth, flattery, + repute, womanhood—to serve you. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “I once admired you for your genius. My disease has fastened on me, and I + now almost worship you for yourself. I have seen you, Ernest Maltravers,—seen + you often,—and when you never suspected that these eyes were on you. + Now that I have seen, I understand you better. We can not judge men by + their books and deeds. Posterity can know nothing of the beings of the + past. A thousand books never written—a thousand deeds never done—are + in the eyes and lips of the few greater than the herd. In that cold, + abstracted gaze, that pale and haughty brow, I read the disdain of + obstacles, which is worthy of one who is confident of the goal. But my + eyes fill with tears when I survey you!—you are sad, you are alone! + If failures do not mortify you, success does not elevate. Oh, Maltravers, + I, woman as I am, and living in a narrow circle, I, even I, know at last + that to have desires nobler, and ends more august, than others, is but to + surrender waking life to morbid and melancholy dreams. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “Go more into the world, Maltravers—go more into the world, or quit + it altogether. Your enemies must be met; they accumulate, they grow strong—you + are too tranquil, too slow in your steps towards the prize which should be + yours, to satisfy my impatience, to satisfy your friends. Be less refined + in your ambition that you may be more immediately useful. The feet of clay + after all are the swiftest in the race. Even Lumley Ferrers will outstrip + you if you do not take heed. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “Why do I run on thus!—you—you love another, yet you are not + less the ideal that I could love—if ever I loved any one. You love—and + yet—well—no matter.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Well, but this is being only an official nobleman. No matter, + ‘tis still being a nobleman, and that’s his aim.” + <i>Anonymous writer of 1772</i>. + + “La musique est le seul des talens qui jouissent de lui-meme; + tons les autres veulent des temoins.” *—MARMONTEL. +</pre> + <p> + * Music is the sole talent which gives pleasure of itself; all the others + require witnesses. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Thus the slow ox would gaudy trappings claim.”—HORACE. +</pre> + <p> + MR. TEMPLETON had not obtained his peerage, and, though he had met with no + direct refusal, nor made even a direct application to headquarters, he was + growing sullen. He had great parliamentary influence, not close borough, + illegitimate influence, but very proper orthodox influence of character, + wealth, and so forth. He could return one member at least for a city—he + could almost return one member for a county, and in three boroughs any + activity on his part could turn the scale in a close contest. The + ministers were strong, but still they could not afford to lose supporters + hitherto zealous—the example of desertion is contagious. In the town + which Templeton had formerly represented, and which he now almost + commanded, a vacancy suddenly occurred—a candidate started on the + opposition side and commenced a canvass; to the astonishment and panic of + the Secretary of the Treasury, Templeton put forward no one, and his + interest remained dormant. Lord Saxingham hurried to Lumley. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, what is this?—what can your uncle be about? We + shall lose this place—one of our strongholds. Bets run even.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you see, you have all behaved very ill to my uncle—I am really + sorry for it, but I can do nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “What, this confounded peerage! Will that content him, and nothing short + of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “He must have it, by Jove!” + </p> + <p> + “And even that may come too late.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! do you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you leave the matter to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly—you are a monstrous clever fellow, and we all esteem + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down and write as I dictate, my dear lord.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Lord Saxingham, seating himself at Lumley’s enormous + writing-table—“well, go on.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>My dear Mr. Templeton</i>—” + </p> + <p> + “Too familiar,” said Lord Saxingham. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit; go on.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>My dear Mr. Templeton:</i>— + </p> + <p> + “<i>We are anxious to secure your parliamentary influence in C——— + to the proper quarter, namely, to your own family, as the best defenders + of the administration, which you honour by your support. We wish signally, + at the same time, to express our confidence in your principles, and our + gratitude for your countenance.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “D——-d sour countenance!” muttered Lord Saxingham. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Accordingly,</i>” continued Ferrers, “<i>as one whose connection with + you permits the liberty, allow me to request that you will suffer our + joint relation, Mr. Ferrers, to be put into immediate nomination.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Lord Saxingham threw down the pen and laughed for two minutes without + ceasing. “Capital, Lumley, capital—Very odd I did not think of it + before.” + </p> + <p> + “Each man for himself, and God for us all,” returned Lumley, gravely: + “pray go on, my dear lord.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>We are sure you could not have a representative that would, more + faithfully reflect your own opinions and our interests. One word more. A + creation of peers will probably take place in the spring, among which I am + sure your name would be to his Majesty a gratifying addition; the title + will of course be secured to your sons—and failing the latter, to + your nephew.</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>With great regard and respect,</i> + + “<i>Truly yours,</i> + + “<i>SAXINGHAM.</i>” + </pre> + <p> + “There, inscribe that ‘Private and confidential,’ and send it express to + my uncle’s villa.” + </p> + <p> + “It shall be done, my dear Lumley—and this contents me as much as it + does you. You are really a man to do us credit. You think it will be + arranged?” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, good day. Lumley, come to me when it is all settled: Florence is + always glad to see you; she says no one amuses her more. And I am sure + that is rare praise, for she is a strange girl,—quite a Timon in + petticoats.” + </p> + <p> + Away went Lord Saxingham. + </p> + <p> + “Florence glad to see me!” said Lumley, throwing his arms behind him, and + striding to and fro the room—“Scheme the Second begins to smile upon + me behind the advancing shadow of Scheme One. If I can but succeed in + keeping away other suitors from my fair cousin until I am in a condition + to propose myself, why, I may carry off the greatest match in the three + kingdoms. <i>Courage, mon brave Ferrers, courage!</i>” + </p> + <p> + It was late that evening when Ferrers arrived at his uncle’s villa. He + found Mrs. Templeton in the drawing-room seated at the piano. He entered + gently; she did not hear him, and continued at the instrument. Her voice + was so sweet and rich, her taste so pure, that Ferrers, who was a good + judge of music, stood in delighted surprise. Often as he had now been a + visitor, even an inmate, at the house, he had never before heard Mrs. + Templeton play any but sacred airs, and this was one of the popular songs + of sentiment. He perceived that her feeling at last overpowered her voice, + and she paused abruptly, and turning round, her face was so eloquent of + emotion, that Ferrers was forcibly struck by its expression. He was not a + man apt to feel curiosity for anything not immediately concerning himself; + but he did feel curious about this melancholy and beautiful woman. There + was in her usual aspect that inexpressible look of profound resignation + which betokens a lasting remembrance of a bitter past: a prematurely + blighted heart spoke in her eyes, in her smile, her languid and joyless + step. But she performed the routine of her quiet duties with a calm and + conscientious regularity which showed that grief rather depressed than + disturbed her thoughts. If her burden were heavy, custom seemed to have + reconciled her to bear it without repining; and the emotion which Ferrers + now traced in her soft and harmonious features was of a nature he had only + once witnessed before—viz., on the first night he had seen her, when + poetry, which is the key of memory, had evidently opened a chamber haunted + by mournful and troubled ghosts. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! dear madam,” said Ferrers, advancing, as he found himself discovered, + “I trust I do not disturb you. My visit is unseasonable; but my uncle—where + is he?” + </p> + <p> + “He has been in town all the morning; he said he should dine out, and I + now expect him every minute.” + </p> + <p> + “You have been endeavouring to charm away the sense of his absence. Dare I + ask you to continue to play? It is seldom that I hear a voice so sweet and + skill so consummate. You must have been instructed by the best Italian + masters.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Mrs. Templeton, with a very slight colour in her delicate + cheek, “I learned young, and of one who loved music and felt it; but who + was not a foreigner.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you sing me that song again?—you give the words a beauty I + never discovered in them; yet they (as well as the music itself), are by + my poor friend whom Mr. Templeton does not like—Maltravers.” + </p> + <p> + “Are they his also?” said Mrs. Templeton, with emotion; “it is strange I + did not know it. I heard the air in the streets, and it struck me much. I + inquired the name of the song and bought it—it is very strange!” + </p> + <p> + “What is strange?” + </p> + <p> + “That there is a kind of language in your friend’s music and poetry which + comes home to me, like words I have heard years ago! Is he young, this Mr. + Maltravers?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he is still young.” + </p> + <p> + “And, and—” + </p> + <p> + Here Mrs. Templeton was interrupted by the entrance of her husband. He + held the letter from Lord Saxingham—it was yet unopened. He seemed + moody; but that was common with him. He coldly shook hands with Lumley; + nodded to his wife, found fault with the fire, and throwing himself into + his easy-chair, said, “So, Lumley, I think I was a fool for taking your + advice—and hanging back about this new election. I see by the + evening papers that there is shortly to be a creation of peers. If I had + shown activity on behalf of the government I might have shamed them into + gratitude.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I was right, sir,” replied Lumley; “public men are often alarmed + into gratitude, seldom shamed into it. Firm votes, like old friends, are + most valued when we think we are about to lose them; but what is that + letter in your hand?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, some begging petition, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me—it has an official look.” Templeton put on his + spectacles, raised the letter, examined the address and seal, hastily + opened it, and broke into an exclamation very like an oath: when he had + concluded—“Give me your hand, nephew—the thing is settled—I + am to have the peerage. You were right—ha, ha!—my dear wife, + you will be my lady, think of that—aren’t you glad?—why don’t + your ladyship smile? Where’s the child—where is she, I say?” + </p> + <p> + “Gone to bed, sir,” said Mrs. Templeton, half frightened. + </p> + <p> + “Gone to bed! I must go and kiss her. Gone to bed, has she? Light that + candle, Lumley.” [Here Mr. Templeton rang the bell.] “John,” said he, as + the servant entered,—“John, tell James to go the first thing in the + morning to Baxter’s, and tell him not to paint my chariot till he hears + from me. I must go kiss the child—I must, really.” + </p> + <p> + “D—- the child,” muttered Lumley, as, after giving the candle to his + uncle, he turned to the fire; “what the deuce has she got to do with the + matter? Charming little girl—yours, madam! how I love her! My uncle + dotes on her—no wonder!” + </p> + <p> + “He is, indeed, very, very, fond of her,” said Mrs. Templeton, with a sigh + that seemed to come from the depth of her heart. + </p> + <p> + “Did he take a fancy to her before you were married?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I believe—oh yes, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “Her own father could not be more fond of her.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Templeton made no answer, but lighted her candle, and wishing Lumley + good night, glided from the room. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if my grave aunt and my grave uncle took a bite at the apple + before they bought the right of the tree. It looks suspicious; yet no, it + can’t be; there is nothing of the seducer or the seductive about the old + fellow. It is not likely—here he comes.” + </p> + <p> + In came Templeton, and his eyes were moist, and his brow relaxed. + </p> + <p> + “And how is the little angel, sir?” asked Ferrers. + </p> + <p> + “She kissed me, though I woke her up; children are usually cross when + wakened.” + </p> + <p> + “Are they?—little dears! Well, sir, so I was right, then; may I see + the letter?” + </p> + <p> + “There it is.” + </p> + <p> + Ferrers drew his chair to the fire, and read his own production with all + the satisfaction of an anonymous author. + </p> + <p> + “How kind!—how considerate!—how delicately put!—a double + favour! But perhaps, after all, it does not express your wishes.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—why—about myself.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You!</i>—is there anything about <i>you</i> in it?—I did + not observe <i>that</i>—let me see.” + </p> + <p> + “Uncles never selfish!—mem. for commonplace book!” thought Ferrers. + </p> + <p> + The uncle knit his brows as he re-perused the letter. “This won’t do, + Lumley,” said he very shortly, when he had done. + </p> + <p> + “A seat in parliament is too much honour for a poor nephew, then, sir?” + said Lumley, very bitterly, though he did not feel at all bitter; but it + was the proper tone. “I have done all in my power to advance your + ambition, and you will not even lend a hand to forward me one step in my + career. But, forgive me, sir, I have no right to expect it.” + </p> + <p> + “Lumley,” replied Templeton, kindly, “you mistake me. I think much more + highly of you than I did—much: there is a steadiness, a sobriety + about you most praiseworthy, and you shall go into parliament if you wish + it; but not for C———. I will give my interest there to + some other friend of the government, and in return they can give you a + treasury borough! That is the same thing to you.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley was agreeably surprised—he pressed his uncle’s hand warmly, + and thanked him cordially. Mr. Templeton proceeded to explain to him that + it was inconvenient and expensive sitting for places where one’s family + was known, and Lumley fully subscribed to all. + </p> + <p> + “As for the settlement of the peerage, that is all right,” said Templeton; + and then he sank into a reverie, from which he broke joyously—“yes, + that is all right. I have projects, objects—this may unite them all—nothing + can be better—you will be the next lord—what—I say, what + title shall we have?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, take a sounding one—you have very little landed property, I + think?” + </p> + <p> + “Two thousand a year in ———shire, bought a bargain.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the name of the place?” + </p> + <p> + “Grubley.” + </p> + <p> + “Lord Grubley!—Baron Grubley of Grubley—oh, atrocious! Who had + the place before you?” + </p> + <p> + “Bought it of Mr. Sheepshanks—very old family.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely some old Norman once had the place?” + </p> + <p> + “Norman, yes! Henry the Second gave it to his barber—Bertram + Courval.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it!—that’s it! Lord de Courval—singular coincidence!—descent + from the old line. Herald’s College soon settle all that. Lord de Courval!—nothing + can sound better. There must be a village or hamlet still called Courval + about the property.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid not. There is Coddle End!” + </p> + <p> + “Coddle End!—Coddle End!—the very thing, sir—the very + thing—clear corruption from Courval!—Lord de Courval of + Courval! Superb! Ha! ha!” + </p> + <p> + “Ha! ha!” laughed Templeton, and he had hardly laughed before since he was + thirty. + </p> + <p> + The relations sat long and conversed familiarly. Ferrers slept at the + villa, and his sleep was sound; for he thought little of plans once formed + and half executed; it was the hunt that kept him awake, and he slept like + a hound when the prey was down. Not so Templeton, who did not close his + eyes all night.—“Yes, yes,” thought he, “I must get the fortune and + the title in one line by a prudent management. Ferrers deserves what I + mean to do for him. Steady, good-natured, frank, and will get on—yes, + yes, I see it all. Meanwhile I did well to prevent his standing for C———; + might pick up gossip about Mrs. T., and other things that might be + unpleasant. Ah, I’m a shrewd fellow!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Lauzun.</i>—There, Marquis, there, I’ve done it. + <i>Montespan.</i>—Done it! yes! Nice doings!” + <i>The Duchess de la Valliere</i>. +</pre> + <p> + LUMLEY hastened to strike while the iron was hot. The next morning he went + straight to the Treasury—saw the managing secretary, a clever, sharp + man, who, like Ferrers, carried off intrigue and manoeuvre by a blunt, + careless, bluff manner. + </p> + <p> + Ferrers announced that he was to stand for the free, respectable, open + city of C———, with an electoral population of 2,500. A + very showy place it was for a member in the old ante-reform times, and was + considered a thoroughly independent borough. The secretary congratulated + and complimented him. + </p> + <p> + “We have had losses lately in <i>our</i> elections among the larger + constituencies,” said Lumley. + </p> + <p> + “We have indeed—three towns lost in the last six months. Members do + die so very unseasonably.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Lord Staunch yet provided for?” asked Lumley. Now Lord Staunch was one + of the popular show-fight great guns of the administration—not in + office, but that most useful person to all governments, an out-and-out + supporter upon the most independent principles—who was known to have + refused place and to value himself on independence—a man who helped + the government over the stile when it was seized with a temporary + lameness, and who carried “great weight with him in the country.” Lord + Staunch had foolishly thrown up a close borough in order to contest a + large city, and had failed in the attempt. His failure was everywhere + cited as a proof of the growing unpopularity of ministers. + </p> + <p> + “Is Lord Staunch yet provided for?” asked Lumley. + </p> + <p> + “Why, he must have his old seat—Three-Oaks. Three-Oaks is a nice, + quiet little place; most respectable constituency—all Staunch’s own + family.” + </p> + <p> + “Just the thing for him; yet, ‘tis a pity that he did not wait to stand + for C———; my uncle’s interest would have secured him.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, I thought so the moment C——— was vacant. However, + it is too late now.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be a great triumph if Lord Staunch could show that a large + constituency volunteered to elect him without expense.” + </p> + <p> + “Without expense!—Ah, yes, indeed! It would prove that purity of + election still exists—that British institutions are still upheld.” + </p> + <p> + “It might be done, Mr. ———.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I thought that you—” + </p> + <p> + “Were to stand—that is true—and it will be difficult to manage + my uncle; but he loves me much—you know I am his heir—I + believe I could do it; that is, if you think it would be <i>a very great + advantage</i> to the party, and <i>a very great service</i> to the + government.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Mr. Ferrers, it would indeed be both.” + </p> + <p> + “And in that case I could have Three-Oaks.” + </p> + <p> + “I see—exactly so; but to give up so respectable a seat—really + it is a sacrifice.” + </p> + <p> + “Say no more, it shall be done. A deputation shall wait on Lord Staunch + directly. I will see my uncle, and a despatch shall be sent down to C——— + to-night; at least, I hope so. I must not be too confident. My uncle is an + old man, nobody but myself can manage him; I’ll go this instant.” + </p> + <p> + “You may be sure your kindness will be duly appreciated.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley shook hands cordially with the secretary and retired. The secretary + was not “humbugged,” nor did Lumley expect he should be. But the secretary + noted this of Lumley Ferrers (and that gentleman’s object was gained), + that Lumley Ferrers was a man who looked out for office, and if he did + tolerably well in parliament, that Lumley Ferrers was a man who ought to + be <i>pushed</i>. + </p> + <p> + Very shortly afterwards the <i>Gazette</i> announced the election of Lord + Staunch for C———, after a sharp but decisive contest. + The ministerial journals rang with exulting paeans; the opposition ones + called the electors of C——— all manner of hard names, + and declared that Mr. Stout, Lord Staunch’s opponent, would petition—which + he never did. In the midst of the hubbub, Mr. Lumley Ferrers quietly and + unobservedly crept into the representation of Three-Oaks. + </p> + <p> + On the night of his election he went to Lord Saxingham’s; but what there + happened deserves another chapter. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0058" id="link2HCH0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Je connois des princes du sang, des princes etrangers, des + grands seigneurs, des ministres d’etat, des magistrats, et + des philosophes qui fileroient pour l’amour de vous. En + pouvez-vous demander davantage?” * + <i>Lettres de Madame de Sevigne</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +* I know princes of the blood, foreign princes, great lords, ministers +of state, magistrates, and philosophers who would even spin for love of +you. What can you ask more? + + “<i>Lindore.</i> I—I believe it will choke me. I’m in love * * * Now +hold your tongue. Hold your tongue, I say. + + “<i>Dalner.</i> You in love! Ha! ha! + + “<i>Lind.</i> There, he laughs. + + “<i>Dal.</i> No; I am really sorry for you.” + + <i>German Play (False Delicacy)</i>. + + * * * “What is here? + + Gold.”—SHAKSPEARE. +</pre> + <p> + IT happened that that evening Maltravers had, for the first time, accepted + one of many invitations with which Lord Saxingham had honoured him. His + lordship and Maltravers were of different political parties, nor were they + in other respects adapted to each other. Lord Saxingham was a clever man + in his way, but worldly even to a proverb among worldly people. That “man + was born to walk erect and look upon the stars,” is an eloquent fallacy + that Lord Saxingham might suffice to disprove. He seemed born to walk with + a stoop; and if he ever looked upon any stars, they were those which go + with a garter. Though of celebrated and historical ancestry, great rank, + and some personal reputation, he had all the ambition of a <i>parvenu</i>. + He had a strong regard for office, not so much from the sublime affection + for that sublime thing,—power over the destinies of a glorious + nation,—as because it added to that vulgar thing—importance in + his own set. He looked on his cabinet uniform as a beadle looks on his + gold lace. He also liked patronage, secured good things to distant + connections, got on his family to the remotest degree of relationship; in + short, he was of the earth, earthy. He did not comprehend Maltravers; and + Maltravers, who every day grew prouder and prouder, despised him. Still, + Lord Saxingham was told that Maltravers was a rising man, and he thought + it well to be civil to rising men, of whatever party; besides, his vanity + was flattered by having men who are talked of in his train. He was too + busy and too great a personage to think Maltravers could be other than + sincere, when he declared himself, in his notes, “very sorry,” or “much + concerned,” to forego the honour of dining with Lord Saxingham on the, + &c., &c.; and therefore continued his invitations, till + Maltravers, from that fatality which undoubtedly regulates and controls + us, at last accepted the proffered distinction. + </p> + <p> + He arrived late—most of the guests were assembled; and, after + exchanging a few words with his host, Ernest fell back into the general + group, and found himself in the immediate neighbourhood of Lady Florence + Lascelles. This lady had never much pleased Maltravers, for he was not + fond of masculine or coquettish heroines, and Lady Florence seemed to him + to merit both epithets; therefore, though he had met her often since the + first day he had been introduced to her, he had usually contented himself + with a distant bow or a passing salutation. But now, as he turned round + and saw her, she was, for a miracle, sitting alone; and in her most + dazzling and noble countenance there was so evident an appearance of ill + health, that he was struck and touched by it. In fact, beautiful as she + was, both in face and form, there was something in the eye and the bloom + of Lady Florence, which a skilful physician would have seen with prophetic + pain. And, whenever occasional illness paled the roses of the cheek, and + sobered the play of the lips, even an ordinary observer would have thought + of the old commonplace proverb—“that the brightest beauty has the + briefest life.” It was some sentiment of this kind, perhaps, that now + awakened the sympathy of Maltravers. He addressed her with more marked + courtesy than usual, and took a seat by her side. + </p> + <p> + “You have been to the House, I suppose, Mr. Maltravers?” said Lady + Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, for a short time; it is not one of our field nights—no + division was expected; and by this time, I dare say, the House has been + counted out.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like the life?” + </p> + <p> + “It has excitement,” said Maltravers, evasively. + </p> + <p> + “And the excitement is of a noble character?” + </p> + <p> + “Scarcely so, I fear—it is so made up of mean and malignant motives,—there + is in it so much jealousy of our friends, so much unfairness to our + enemies;—such readiness to attribute to others the basest objects,—such + willingness to avail ourselves of the poorest stratagems! The ends may be + great, but the means are very ambiguous.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew <i>you</i> would feel this,” exclaimed Lady Florence, with a + heightened colour. + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” said Maltravers, rather interested as well as surprised. “I + scarcely imagined it possible that you would deign to divine secrets so + insignificant.” + </p> + <p> + “You did not do me justice, then,” returned Lady Florence, with an arch + yet half-painful smile; “for—but I was about to be impertinent.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, say on.” + </p> + <p> + “For—then—I do not imagine you to be one apt to do injustice + to yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you consider me presumptuous and arrogant; but that is common report, + and you do right, perhaps, to believe it.” + </p> + <p> + “Was there ever any one unconscious of his own merit?” asked Lady + Florence, proudly. “They who distrust themselves have good reason for it.” + </p> + <p> + “You seek to cure the wound you inflicted,” returned Maltravers, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “No; what I said was an apology for myself, as well as for you. You need + no words to vindicate you; you are a man, and can bear out all arrogance + with the royal motto <i>Dieu et mon droit</i>. With you deeds can support + pretension; but I am a woman—it was a mistake of Nature.” + </p> + <p> + “But what triumphs that man can achieve bring so immediate, so palpable a + reward as those won by a woman, beautiful and admired—who finds + every room an empire, and every class her subjects?” + </p> + <p> + “It is a despicable realm.” + </p> + <p> + “What!—to command—to win—to bow to your worship—the + greatest, and the highest, and the sternest; to own slaves in those whom + men recognise as their lords! Is such a power despicable? If so, what + power is to be envied?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence turned quickly round to Maltravers, and fixed on him her + large dark eyes, as if she would read into his very heart. She turned away + with a blush and a slight frown—“There is mockery on your lip,” said + she. + </p> + <p> + Before Maltravers could answer, dinner was announced, and a foreign + ambassador claimed the hand of Lady Florence. Maltravers saw a young lady + with gold oats in her very light hair, fall to his lot, and descended to + the dining-room, thinking more of Lady Florence Lascelles than he had ever + done before. + </p> + <p> + He happened to sit nearly opposite to the young mistress of the house + (Lord Saxingham, as the reader knows, was a widower and Lady Florence an + only child); and Maltravers was that day in one of those felicitous moods + in which our animal spirits search and carry up, as it were, to the + surface, our intellectual gifts and acquisitions. He conversed generally + and happily; but once, when he turned his eyes to appeal to Lady Florence + for her opinion on some point in discussion, he caught her gaze fixed upon + him with an expression that checked the current of his gaiety, and cast + him into a curious and bewildered reverie. In that gaze there was earnest + and cordial admiration; but it was mixed with so much mournfulness, that + the admiration lost its eloquence, and he who noticed it was rather + saddened than flattered. + </p> + <p> + After dinner, when Maltravers sought the drawing-rooms, he found them + filled with the customary snob of good society. In one corner he + discovered Castruccio Cesarini, playing on a guitar, slung across his + breast with a blue riband. The Italian sang well; many young ladies were + grouped round him, amongst others Florence Lascelles. Maltravers, fond as + he was of music, looked upon Castruccio’s performance as a disagreeable + exhibition. He had a Quixotic idea of the dignity of talent; and though + himself of a musical science, and a melody of voice that would have thrown + the room into ecstasies, he would as soon have turned juggler or tumbler + for polite amusement, as contend for the bravos of a drawing-room. It was + because he was one of the proudest men in the world, that Maltravers was + one of the least <i>vain</i>. He did not care a rush for applause in small + things. But Cesarini would have summoned the whole world to see him play + at push-pin, if he thought the played it well. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful! divine! charming!” cried the young ladies, as Cesarini ceased; + and Maltravers observed that Florence praised more earnestly than the + rest, and that Cesarini’s dark eye sparkled, and his pale cheek flushed + with unwonted brilliancy. Florence turned to Maltravers, and the Italian, + following her eyes, frowned darkly. + </p> + <p> + “You know the Signor Cesarini,” said Florence, joining Maltravers. “He is + an interesting and gifted person.” + </p> + <p> + “Unquestionably. I grieve to see him wasting his talents upon a soil that + may yield a few short-lived flowers, without one useful plant or + productive fruit.” + </p> + <p> + “He enjoys the passing hour, Mr. Maltravers; and sometimes, when I see the + mortifications that await sterner labour, I think he is right.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said Maltravers; “his eyes are on us—he is listening + breathlessly for every word you utter. I fear that you have made an + unconscious conquest of a poet’s heart; and if so, he purchases the + enjoyment of the passing hour at a fearful price.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,” said Lady Florence, indifferently, “he is one of those to whom the + fancy supplies the place of the heart. And if I give him an inspiration, + it will be an equal luxury to him whether his lyre be strung to hope or + disappointment. The sweetness of his verses will compensate to him for any + bitterness in actual life.” + </p> + <p> + “There are two kinds of love,” answered Maltravers,—“love and + self-love; the wounds of the last are often most incurable in those who + appear least vulnerable to the first. Ah, Lady Florence, were I privileged + to play the monitor, I would venture on one warning, however much it might + offend you.” + </p> + <p> + “And that is—” + </p> + <p> + “To forbear coquetry.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers smiled as he spoke, but it was gravely—and at the same + time he moved gently away. But Lady Florence laid her hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maltravers,” said she, very softly, and with a kind of faltering in + her tone, “am I wrong to say that I am anxious for your good opinion? Do + not judge me harshly. I am soured, discontented, unhappy. I have no + sympathy with the world. These men whom I see around me—what are + they? the mass of them unfeeling and silken egotists—ill-judging, + ill-educated, well-dressed: the few who are called distinguished—how + selfish in their ambition, how passionless in their pursuits! Am I to be + blamed if I sometimes exert a power over such as these, which rather + proves my scorn of them than my own vanity?” + </p> + <p> + “I have no right to argue with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, argue with me, convince me, guide me—Heaven knows that, + impetuous and haughty as I am, I need a guide,”—and Lady Florence’s + eyes swam with tears. Ernest’s prejudices against her were greatly shaken: + he was even somewhat dazzled by her beauty, and touched by her unexpected + gentleness; but still, his heart was not assailed, and he replied almost + coldly, after a short pause: + </p> + <p> + “Dear Lady Florence, look round the world—who so much to be envied + as yourself? What sources of happiness and pride are open to you! Why, + then, make to yourself causes of discontent?—why be scornful of + those who cross not your path? Why not look with charity upon God’s less + endowed children, beneath you as they may seem? What consolation have you + in hurting the hearts or the vanities of others? Do you raise yourself + even in your own estimation? You affect to be above your sex—yet + what character do you despise more in women than that which you assume? + Semiramis should not be a coquette. There now, I have offended you—I + confess I am very rude.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not offended,” said Florence, almost struggling with her tears; and + she added inly, “Ah, I am too happy!”—There are some lips from which + even the proudest women love to hear the censure which appears to disprove + indifference. + </p> + <p> + It was at this time that Lumley Ferrers, flushed with the success of his + schemes and projects, entered the room; and his quick eye fell upon that + corner, in which he detected what appeared to him a very alarming + flirtation between his rich cousin and Ernest Maltravers. He advanced to + the spot, and, with his customary frankness, extended a hand to each. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear and fair cousin, give me your congratulations, and ask me for + my first frank, to be bound up in a collection of autographs by + distinguished senators—it will sell high one of these days. Your + most obedient, Mr. Maltravers;—how we shall laugh in our sleeves at + the humbug of politics, when you and I, the best friends in the world, sit + <i>vis-a-vis</i> on opposite benches. But why, Lady Florence, have you + never introduced me to your pet Italian? <i>Allons</i>! I am his match in + Alfieri, whom, of course, he swears by, and whose verses, by the way, seem + cut out of box-wood—the hardest material for turning off that sort + of machinery that invention ever hit on.” + </p> + <p> + Thus saying, Ferrers contrived, as he thought, very cleverly, to divide a + pair that he much feared were justly formed to meet by nature—and, + to his great joy, Maltravers shortly afterwards withdrew. + </p> + <p> + Ferrers, with the happy ease that belonged to his complacent, though + plotting character, soon made Cesarini at home with him; and two or three + slighting expressions which the former dropped with respect to Maltravers, + coupled with some outrageous compliments to the Italian, completely won + the heart of the poet. The brilliant Florence was more silent and subdued + than usual; and her voice was softer, though graver, when she replied to + Castruccio’s eloquent appeals. Castruccio was one of those men who <i>talk + fine</i>. By degrees, Lumley lapsed into silence, and listened to what + took place between Lady Florence and the Italian, while appearing to be + deep in “The Views of the Rhine,” which lay on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said the latter, in his soft native tongue, “could you know how I + watch every shade of that countenance which makes my heaven! Is it + clouded? night is with me!—is it radiant? I am as the Persian gazing + on the sun!” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you speak thus to me? were you not a poet, I might be angry.” + </p> + <p> + “You were not angry when the English poet, that cold Maltravers, spoke to + you perhaps as boldly.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence drew up her haughty head. “Signor,” said she, checking, + however, her first impulse, and with mildness, “Mr. Maltravers neither + flatters nor—” + </p> + <p> + “Presumes, you were about to say,” said Cesarini, grinding his teeth. “But + it is well—once you were less chilling to the utterance of my deep + devotion.” + </p> + <p> + “Never, Signor Cesarini, never—but when I thought it was but the + common gallantry of your nation: let me think so still.” + </p> + <p> + “No, proud woman,” said Cesarini, fiercely, “no—hear the truth.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence rose indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “Hear me,” he continued. “I—I, the poor foreigner, the despised + minstrel, dare to lift up my eyes to you! I love you!” + </p> + <p> + Never had Florence Lascelles been so humiliated and confounded. However + she might have amused herself with the vanity of Cesarini, she had not + given him, as she thought, the warrant to address her—the great Lady + Florence, the prize of dukes and princes—in this hardy manner; she + almost fancied him insane. But the next moment she recalled the warning of + Maltravers, and felt as if her punishment had commenced. + </p> + <p> + “You will think and speak more calmly, sir, when we meet again,” and so + saying, she swept away. + </p> + <p> + Cesarini remained rooted to the spot, with his dark countenance expressing + such passions as are rarely seen in the aspects of civilised men. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you lodge, Signor Cesarini?” asked the bland, familiar voice of + Ferrers. “Let us walk part of the way together—that is, when you are + tired of these hot rooms.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini groaned. “You are ill,” continued Ferrers; “the air will revive + you—come.” He glided from the room, and the Italian mechanically + followed him. They walked together for some moments in silence, side by + side, in a clear, lovely, moonlight night. At length Ferrers said, “Pardon + me, my dear signor, but you may already have observed that I am a very + frank, odd sort of fellow. I see you are caught by the charms of my cruel + cousin. Can I serve you in any way?” + </p> + <p> + A man at all acquainted with the world in which we live would have been + suspicious of such cordiality in the cousin of an heiress, towards a very + unsuitable aspirant. But Cesarini, like many indifferent poets (but like + few good ones), had no common sense. He thought it quite natural that a + man who admired his poetry so much as Lumley had declared he did, should + take a lively interest in his welfare; and he therefore replied warmly, + “Oh, sir, this is indeed a crushing blow: I dreamed she loved me. She was + ever flattering and gentle when she spoke to me, and in verse already I + had told her of my love, and met with no rebuke.” + </p> + <p> + “Did your verses really and plainly declare love, and in your own person?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, the sentiment was veiled, perhaps—put into the mouth of a + fictitious character, or conveyed in an allegory.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” ejaculated Ferrers, thinking it very likely that the gorgeous + Florence, hymned by a thousand bards, had done little more than cast a + glance over the lines that had cost poor Cesarini such anxious toil, and + inspired him with such daring hope. “Oh!—and to-night she was more + severe—she is a terrible coquette, <i>la belle Florence</i>! But + perhaps you have a rival.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel it—I saw it—I know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Whom do you suspect?” + </p> + <p> + “That accursed Maltravers! He crosses me in every path—my spirit + quails beneath his whenever we encounter. I read my doom.” + </p> + <p> + “If it be Maltravers,” said Ferrers, gravely, “the danger cannot be great. + Florence has seen but little of him, and he does not admire her much; but + she is a great match, and he is ambitious. We must guard against this + betimes, Cesarini—for know that I dislike Maltravers as much as you + do, and will cheerfully aid you in any plan to blight his hopes in that + quarter.” + </p> + <p> + “Generous, noble friend!—yet he is richer, better-born than I.” + </p> + <p> + “That may be: but to one in Lady Florence’s position, all minor grades of + rank in her aspirants seem pretty well levelled. Come, I don’t tell you + that I would not sooner she married a countryman and an equal—but I + have taken a liking to you, and I detest Maltravers. She is very romantic—fond + of poetry to a passion—writes it herself, I fancy. Oh, you’ll just + suit her; but, alas! how will you see her?” + </p> + <p> + “See her! What mean you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, have you not declared love to-night? I thought I overheard you. Can + you for a moment fancy that, after such an avowal, Lady Florence will + again receive you—that is, if she mean to reject your suit?” + </p> + <p> + “Fool that I was! But no—she must, she shall.” + </p> + <p> + “Be persuaded; in this country violence will not do. Take my advice, write + an humble apology, confess your fault, invoke her pity; and, declaring + that you renounce for ever the character of a lover, implore still to be + acknowledged as a friend. Be quiet now, hear me out; I am older than you; + I know my cousin; this will pique her; your modesty will soothe, while + your coldness will arouse, her vanity. Meanwhile you will watch the + progress of Maltravers; I will be by your elbow; and between us, to use a + homely phrase, we will do for him. Then you may have your opportunity, + clear stage, and fair play.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini was at first rebellious; but, at length, even he saw the policy + of the advice. But Lumley would not leave him till the advice was adopted. + He made Castruccio accompany him to a club, dictated the letter to + Florence, and undertook its charge. This was not all. + </p> + <p> + “It is also necessary,” said Lumley, after a short but thoughtful silence, + “that you should write to Maltravers.” + </p> + <p> + “And for what?” + </p> + <p> + “I have my reasons. Ask him, in a frank and friendly spirit, his opinion + of Lady Florence; state your belief that she loves you, and inquire + ingenuously what he thinks your chances of happiness in such a union.” + </p> + <p> + “But why this?” + </p> + <p> + “His answer may be useful,” returned Lumley, musingly. “Stay, I will + dictate the letter.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini wondered and hesitated, but there was that about Lumley Ferrers + which had already obtained command over the weak and passionate poet. He + wrote, therefore, as Lumley dictated, beginning with some commonplace + doubts as to the happiness of marriage in general, excusing himself for + his recent coldness towards Maltravers, and asking him his confidential + opinion both as to Lady Florence’s character and his own chances of + success. + </p> + <p> + This letter, like the former one, Lumley sealed and despatched. + </p> + <p> + “You perceive,” he then said, briefly, to Cesarini, “that it is the object + of this letter to entrap Maltravers into some plain and honest avowal of + his dislike to Lady Florence; we may make good use of such expressions + hereafter, if he should ever prove a rival. And now go home to rest: you + look exhausted. Adieu, my new friend.” + </p> + <p> + “I have long had a presentiment,” said Lumley to his councillor SELF, as + he walked to Great George Street, “that that wild girl has conceived a + romantic fancy for Maltravers. But I can easily prevent such an accident + ripening into misfortune. Meanwhile, I have secured a tool, if I want one. + By Jove, what an ass that poet is! But so was Cassio; yet Iago made use of + him. If Iago had been born now, and dropped that foolish fancy for + revenge, what a glorious fellow he would have been! Prime minister at + least!” + </p> + <p> + Pale, haggard, exhausted, Castruccio Cesarini, traversing a length of way, + arrived at last at a miserable lodging in the suburb of Chelsea. His + fortune was now gone; gone in supplying the poorest food to a craving and + imbecile vanity: gone, that its owner might seem what nature never meant + him for: the elegant Lothario, the graceful man of pleasure, the + troubadour of modern life! gone in horses, and jewels, and fine clothes, + and gaming, and printing unsaleable poems on gilt-edged vellum; gone, that + he might not be a greater but a more fashionable man than Ernest + Maltravers! Such is the common destiny of those poor adventurers who + confine fame to boudoirs and saloons. No matter whether they be poets or + dandies, wealthy <i>parvenus</i> or aristocratic cadets, all equally prove + the adage that the wrong paths to reputation are strewed with the wrecks + of peace, fortune, happiness, and too often honour! And yet this poor + young man had dared to hope for the hand of Florence Lascelles! He had the + common notion of foreigners, that English girls marry for love, are very + romantic; that, within the three seas, heiresses are as plentiful as + blackberries; and for the rest, his vanity had been so pampered, that it + now insinuated itself into every fibre of his intellectual and moral + system. + </p> + <p> + Cesarini looked cautiously round, as he arrived at his door; for he + fancied that, even in that obscure place, persons might be anxious to + catch a glimpse of the celebrated poet; and he concealed his residence + from all; dined on a roll when he did not dine out, and left his address + at “The Travellers.” He looked round, I say, and he did observe a tall + figure wrapped in a cloak that had indeed followed him from a distant and + more populous part of the town. But the figure turned round, and vanished + instantly. Cesarini mounted to his second floor. And about the middle of + the next day a messenger left a letter at his door, containing one hundred + pounds in a blank envelope. Cesarini knew not the writing of the address; + his pride was deeply wounded. Amidst all his penury, he had not even + applied to his own sister. Could it come from her, from De Montaigne? He + was lost in conjecture. He put the remittance aside for a few days; for he + had something fine in him, the poor poet! but bills grew pressing, and + necessity hath no law. + </p> + <p> + Two days afterwards, Cesarini brought to Ferrers the answer he had + received from Maltravers. Lumley had rightly foreseen that the high spirit + of Ernest would conceive some indignation at the coquetry of Florence in + beguiling the Italian into hopes never to be realised, and that he would + express himself openly and warmly. He did so, however, with more + gentleness than Lumley had anticipated. + </p> + <p> + “This is not exactly the thing,” said Ferrers, after twice reading the + letter; “still it may hereafter be a strong card in our hands—we + will keep it.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, he locked the letter up in his desk, and Cesarini soon forgot + its existence. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0059" id="link2HCH0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “She was a phantom of delight, + When first she gleamed upon my sight: + A lovely apparition sent + To be a moment’s ornament.”—WORDSWORTH. +</pre> + <p> + MALTRAVERS did not see Lady Florence again for some weeks; meanwhile, + Lumley Ferrers made his <i>debut</i> in parliament. Rigidly adhering to + his plan of acting on a deliberate system, and not prone to overrate + himself, Mr. Ferrers did not, like most promising new members, try the + hazardous ordeal of a great first speech. Though bold, fluent, and ready, + he was not eloquent; and he knew that on great occasions, when great + speeches are wanted, great guns like to have the fire to themselves. + Neither did he split upon the opposite rock of “promising young men,” who + stick to “the business of the house” like leeches, and quibble on details; + in return for which labour they are generally voted bores, who can never + do anything remarkable. But he spoke frequently, shortly, courageously, + and with a strong dash of good-humoured personality. He was the man whom a + minister could get to say something which other people did not like to + say: and he did so with a frank fearlessness that carried off any seeming + violation of good taste. He soon became a very popular speaker in the + parliamentary clique; especially with the gentlemen who crowd the bar, and + never want to hear the argument of the debate. Between him and Maltravers + a visible coldness now existed; for the latter looked upon his old friend + (whose principles of logic led him even to republicanism, and who had been + accustomed to accuse Ernest of temporising with plain truths, if he + demurred to their application to artificial states of society) as a + cold-blooded and hypocritical adventurer; while Ferrers, seeing that + Ernest could now be of no further use to him, was willing enough to drop a + profitless intimacy. Nay, he thought it would be wise to pick a quarrel + with him, if possible, as the best means of banishing a supposed rival + from the house of his noble relation, Lord Saxingham. But no opportunity + for that step presented itself; so Lumley kept a fit of convenient + rudeness, or an impromptu sarcasm, in reserve, if ever it should be + wanted. + </p> + <p> + The season and the session were alike drawing to a close, when Maltravers + received a pressing invitation from Cleveland to spend a week at his + villa, which he assured Ernest would be full of agreeable people; and as + all business productive of debate or division was over, Maltravers was + glad to obtain fresh air, and a change of scene. Accordingly, he sent down + his luggage and favourite books, and one afternoon in early August rode + alone towards Temple Grove. He was much dissatisfied, perhaps + disappointed, with his experience of public life; and with his + high-wrought and over-refining views of the deficiencies of others more + prominent, he was in a humour to mingle also censure of himself, for + having yielded too much to the doubts and scruples that often, in the + early part of their career, beset the honest and sincere, in the turbulent + whirl of politics, and ever tend to make the robust hues that should + belong to action + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought.” + </pre> + <p> + His mind was working its way slowly towards those conclusions, which + sometimes ripen the best practical men out of the most exalted theorists, + and perhaps he saw before him the pleasing prospect flatteringly exhibited + to another, when he complained of being too honest for party, viz., “of + becoming a very pretty rascal in time!” + </p> + <p> + For several weeks he had not heard from his unknown correspondent, and the + time was come when he missed those letters, now continued for more than + two years; and which, in their eloquent mixture of complaint, exhortation, + despondent gloom and declamatory enthusiasm, had often soothed him in + dejection, and made him more sensible of triumph. While revolving in his + mind thoughts connected with these subjects—and, somehow or other, + with his more ambitious reveries were always mingled musings of curiosity + respecting his correspondent—he was struck by the beauty of a little + girl, of about eleven years old, who was walking with a female attendant + on the footpath that skirted the road. I said that he was struck by her + beauty, but that is a wrong expression; it was rather the charm of her + countenance than the perfection of her features which arrested the gaze of + Maltravers—a charm that might not have existed for others, but was + inexpressibly attractive to him, and was so much apart from the vulgar + fascination of mere beauty, that it would have equally touched a chord at + his heart, if coupled with homely features or a bloomless cheek. This + charm was in a wonderful innocent and dove-like softness of expression. We + all form to ourselves some <i>beau-ideal</i> of the “fair spirit” we + desire as our earthly “minister,” and somewhat capriciously gauge and + proportion our admiration of living shapes according as the <i>beau-ideal</i> + is more or less embodied or approached. Beauty, of a stamp that is not + familiar to the dreams of our fancy, may win the cold homage of our + judgment, while a look, a feature, a something that realises and calls up + a boyish vision, and assimilates even distantly to the picture we wear + within us, has a loveliness peculiar to our eyes, and kindles an emotion + that almost seems to belong to memory. It is this which the Platonists + felt when they wildly supposed that souls attracted to each other on earth + had been united in an earlier being and a diviner sphere; and there was in + the young face on which Ernest gazed precisely this ineffable harmony with + his preconceived notions of the beautiful. Many a nightly and noonday + reverie was realised in those mild yet smiling eyes of the darkest blue; + in that ingenuous breadth of brow, with its slightly-pencilled arches, and + the nose, not cut in that sharp and clear symmetry which looks so lovely + in marble, but usually gives to flesh and blood a decided and hard + character, that better becomes the sterner than the gentler sex—no; + not moulded in the pure Grecian, nor in the pure Roman, cast; but small, + delicate, with the least possible inclination to turn upward, that was + only to be detected in one position of the head, and served to give a + prettier archness to the sweet flexile lips, which, from the gentleness of + their repose, seemed to smile unconsciously, but rather from a happy + constitutional serenity than from the giddiness of mirth. Such was the + character of this fair child’s countenance, on which Maltravers turned and + gazed involuntarily and reverently, with something of the admiring delight + with which we look upon the Virgin of a Rafaele, or the sunset landscape + of a Claude. The girl did not appear to feel any premature coquetry at the + evident, though respectful admiration she excited. She met the eyes bent + upon her, brilliant and eloquent as they were, with a fearless and + unsuspecting gaze, and pointed out to her companion, with all a child’s + quick and unrestrained impulse, the shining and raven gloss, the arched + and haughty neck, of Ernest’s beautiful Arabian. + </p> + <p> + Now there happened between Maltravers and the young object of his + admiration a little adventure, which served, perhaps, to fix in her + recollection this short encounter with a stranger; for certain it is that, + years after, she did remember both the circumstances of the adventure and + the features of Maltravers. She wore one of those large straw-hats which + look so pretty upon children, and the warmth of the day made her untie the + strings which confined it. A gentle breeze arose, as by a turn in the road + the country became more open, and suddenly wafted the hat from its proper + post, almost to the hoofs of Ernest’s horse. The child naturally made a + spring forward to arrest the deserter, and her foot slipped down the bank, + which was rather steeply raised above the road. She uttered a low cry of + pain. To dismount—to regain the prize—and to restore it to its + owner, was, with Ernest, the work of a moment; the poor girl had twisted + her ankle and was leaning upon her servant for support. But when she saw + the anxiety, and almost the alarm, upon the stranger’s face (and her + exclamation of pain had literally thrilled his heart—so much and so + unaccountably had she excited his interest), she made an effort at + self-control, not common at her years, and, with a forced smile, assured + him she was not much hurt—that it was nothing—that she was + just at home. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, miss!” said the servant, “I am sure you are very bad. Dear heart, how + angry master will be! It was not my fault; was it, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, it was not your fault, Margaret; don’t be frightened—papa + sha’n’t blame you. But I’m much better now.” So saying, she tried to walk; + but the effort was in vain—she turned yet more pale, and though she + struggled to prevent a shriek, the tears rolled down her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + It was very odd, but Maltravers had never felt more touched—the + tears stood in his own eyes; he longed to carry her in his arms, but, + child as she was, a strange kind of nervous timidity forbade him. + Margaret, perhaps, expected it of him, for she looked hard in his face, + before she attempted a burthen to which, being a small, slight person, she + was by no means equal. However, after a pause, she took up her charge, + who, ashamed of her tears, and almost overcome with pain, nestled her head + in the woman’s bosom, and Maltravers walked by her side, while his docile + and well-trained horse followed at a distance, every now and then putting + its fore-legs on the bank and cropping away a mouthful of leaves from the + hedge-row. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret!” said the little sufferer, “I cannot bear it—indeed I + cannot.” + </p> + <p> + And Maltravers observed that Margaret had permitted the lame foot to hang + down unsupported, so that the pain must indeed have been scarcely + bearable. He could restrain himself no longer. + </p> + <p> + “You are not strong enough to carry her,” said he, sharply, to the + servant; and the next moment the child was in his arms. Oh, with what + anxious tenderness he bore her! and he was so happy when she turned her + face to him and smiled, and told him she now scarcely felt the pain. If it + were possible to be in love with a child of eleven years old, Maltravers + was almost in love. His pulses trembled as he felt her pure breath on his + cheek, and her rich beautiful hair was waved by the breeze across his + lips. He hushed his voice to a whisper as he poured forth all the soothing + and comforting expressions which give a natural eloquence to persons fond + of children—and Ernest Maltravers was the idol of children;—he + understood and sympathised with them; he had a great deal of the child + himself, beneath the rough and cold husk of his proud reserve. At length + they came to a lodge, and Margaret eagerly inquiring “whether master and + missus were at home,” seemed delighted to hear they were not. Ernest, + however, insisted on bearing his charge across the lawn to the house, + which, like most suburban villas, was but a stone’s throw from the lodge; + and, receiving the most positive promise that surgical advice should be + immediately sent for, he was forced to content himself with laying the + sufferer on a sofa in the drawing-room; and she thanked him so prettily, + and assured him she was so much easier, that he would have given the world + to kiss her. The child had completed her conquest over him by being above + the child’s ordinary littleness of making the worst of things, in order to + obtain the consequence and dignity of being pitied;—she was + evidently unselfish and considerate for others. He did kiss her, but it + was the hand that he kissed, and no cavalier ever kissed his lady’s hand + with more respect; and then, for the first time, the child blushed—then, + for the first time, she felt as if the day would come when she should be a + child no longer! Why was this?—perhaps because it is an era in life—the + first sign of a tenderness that inspires respect, not familiarity! + </p> + <p> + “If ever again I could be in love,” said Maltravers, as he spurred on his + road, “I really think it would be with that exquisite child. My feeling is + more like that of love at first sight than any emotion which beauty ever + caused in me. Alice—Valerie—no; the <i>first</i> sight of them + did not:—but what folly is this—a child of eleven—and I + verging upon thirty!” + </p> + <p> + Still, however, folly as it might be, the image of that young girl haunted + Maltravers for many days; till change of scene, the distractions of + society, the grave thoughts of manhood, and, above all, a series of + exciting circumstances about to be narrated, gradually obliterated a + strange and most delightful impression. He had learned, however, that Mr. + Templeton was the proprietor of the villa, which was the child’s home. He + wrote to Ferrers to narrate the incident, and to inquire after the + sufferer. In due time he heard from that gentleman that the child was + recovered, and gone with Mr. and Mrs. Templeton to Brighton, for change of + air and sea-bathing. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whither come Wisdom’s queen + And the snare-weaving Love? + EURIP. <i>Iphig. in Aul.</i> I. 1310. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0060" id="link2HCH0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Notitiam primosque gradus vicinia fecit.” *—OVID. +</pre> + <p> + * Neighbourhood caused the acquaintance and first introduction. + </p> + <p> + CLEVELAND’S villa <i>was</i> full, and of persons usually called + agreeable. Amongst the rest was Lady Florence Lascelles. The wise old man + had ever counselled Maltravers not to marry too young; but neither did he + wish him to put off that momentous epoch of life till all the bloom of + heart and emotion was passed away. He thought, with the old lawgivers, + that thirty was the happy age for forming a connection, in the choice of + which, with the reason of manhood, ought, perhaps, to be blended the + passion of youth. And he saw that few men were more capable than + Maltravers of the true enjoyments of domestic life. He had long thought, + also, that none were more calculated to sympathise with Ernest’s views, + and appreciate his peculiar character, than the gifted and brilliant + Florence Lascelles. Cleveland looked with toleration on her many + eccentricities of thought and conduct,—eccentricities which he + imagined would rapidly melt away beneath the influence of that attachment + which usually operates so great a change in women; and, where it is + strongly and intensely felt, moulds even those of the most obstinate + character into compliance or similitude with the sentiments or habits of + its object. + </p> + <p> + The stately self-control of Maltravers was, he conceived, precisely that + quality that gives to men an unconscious command over the very thoughts of + the woman whose affection they win: while, on the other hand, he hoped + that the fancy and enthusiasm of Florence would tend to render sharper and + more practical an ambition, which seemed to the sober man of the world too + apt to refine upon the means, and to <i>cui bono</i> the objects of + worldly distinction. Besides, Cleveland was one who thoroughly appreciated + the advantages of wealth and station; and the rank and the dower of + Florence were such as would force Maltravers into a position in social + life, which could not fail to make new exactions upon talents which + Cleveland fancied were precisely those adapted rather to command than to + serve. In Ferrers he recognised a man to <i>get</i> into power—in + Maltravers one by whom power, if ever attained, would be wielded with + dignity, and exerted for great uses. Something, therefore, higher than + mere covetousness for the vulgar interests of Maltravers made Cleveland + desire to secure to him the heart and hand of the great heiress; and he + fancied that, whatever might be the obstacle, it would not be in the will + of Lady Florence herself. He prudently resolved, however, to leave matters + to their natural course. He hinted nothing to one party or the other. No + place for falling in love like a large country house, and no time for it, + amongst the indolent well-born, like the close of a London season, when, + jaded by small cares, and sickened of hollow intimacies, even the coldest + may well yearn for the tones of affection—the excitement of an + honest emotion. + </p> + <p> + Somehow or other it happened that Florence and Ernest, after the first day + or two, were constantly thrown together. She rode on horseback, and + Maltravers was by her side—they made excursions on the river, and + they sat on the same bench in the gliding pleasure-boat. In the evenings, + the younger guests, with the assistance of the neighbouring families, + often got up a dance in a temporary pavilion built out of the dining-room. + Ernest never danced. Florence did at first. But once, as she was + conversing with Maltravers, when a gay guardsman came to claim her + promised hand in the waltz, she seemed struck by a grave change in + Ernest’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Do you never waltz?” she asked, while the guardsman was searching for a + corner wherein safely to deposit his hat. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said he; “yet there is no impropriety in <i>my</i> waltzing.” + </p> + <p> + “And you mean that there is in mine?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me—I did not say so.” + </p> + <p> + “But you think it.” + </p> + <p> + “Nay, on consideration, I am glad, perhaps, that you do waltz.” + </p> + <p> + “You are mysterious.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, I mean, that you are precisely the woman I would never fall in + love with. And I feel the danger is lessened, when I see you destroy any + one of my illusions, or, I ought to say, attack any one of my prejudices.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence coloured; but the guardsman and the music left her no time + for reply. However, after that night she waltzed no more. She was unwell—she + declared she was ordered not to dance, and so quadrilles were relinquished + as well as the waltz. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers could not but be touched and flattered by this regard for his + opinion; but Florence contrived to testify it so as to forbid + acknowledgment, since another motive had been found for it. The second + evening after that commemorated by Ernest’s candid rudeness, they chanced + to meet in the conservatory, which was connected with the ball-room; and + Ernest, pausing to inquire after her health, was struck by the listless + and dejected sadness which spoke in her tone and countenance as she + replied to him. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Lady Florence,” said he, “I fear you are worse than you will + confess. You should shun these draughts. You owe it to your friends to be + more careful of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Friends!” said Lady Florence, bitterly—“I have no friends!—even + my poor father would not absent himself from a cabinet dinner a week after + I was dead. But that is the condition of public life—its hot and + searing blaze puts out the lights of all lesser but not unholier + affections.—Friends! Fate, that made Florence Lascelles the envied + heiress, denied her brothers, sisters; and the hour of her birth lost her + even the love of a mother! Friends! where shall I find them?” + </p> + <p> + As she ceased, she turned to the open casement, and stepped out into the + verandah, and by the trembling of her voice Ernest felt that she had done + so to hide or to suppress her tears. + </p> + <p> + “Yet,” said he, following her, “there is one class of more distant + friends, whose interest Lady Florence Lascelles cannot fail to secure, + however she may disdain it. Among the humblest of that class, suffer me to + rank myself. Come, I assume the privilege of advice—the night air is + a luxury you must not indulge.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, it refreshes me—it soothes. You misunderstand me, I have no + illness that still skies and sleeping flowers can increase.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers, as is evident, was not in love with Florence, but he could not + fail, brought, as he had lately been, under the direct influence of her + rare and prodigal gifts, mental and personal, to feel for her a strong and + even affectionate interest—the very frankness with which he was + accustomed to speak to her, and the many links of communion there + necessarily were between himself and a mind so naturally powerful and so + richly cultivated, had already established their acquaintance upon an + intimate footing. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot restrain you, Lady Florence,” said he, half smiling, “but my + conscience will not let me be an accomplice. I will turn king’s evidence, + and hunt out Lord Saxingham to send him to you.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence, whose face was averted from his, did not appear to hear + him. + </p> + <p> + “And you, Mr. Maltravers,” turning quickly round—“you—have you + friends? Do you feel that there are, I do not say public, but private + affections and duties, for which life is made less a possession than a + trust?” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Florence—no!—I have friends, it is true, and Cleveland + is of the nearest; but the life within life—the second self, in whom + we vest the right and mastery over our own being—I know it not. But + is it,” he added, after a pause, “a rare privation? Perhaps it is a happy + one. I have learned to lean on my own soul, and not look elsewhere for the + reeds that a wind can break.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, it is a cold philosophy—you may reconcile yourself to its + wisdom in the world, in the hum and shock of men; but in solitude, with + Nature—ah, no! While the mind alone is occupied, you may be + contented with the pride of stoicism; but there are moments when the <i>heart</i> + wakens as from a sleep—wakens like a frightened child—to feel + itself alone and in the dark.” + </p> + <p> + Ernest was silent, and Florence continued, in an altered voice: “This is a + strange conversation—and you must think me indeed a wild, + romance-reading person, as the world is apt to call me. But if I live—I—pshaw!—life + denies ambition to women.” + </p> + <p> + “If a woman like you, Lady Florence, should ever love, it will be one in + whose career you may perhaps find that noblest of all ambitions—the + ambition women only feel—the ambition for another!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! but I shall never love,” said Lady Florence, and her cheek grew pale + as the starlight shone on it; “still, perhaps,” she added quickly, “I may + at least know the blessing of friendship. Why now,” and here, approaching + Maltravers, she laid her hand with a winning frankness on his arm—“why + now, should not we be to each other as if love, as you call it, were not a + thing for earth—and friendship supplied its place?—there is no + danger of our falling in love with each other! You are not vain enough to + expect it in me, and I, you know, am a coquette; let us be friends, + confidants—at least till you marry, or I give another the right to + control my friendships and monopolise my secrets.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers was startled—the sentiment Florence addressed to him, he, + in words not dissimilar, had once addressed to Valerie. + </p> + <p> + “The world,” said he, kissing the hand that yet lay on his arm, “the world + will—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you men!—the world, the world!—Everything gentle, + everything pure, everything noble, high-wrought and holy—is to be + squared, and cribbed, and maimed to the rule and measure of the world! The + world—are you, too, its slave? Do you not despise its hollow cant—its + methodical hypocrisy?” + </p> + <p> + “Heartily!” said Ernest Maltravers, almost with fierceness. “No man ever + so scorned its false gods and its miserable creeds—its war upon the + weak—its fawning upon the great—its ingratitude to benefactors—its + sordid league with mediocrity against excellence. Yes, in proportion as I + love mankind, I despise and detest that worse than Venetian oligarchy + which mankind set over them and call ‘THE WORLD.’” + </p> + <p> + And then it was, warmed by the excitement of released feelings, long and + carefully shrouded, that this man, ordinarily so calm and self-possessed, + poured burningly and passionately forth all those tumultuous and almost + tremendous thoughts, which, however much we may regulate, control, or + disguise them, lurk deep within the souls of all of us, the seeds of the + eternal war between the natural man and the artificial; between our wilder + genius and our social conventionalities;—thoughts that from time to + time break forth into the harbingers of vain and fruitless revolutions, + impotent struggles against destiny;—thoughts that good and wise men + would be slow to promulge and propagate, for they are of a fire which + burns as well as brightens, and which spreads from heart to heart—as + a spark spreads amidst flax;—thoughts which are rifest where natures + are most high, but belong to truths that virtue dare not tell aloud. And + as Maltravers spoke, with his eyes flashing almost intolerable light—his + breast heaving, his form dilated, never to the eyes of Florence Lascelles + did he seem so great: the chains that bound the strong limbs of his spirit + seemed snapped asunder, and all his soul was visible and towering, as a + thing that has escaped slavery, and lifts its crest to heaven, and feels + that it is free. + </p> + <p> + That evening saw a new bond of alliance between these two persons,—young, + handsome, and of opposite sexes, they agreed to be friends, and nothing + more. Fools! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0061" id="link2HCH0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Idem velle, et idem nolle, ea demum firma amicitia est.” * + SALLUST. +</pre> + <p> + *To will the same thing and not to will the same thing, that at length is + firm friendship. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Carlos.</i> That letter. + <i>Princess Eboli.</i> Oh, I shall die. Return it instantly.” + SCHILLER: <i>Don Carlos</i>. +</pre> + <p> + IT seemed as if the compact Maltravers and Lady Florence had entered into + removed whatever embarrassment and reserve had previously existed. They + now conversed with an ease and freedom not common in persons of different + sexes before they have passed their grand climacteric. Ernest, in ordinary + life, like most men of warm emotions and strong imagination, if not + taciturn, was at least guarded. It was as if a weight were taken from his + breast, when he found one person who could understand him best when he was + most candid. His eloquence—his poetry—his intense and + concentrated enthusiasm found a voice. He could talk to an individual as + he would have written to the public—a rare happiness to the men of + books. + </p> + <p> + Florence seemed to recover her health and spirits as by a miracle; yet she + was more gentle, more subdued, than of old—there was less effort to + shine, less indifference whether she shocked. Persons who had not met her + before, wondered why she was dreaded in society. But at times a great + natural irritability of temper—a quick suspicion of the motives of + those around her—an imperious and obstinate vehemence of will, were + visible to Maltravers, and served, perhaps, to keep him heart-whole. He + regarded her through the eyes of the intellect, not those of the passions—he + thought not of her as a woman—her very talents, her very grandeur of + idea and power of purpose, while they delighted him in conversation, + diverted his imagination from dwelling on her beauty. He looked on her as + something apart from her sex;—a glorious creature spoilt by being a + woman. He once told her so, laughing, and Florence considered it a + compliment. Poor Florence, her scorn of her sex avenged her sex, and + robbed her of her proper destiny! + </p> + <p> + Cleveland silently observed their intimacy, and listened with a quiet + smile to the gossips who pointed out <i>tetes-a-tetes</i> by the terrace, + and loiterings by the lawn, and predicted what would come of it all. Lord + Saxingham was blind. But his daughter was of age, in possession of her + princely fortune, and had long made him sensible of her independence of + temper. His lordship, however, thoroughly misunderstood the character of + her pride, and felt fully convinced she would marry no one less than a + duke; as for flirtations, he thought them natural and innocent amusements. + Besides, he was very little at Temple Grove. He went to London every + morning, after breakfasting in his own room—came back to dine, play + at whist, and talk good-humoured nonsense to Florence in his + dressing-room, for the three minutes that took place between his sipping + his wine-and-water and the appearance of his valet. As for the other + guests, it was not their business to do more than gossip with each other; + and so Florence and Maltravers went on their way unmolested, though not + unobserved. Maltravers, not being himself in love, never fancied that Lady + Florence loved him, or that she would be in any danger of doing so. This + is a mistake a man often commits—a woman never. A woman always knows + when she is loved, though she often imagines she is loved when she is not. + Florence was not happy, for happiness is a calm feeling. But she was + excited with a vague, wild, intoxicating emotion. + </p> + <p> + She had learned from Maltravers that she had been misinformed by Ferrers, + and that no other claimed empire over his heart; and whether or not he + loved her, still for the present they seemed all in all to each other; she + lived but for the present day, she would not think of the morrow. + </p> + <p> + Since that severe illness which had tended so much to alter Ernest’s mode + of life, he had not come before the public as an author. Latterly, + however, the old habit had broken out again. With the comparative idleness + of recent years, the ideas and feelings which crowd so fast on the + poetical temperament, once indulged, had accumulated within him to an + excess that demanded vent. For with some, to write is not a vague desire, + but an imperious destiny. The fire is kindled and must break forth; the + wings are fledged, and the birds must leave their nest. The communication + of thought to man is implanted as an instinct in those breasts to which + Heaven has intrusted the solemn agencies of genius. In the work which + Maltravers now composed he consulted Florence: his confidence delighted + her—it was a compliment she could appreciate. Wild, fervid, + impassioned, was that work—a brief and holiday creation—the + youngest and most beloved of the children of his brain. And as day by day + the bright design grew into shape, and thought and imagination found + themselves “local habitations,” Florence felt as if she were admitted into + the palace of the genii, and made acquainted with the mechanism of those + spells and charms with which the preternatural powers of mind design the + witchery of the world. Ah, how different in depth and majesty were those + intercommunications of idea between Ernest Maltravers and a woman scarcely + inferior to himself in capacity and acquirement, from that bridge of + shadowy and dim sympathies which the enthusiastic boy had once built up + between his own poetry of knowledge and Alice’s poetry of love! + </p> + <p> + It was one late afternoon in September, when the sun was slowly going down + its western way, that Lady Florence, who had been all that morning in her + own room, paying off, as she said, the dull arrears of correspondence, + rather on Lord Saxingham’s account than her own; for he punctiliously + exacted from her the most scrupulous attention to cousins fifty times + removed, provided they were rich, clever, well off, or in any way of + consequence:—it was one afternoon that, relieved from these + avocations, Lady Florence strolled through the grounds with Cleveland. The + gentlemen were still in the stubble-fields, the ladies were out in + barouches and pony phaetons, and Cleveland and Lady Florence were alone. + </p> + <p> + Apropos of Florence’s epistolary employment, their conversation fell upon + that most charming species of literature, which joins with the interest of + a novel the truth of a history—the French memoir and letter-writers. + It was a part of literature in which Cleveland was thoroughly at home. + </p> + <p> + “Those agreeable and polished gossips,” said he, “how well they contrived + to introduce nature into art! Everything artificial seemed so natural to + them. They even feel by a kind of clockwork, which seems to go better than + the heart itself. Those pretty sentiments, those delicate gallantries, of + Madame de Sevigne to her daughter, how amiable they are; but, somehow or + other, I can never fancy them the least motherly. What an ending for a + maternal epistle is that elegant compliment—‘Songez que de tons les + coeurs ou vous regnez, il n’y en a aucun ou votre empire soit si bien + etabli que dans le mien.‘* I can scarcely fancy Lord Saxingham writing so + to you, Lady Florence.” + </p> + <p> + * Think that of all the hearts over which you reign, there is not one in + which your empire can be so well established as in mine. + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed,” replied Lady Florence, smiling. “Neither papas nor mammas in + England are much addicted to compliment; but I confess I like preserving a + sort of gallantry even in our most familiar connections—why should + we not carry the imagination into all the affections?” + </p> + <p> + “I can scarce answer the why,” returned Cleveland; “but I think it would + destroy the reality. I am rather of the old school. If I had a daughter, + and asked her to get my slippers, I am afraid I should think it a little + wearisome if I had, in receiving them, to make <i>des belles phrases</i> + in return.” + </p> + <p> + While they were thus talking, and Lady Florence continued to press her + side of the question, they passed through a little grove that conducted to + an arm of the stream which ornamented the grounds, and by its quiet and + shadowy gloom was meant to give a contrast to the livelier features of the + domain. Here they came suddenly upon Maltravers. He was walking by the + side of the brook, and evidently absorbed in thought. + </p> + <p> + It was the trembling of Lady Florence’s hand as it lay on Cleveland’s arm, + that induced him to stop short in an animated commentary on + Rochefoucauld’s character of Cardinal de Retz, and look round. + </p> + <p> + “Ha, most meditative Jacques!” said he; “and what new moral hast thou been + conning in our Forest of Ardennes?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am glad to see you; I wished to consult you, Cleveland. But first, + Lady Florence, to convince you and our host that my rambles have not been + wholly fruitless, and that I could not walk from Dan to Beersheba and find + all barren, accept my offering—a wild rose that I discovered in the + thickest part of the wood. It is not a civilised rose. Now, Cleveland, a + word with you.” + </p> + <p> + “And now, Mr. Maltravers, I am <i>de trop</i>,” said Lady Florence. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, I have no secrets from you in this matter—or rather + these matters; for there are two to be discussed. In the first place, Lady + Florence, that poor Cesarini,—you know and like him—nay, no + blushes.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I blush?—then it was in recollection of an old reproach of + yours.” + </p> + <p> + “At its justice?—well, no matter. He is one for whom I always felt a + lively interest. His very morbidity of temperament only increases my + anxiety for his future fate. I have received a letter from De Montaigne, + his brother-in-law, who seems seriously uneasy about Castruccio. He wishes + him to leave England at once, as the sole means of restoring his broken + fortunes. De Montaigne has the opportunity of procuring him a diplomatic + situation, which may not again occur—and—but you know the man—what + shall we do? I am sure he will not listen to me; he looks on me as an + interested rival for fame.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I have any subtler eloquence?” said Cleveland. “No, I am an + author, too. Come, I think your ladyship must be the arch-negotiator.” + </p> + <p> + “He has genius, he has merit,” said Maltravers, pleadingly; “he wants + nothing but time and experience to wean him from his foibles. <i>Will</i> + you try to save him, Lady Florence?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? nay, I must not be obdurate; I will see him when I go to town. It is + like you, Mr. Maltravers, to feel this interest in one—” + </p> + <p> + “Who does not like me, you would say; but he will some day or other. + Besides, I owe him deep gratitude. In his weaker qualities I have seen + many which all literary men might incur, without strict watch over + themselves; and let me add, also, that his family have great claims on + me.” + </p> + <p> + “You believe in the soundness of his heart, and in the integrity of his + honour?” said Cleveland, inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I do; these are, these must be, the redeeming qualities of poets.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers spoke warmly; and such at that time was his influence over + Florence, that his words formed—alas, too fatally!—her + estimate of Castruccio’s character, which had at first been high, but + which his own presumption had latterly shaken. She had seen him three or + four times in the interval between the receipt of his apologetic letter + and her visit to Cleveland, and he had seemed to her rather sullen than + humbled. But she felt for the vanity she herself had wounded. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” continued Maltravers, “for my second subject of consultation. + But that is political; will it weary Lady Florence?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; to politics I am never indifferent: they always inspire me with + contempt or admiration, according to the motives of those who bring the + science into action. Pray say on.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Cleveland, “one confidant at a time; you will forgive me, for + I see my guests coming across the lawn, and I may as well make a diversion + in your favour. Ernest can consult <i>me</i> at any time.” + </p> + <p> + Cleveland walked away; but the intimacy between Maltravers and Florence + was of so frank a nature that there was nothing embarrassing in the + thought of a <i>tete-a-tete</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Florence,” said Ernest, “there is no one in the world with whom I + can confer so cheerfully as with you. I am almost glad of Cleveland’s + absence, for, with all his amiable and fine qualities, ‘the world is too + much with him,’ and we do not argue from the same data. Pardon my prelude—now + to my position. I have received a letter from Mr. ———. + That statesman, whom none but those acquainted with the chivalrous beauty + of his nature can understand or appreciate, sees before him the most + brilliant career that ever opened in this country to a public man not born + an aristocrat. He has asked me to form one of the new administration that + he is about to create: the place offered to me is above my merits, nor + suited to what I have yet done, though, perhaps, it be suited to what I + may yet do. I make that qualification, for you know,” added Ernest, with a + proud smile, “that I am sanguine and self-confident.” + </p> + <p> + “You accept the proposal?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay,—should I not reject it? Our politics are the same only for the + moment, our ultimate objects are widely different. To serve with Mr.———, + I must make an unequal compromise—abandon nine opinions to promote + one. Is not this a capitulation of that great citadel, one’s own + conscience? No man will call me inconsistent, for, in public life, to + agree with another on a party question is all that is required; the + thousand questions not yet ripened, and lying dark and concealed in the + future, are not inquired into and divined; but I own I shall deem myself + worse than inconsistent. For this is my dilemma,—if I use this noble + spirit merely to advance one object, and then desert him where he halts, I + am treacherous to him; if I halt with him, but one of my objects effected, + I am treacherous to myself. Such are my views. It is with pain I arrive at + them, for, at first, my heart beat with a selfish ambition.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right, you are right,” exclaimed Florence, with glowing cheeks; + “how could I doubt you? I comprehend the sacrifice you make; for a proud + thing is it to soar above the predictions of foes in that palpable road to + honour which the world’s hard eyes can see, and the world’s cold heart can + measure; but prouder is it to feel that you have never advanced one step + to the goal, which remembrance would retract. No, my friend, wait your + time, confident that it must come, when conscience and ambition can go + hand-in-hand—when the broad objects of a luminous and enlarged + policy lie before you like a chart, and you can calculate every step of + the way without peril of being lost. Ah, let them still call loftiness of + purpose and whiteness of soul the dreams of a theorist,—even if they + be so, the Ideal in this case is better than the Practical. Meanwhile your + position is not one to forfeit lightly. Before you is that throne in + literature which it requires no doubtful step to win, if you have, as I + believe, the mental power to attain it. An ambition that may indeed be + relinquished, if a more troubled career can better achieve those public + purposes at which both letters and policy should aim, but which is not to + be surrendered for the rewards of a place-man, or the advancement of a + courtier.” + </p> + <p> + It was while uttering these noble and inspiring sentiments, that Florence + Lascelles suddenly acquired in Ernest’s eyes a loveliness with which they + had not before invested her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” he said, as, with a sudden impulse, he lifted her hand to his lips, + “blessed be the hour in which you gave me your friendship! These are the + thoughts I have longed to hear from living lips, when I have been tempted + to believe patriotism a delusion, and virtue but a name.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence heard, and her whole form seemed changed,—she was no + longer the majestic sibyl, but the attached, timorous, delighted woman. + </p> + <p> + It so happened that in her confusion she dropped from her hand the flower + Maltravers had given her, and involuntarily glad of a pretext to conceal + her countenance, she stooped to take it from the ground. In so doing, a + letter fell from her bosom—and Maltravers, as he bent forwards to + forestall her own movement, saw that the direction was to himself, and in + the handwriting of his unknown correspondent. He seized the letter, and + gazed in flattered and entranced astonishment, first on the writing, next + on the detected writer. Florence grew deadly pale, and covering her face + with her hands, burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “O fool that I was,” cried Ernest, in the passion of the moment, “not to + know—not to have felt that there were not two Florences in the + world! But if the thought had crossed me, I would not have dared to + harbour it.” + </p> + <p> + “Go, go,” sobbed Florence; “leave me, in mercy leave me!” + </p> + <p> + “Not till you bid me rise,” said Ernest, in emotion scarcely less deep + than hers, as he sank on his knee at her feet. + </p> + <p> + Need I go on?—When they left that spot, a soft confession had been + made—deep vows interchanged, and Ernest Maltravers was the accepted + suitor of Florence Lascelles. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0062" id="link2HCH0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A hundred fathers would in my situation tell you that, as + you are of noble extraction, you should marry a nobleman. + But I do not say so. I will not sacrifice my child to any + prejudice.” + KOTZEBUE. <i>Lover’s Vows</i>. + + “Take heed, my lord; the welfare of us all + Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.” + SHAKSPEARE. <i>Henry VI.</i> + + “Oh, how this spring of love resembleth + Th’ uncertain glory of an April day; + Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, + And by and by a cloud takes all away!” + SHAKSPEARE. <i>The Two Gentlemen of Verona</i>. +</pre> + <p> + WHEN Maltravers was once more in his solitary apartment, he felt as in a + dream. He had obeyed an impulse, irresistible, perhaps, but one with which + the <i>conscience of his heart</i> was not satisfied. A voice whispered to + him, “Thou hast deceived her and thyself—thou dost not love her!” In + vain he recalled her beauty, her grace, her genius—her singular and + enthusiastic passion for himself—the voice still replied, “Thou dost + not love. Bid farewell for ever to thy fond dreams of a life more blessed + than that of mortals. From the stormy sea of the future are blotted out + eternally for thee—Calypso and her Golden Isle. Thou canst no more + paint on the dim canvas of thy desires the form of her with whom thou + couldst dwell for ever. Thou hast been unfaithful to thine own ideal—thou + hast given thyself for ever and for ever to another—thou hast + renounced hope—thou must live as in a prison, with a being with whom + thou hast not the harmony of love.” + </p> + <p> + “No matter,” said Maltravers, almost alarmed, and starting from these + thoughts, “I am betrothed to one who loves me—it is folly and + dishonour to repent and to repine. I have gone through the best years of + youth without finding the Egeria with whom the cavern would be sweeter + than a throne. Why live to the grave a vain and visionary Nympholept? Out + of the real world could I have made a nobler choice?” + </p> + <p> + While Maltravers thus communed with himself, Lady Florence passed into her + father’s dressing-room, and there awaited his return from London. She knew + his worldly views—she knew also the pride of her affianced, and, she + felt that she alone could mediate between the two. + </p> + <p> + Lord Saxingham at last returned—busy, bustling, important, and + good-humoured as usual. “Well, Flory, well?—glad to see you—quite + blooming, I declare,—never saw you with such a colour—monstrous + like me, certainly. We always had fine complexions and fine eyes in our + family. But I’m rather late—first bell rung—we <i>ci-devant + jeunes hommes</i> are rather long dressing, and you are not dressed yet, I + see.” + </p> + <p> + “My dearest father, I wished to speak with you on a matter of much + importance.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?—what, immediately?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—what is it?—your Slingsby property, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear father—pray sit down and hear me patiently.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Saxingham began to be both alarmed and curious—he seated + himself in silence, and looked anxiously in the face of his daughter. + </p> + <p> + “You have always been very indulgent to me,” commenced Florence, with a + half smile, “and I have had my own way more than most young ladies. + Believe me, my dear father. I am most grateful not only for your affection + but your esteem. I have been a strange wild girl, but I am now about to + reform; and as the first step, I ask your consent to give myself a + preceptor and a guide—” + </p> + <p> + “A what!” cried Lord Saxingham. + </p> + <p> + “In other words, I am about to—to—well, the truth must out—to + marry.” + </p> + <p> + “Has the Duke of ——— been here to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of. But it is no duke to whom I have promised my hand—it + is a nobler and rarer dignity that has caught my ambition. Mr. Maltravers + has—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maltravers!—Mr. Devil!—the girl’s mad!—don’t talk + to me, child, I won’t consent to any such nonsense. A country gentleman—very + respectable, very clever, and all that, but it’s no use talking—my + mind’s made up. With your fortune, too!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear father, I will not marry without your consent, though my fortune + is settled on me, and I am of age.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a good child—and now let me dress—we shall be late.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not yet,” said Lady Florence, throwing her arm carelessly round her + father’s neck—“I shall marry Mr. Maltravers, but it will be with + your full approval. Just consider, if I married the Duke of ———, + he would expect all my fortune, such as it is. Ten thousand a year is at + my disposal; if I marry Mr. Maltravers, it will be settled on you—I + always meant it—it is a poor return for your kindness, your + indulgence—but it will show that your own Flory is not ungrateful.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t hear.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop—listen to reason. You are not rich—you are entitled but + to a small pension if you ever resign office, and your official salary, I + have often heard you say, does not prevent you from being embarrassed. To + whom should a daughter give from her superfluities but to a parent?—from + whom should a parent receive, but from a child, who can never repay his + love?—Ah, this is nothing; but you—you who have never crossed + her lightest whim—do not you destroy all the hopes of happiness your + Florence can ever form.” + </p> + <p> + Florence wept, and Lord Saxingham, who was greatly moved, let fall a few + tears also. Perhaps it is too much to say that the pecuniary part of the + proffered arrangement entirely won him over; but still the way it was + introduced softened his heart. He possibly thought that it was better to + have a good and grateful daughter in a country gentleman’s wife, than a + sullen and thankless one in a duchess. However that may be, certain it is, + that before Lord Saxingham began his toilet, he promised to make no + obstacle to the marriage, and all he asked in return was, that at least + three months (but that, indeed, the lawyers would require) should elapse + before it took place; and on this understanding Florence left him, radiant + and joyous as Flora herself, when the sun of spring makes the world a + garden. Never had she thought so little of her beauty, and never had it + seemed so glorious, as that happy evening. But Maltravers was pale and + thoughtful, and Florence in vain sought his eyes during the dinner, which + seemed to her insufferably long. Afterwards, however, they met and + conversed apart the rest of the evening; and the beauty of Florence began + to produce upon Ernest’s heart its natural effect; and that evening—ah, + how Florence treasured the remembrance of every hour, every minute of its + annals! + </p> + <p> + It would have been amusing to witness the short conversation between Lord + Saxingham and Maltravers, when the latter sought the earl at night in his + lordship’s room. To Lord Saxingham’s surprise, not a word did Maltravers + utter of his own subordinate pretensions to Lady Florence’s hand. Coldly, + drily, and almost haughtily, did he make the formal proposals, “as if [as + Lord Saxingham afterwards said to Ferrers] the man were doing me the + highest possible honour in taking my daughter, the beauty of London, with + fifty thousand a year, off my hands.” But this was quite Maltravers!—if + he had been proposing to the daughter of a country curate, without a + sixpence, he would have been the humblest of the humble. The earl was + embarrassed and discomposed—he was almost awed by the Siddons-like + countenance and Coriolanus-like air of his future son-in-law-he even + hinted nothing of the compromise as to time which he had made with his + daughter. He thought it better to leave it to Lady Florence to arrange + that matter. They shook hands frigidly and parted. Maltravers went next + into Cleveland’s room, and communicated all to the delighted old man, + whose congratulations were so fervid that Maltravers felt it would be a + sin not to fancy himself the happiest, man in the world. That night he + wrote his refusal of the appointment offered him. + </p> + <p> + The next day, Lord Saxingham went to his office in Downing Street as + usual, and Lady Florence and Ernest found an opportunity to ramble through + the grounds alone. + </p> + <p> + There it was that occurred those confessions, sweet alike to utter and to + hear. Then did Florence speak of her early years—of her self-formed + and solitary mind—of her youthful dreams and reveries. Nothing + around her to excite interest or admiration, or the more romantic, the + higher, or the softer qualities of her nature, she turned to contemplation + and to books. It is the combination of the faculties with the affections, + exiled from action, and finding no worldly vent, which produces Poetry, + the child of passion and of thought. Hence, before the real cares of + existence claim them, the young, who are abler yet lonelier than their + fellows, are nearly always poets; and Florence was a poetess. In minds + like this, the first book that seems to embody and represent their own + most cherished and beloved trains of sentiment and ideas, ever creates a + reverential and deep enthusiasm. The lonely, and proud, and melancholy + soul of Maltravers, which made itself visible in all his creations, became + to Florence like a revealer of the secrets of her own nature. She + conceived an intense and mysterious interest in the man whose mind + exercised so pervading a power over her own. She made herself acquainted + with his pursuits, his career—she fancied she found a symmetry and + harmony between the actual being and the breathing genius—she + imagined she understood what seemed dark and obscure to others. He whom + she had never seen grew to her a never-absent friend. His ambition, his + reputation, were to her like a possession of her own. So at length, in the + folly of her young romance, she wrote to him, and dreaming of no + discovery, anticipating no result, the habit once indulged became to her + that luxury which writing for the eye of the world is to an author + oppressed with the burthen of his own thoughts. At length she saw him, and + he did not destroy her illusion. She might have recovered from the spell + if she had found him ready at once to worship at her shrine. The mixture + of reserve and frankness—frankness of language, reserve of manner—which + belonged to Maltravers, piqued her. Her vanity became the auxiliary to her + imagination. At length they met at Cleveland’s house; their intercourse + became more unrestrained—their friendship was established, and she + discovered that she had wilfully implicated her happiness in indulging her + dreams; yet even then she believed that Maltravers loved her, despite his + silence upon the subject of love. His manner, his words bespoke his + interest in her, and his voice was ever soft when he spoke to women; for + he had much of the old chivalric respect and tenderness for the sex. What + was general it was natural that she should apply individually—she + who had walked the world but to fascinate and to conquer. It was probable + that her great wealth and social position imposed a check on the delicate + pride of Maltravers—she hoped so—she believed it—yet she + felt her danger, and her own pride at last took alarm. In such a moment + she had resumed the character of the unknown correspondent—she had + written to Maltravers—addressed her letter to his own house, and + meant the next day to have gone to London, and posted it there. In this + letter she had spoken of his visit to Cleveland, of his position with + herself. She exhorted him, if he loved her, to confess, and if not, to + fly. She had written artfully and eloquently—she was desirous of + expediting her own fate; and then, with that letter in her bosom, she had + met Maltravers, and the reader has learned the rest. Something of all this + the blushing and happy Florence now revealed: and when she ended with + uttering the woman’s soft fear that she had been too bold, is it wonderful + that Maltravers, clasping her to his bosom, felt the gratitude, and the + delighted vanity, which seemed even to himself like love? And into love + those feelings rapidly and deliciously will merge, if fate and accident + permit! + </p> + <p> + And now they were by the side of the water; and the sun was gently setting + as on the eve before. It was about the same hour, the fairest of an autumn + day; none were near—the slope of the hill hid the house from their + view. Had they been in the desert they could not have been more alone. It + was not silence that breathed around them, as they sat on that bench with + the broad beech spreading over them its trembling canopy of leaves;—but + those murmurs of living nature which are sweeter than silence itself—the + songs of birds—the tinkling bell of the sheep on the opposite bank—the + wind sighing through the trees, and the gentle heaving of the glittering + waves that washed the odorous reed and water-lily at their feet. They had + both been for some moments silent; and Florence now broke the pause, but + in tones more low than usual. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said she, turning towards him, “these hours are happier than we can + find in that crowded world whither your destiny must call us. For me, + ambition seems for ever at an end. I have found all; I am no longer + haunted with the desire of gaining a vague something,—a shadowy + empire, that we call fame or power. The sole thought that disturbs the + calm current of my soul, is the fear to lose a particle of the rich + possession I have gained.” + </p> +<div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> <img src="images/{0358}.jpg" alt="{0358}" width="100%" /><br /> </div> <h5> <a href="images/{0358}.jpg"> <img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> </h5> + + <p> + “May your fears ever be as idle!” + </p> + <p> + “And you really love me! I repeat to myself ever and ever that one phrase. + I could once have borne to lose you, now it would be my death. I despaired + of ever being loved for myself; my wealth was a fatal dower; I suspected + avarice in every vow, and saw the base world lurk at the bottom of every + heart that offered itself at my shrine. But you, Ernest,—you, I + feel, never could weigh gold in the balance—and you—if you + love—love me for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “And I shall love thee more with every hour.” + </p> + <p> + “I know not that: I dread that you will love me less when you know me + more. I fear I shall seem to you exacting—I am jealous already. I + was jealous even of Lady T———, when I saw you by her + side this morning. I would have your every look—monopolise your + every word.” + </p> + <p> + This confession did not please Maltravers, as it might have done if he had + been more deeply in love. Jealousy, in a woman of so vehement and + imperious a nature, was indeed a passion to be dreaded. + </p> + <p> + “Do not say so, dear Florence,” said he, with a very grave smile; “for + love should have implicit confidence as its bond and nature—and + jealousy is doubt, and doubt is the death of love.” + </p> + <p> + A shade passed over Florence’s too expressive face, and she sighed + heavily. + </p> + <p> + It was at this time that Maltravers, raising his eyes, saw the form of + Lumley Ferrers approaching towards them from the opposite end of the + terrace: at the same instant, a dark cloud crept over the sky, the waters + seemed overcast and the breeze fell: a chill and strange presentiment of + evil shot across Ernest’s heart, and, like many imaginative persons, he + was unconsciously superstitious as to presentiments. + </p> + <p> + “We are no longer alone,” said he, rising; “your cousin has doubtless + learned our engagement, and comes to congratulate your suitor.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” he continued musingly, as they walked on to meet Ferrers, “are + you very partial to Lumley? what think you of his character?—it is + one that perplexes me; sometimes I think it has changed since we parted in + Italy—sometimes I think it has not changed, but ripened.” + </p> + <p> + “Lumley, I have known from a child,” replied Florence, “and see much to + admire and like in him; I admire his boldness and candour; his scorn of + the world’s littleness and falsehood; I like his good-nature—his + gaiety—and fancy his heart better than it may seem to the + superficial observer.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet he appears to me selfish and unprincipled.” + </p> + <p> + “It is from a fine contempt for the vices and follies of men that he has + contracted the habit of consulting his own resolute will—and, + believing everything done in this noisy stage of action a cheat, he has + accommodated his ambition to the fashion. Though without what is termed + genius, he will obtain a distinction and power that few men of genius + arrive at.” + </p> + <p> + “Because <i>genius</i> is essentially honest,” said Maltravers. “However, + you teach me to look on him more indulgently. I suspect the real frankness + of men whom I know to be hypocrites in public life—but, perhaps, I + judge by too harsh a standard.” + </p> + <p> + “Third persons,” said Ferrers, as he now joined them, “are seldom + unwelcome in the country; and I flatter myself that I am the exact thing + wanting to complete the charm of this beautiful landscape.” + </p> + <p> + “You are ever modest, my cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “It is my weak side, I know; but I shall improve with years and wisdom. + What say you, Maltravers?” and Ferrers passed his arm affectionately + through Ernest’s. + </p> + <p> + “By the by, I am too familiar—I am sunk in the world. I am a thing + to be sneered at by you old-family people. I am next heir to a bran-new + Brummagem peerage. ‘Gad, I feel brassy already!” + </p> + <p> + “What, is Mr. Templeton—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Templeton is no more; he is defunct, extinguished—out of the + ashes rises the phoenix Lord Vargrave. We had thought of a more sounding + title; De Courval has a nobler sound,—but my good uncle has nothing + of the Norman about him: so we dropped the De as ridiculous—Vargrave + is euphonious and appropriate. My uncle has a manor of that name—Baron + Vargrave of Vargrave.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—I congratulate you.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. Lady Vargrave may destroy all my hopes yet. But nothing + venture, nothing have. My uncle will be gazetted to-day. Poor man, he will + be delighted; and as he certainly owes it much to me, he will, I suppose, + be very grateful—or hate me ever afterwards—that is a toss up. + A benefit conferred is a complete hazard between the thumb of pride and + the forefinger of affection. Heads gratitude, tails hatred! There, that’s + a simile in the fashion of the old writers: ‘Well of English undefiled!’ + humph!” + </p> + <p> + “So that beautiful child is Mrs. Templeton’s, or rather Lady Vargrave’s, + daughter by a former marriage?” said Maltravers, abstractedly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is astonishing how fond he is of her. Pretty little creature—confoundedly + artful though. By the way, Maltravers, we had an unexpectedly stormy night + the last of the session—strong division—ministers hard + pressed. I made quite a good speech for them. I suppose, however, there + will be some change—the moderates will be taken in. Perhaps by next + session I may congratulate you.” + </p> + <p> + Ferrers looked hard at Maltravers while he spoke. But Ernest replied + coldly, and evasively, and they were now joined by a party of idlers, + lounging along the lawn in expectation of the first dinner-bell. Cleveland + was in high consultation about the proper spot for a new fountain; and he + summoned Maltravers to give his opinion whether it should spring from the + centre of a flower-bed or beneath the drooping shade of a large willow. + While this interesting discussion was going on, Ferrers drew aside his + cousin, and pressing her hand affectionately, said, in a soft and tender + voice: + </p> + <p> + “My dear Florence—for in such a time permit me to be familiar—I + understand from Lord Saxingham, whom I met in London, that you are engaged + to Maltravers. Busy as I was, I could not rest without coming hither to + offer my best and most earnest wish for your happiness. I may seem a + careless, I am considered a selfish, person; but my heart is warm to those + who really interest it. And never did brother offer up for the welfare of + a beloved sister prayers more anxious and fond, than those that poor + Lumley Ferrers, breathes for Florence Lascelles.” + </p> + <p> + Florence was startled and melted—the whole tone and manner of Lumley + were so different from those he usually assumed. She warmly returned the + pressure of his hand, and thanked him briefly, but with emotion. + </p> + <p> + “No one is great and good enough for you, Florence,” continued Ferrers—“no + one. But I admire your disinterested and generous choice. Maltravers and I + have not been friends lately; but I respect him, as all must. He has noble + qualities, and he has great ambition. In addition to the deep and ardent + love that you cannot fail to inspire, he will owe you eternal gratitude. + In this aristocratic country, your hand secures to him the most brilliant + fortunes, the most proud career. His talents will now be measured by a + very different standard. His merits will not pass through any subordinate + grades, but leap at once into the highest posts; and, as he is even more + proud than ambitious, how he must bless one who raises him, without + effort, into positions of eminent command!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he does not think of such worldly advantages—he, the too pure, + the too refined!” said Florence, with trembling eagerness. “He has no + avarice, nothing mercenary in his nature!” + </p> + <p> + “No; there you indeed do him justice,—there is not a particle of + baseness in his mind—I did not say there was. The very greatness of + his aspirations, his indignant and scornful pride, lift him above the + thought of your wealth, your rank,—except as means to an end.” + </p> + <p> + “You mistake still,” said Florence, faintly smiling, but turning pale. + </p> + <p> + “No,” resumed Ferrers, not appearing to hear her, and as if pursuing his + own thoughts. “I always predicted that Maltravers would make a + distinguished connection in marriage. He would not permit himself to love + the lowborn or the poor. His affections are in his pride as much as in his + heart. He is a great creature—you have judged wisely—and may + Heaven bless you!” + </p> + <p> + With these words, Ferrers left her, and Florence, when she descended to + dinner, wore a moody and clouded brow. Ferrers stayed three days at the + house. He was peculiarly cordial to Maltravers, and spoke little to + Florence. But that little never failed to leave upon her mind a jealous + and anxious irritability, to which she yielded with morbid facility. In + order perfectly to understand Florence Lascelles, it must be remembered + that, with all her dazzling qualities, she was not what is called a + lovable person. A certain hardness in her disposition, even as a child, + had prevented her winding into the hearts of those around her. Deprived of + her mother’s care—having little or no intercourse with children of + her own age—brought up with a starched governess, or female + relations, poor and proud—she never had contracted the softness of + manner which the reciprocation of household affections usually produces. + With a haughty consciousness of her powers, her birth, her position, + advantages always dinned into her ear, she grew up solitary, unsocial, and + imperious. Her father was rather proud than fond of her—her servants + did not love her—she had too little consideration for others, too + little blandness and suavity to be loved by inferiors—she was too + learned and too stern to find pleasure in the conversation and society of + young ladies of her own age:—she had no friends. Now, having really + strong affection, she felt all this, but rather with resentment than grief—she + longed to be loved, but did not seek to be so—she felt as if it was + her fate not to be loved—she blamed Fate, not herself. + </p> + <p> + When, with all the proud, pure, and generous candour of her nature, she + avowed to Ernest her love for him, she naturally expected the most ardent + and passionate return; nothing less could content her. But the habit and + experience of all the past made her eternally suspicious that she was not + loved; it was wormwood and poison to her to fancy that Maltravers had ever + considered her advantages of fortune, except as a bar to his pretensions + and a check on his passion. It was the same thing to her, whether it was + the pettiest avarice or the loftiest aspirations that actuated her lover, + if he had been actuated in his heart by any sentiment but love; and + Ferrers, to whose eye her foibles were familiar, knew well how to make his + praises of Ernest arouse against Ernest all her exacting jealousies and + irritable doubts. + </p> + <p> + “It is strange,” said he, one evening, as he was conversing with Florence, + “how complete and triumphant a conquest you have effected over Ernest! + Will you believe it?—he conceived a prejudice against you when he + first saw you—he even said that you were made to be admired, not to + be loved.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!—did he so?—true, true—he has almost said the same + thing to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But now how he must love you! Surely he has all the signs.” + </p> + <p> + “And what are the signs, most learned Lumley?” said Florence, forcing a + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Why, in the first place, you will doubtless observe that he never takes + his eyes from you—with whomsoever he converses, whatever his + occupation, those eyes, restless and pining, wander around for one glance + from you.” + </p> + <p> + Florence sighed, and looked up—at the other end of the room, her + lover was conversing with Cleveland, and his eyes never wandered in search + of her. + </p> + <p> + Ferrers did not seem to notice this practical contradiction of his theory, + but went on. + </p> + <p> + “Then surely his whole character is changed—that brow has lost its + calm majesty, that deep voice its assured and tranquil tone. Has he not + become humble, and embarrassed, and fretful, living only on your smile, + reproachful if you look upon another—sorrowful if your lip be less + smiling—a thing of doubt, and dread, and trembling agitation—slave + to a shadow—no longer lord of the creation? Such is love, such is + the love you should inspire, such is the love Maltravers is capable of—for + I have seen him testify it to another. But,” added Lumley, quickly, and as + if afraid he had said too much, “Lord Saxingham is looking out for me to + make up his whist-table. I go to-morrow—when shall you be in town?” + </p> + <p> + “In the course of the week,” said poor Florence mechanically; and Lumley + walked away. + </p> + <p> + In another moment, Maltravers, who had been more observant than he seemed, + joined her where she sat. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Florence,” said he, tenderly, “you look pale—I fear you are + not so well this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “No affectation of an interest you do not feel, pray,” said Florence, with + a scornful lip but swimming eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Do not feel, Florence!” + </p> + <p> + “It is the first time, at least, that you have observed whether I am well + or ill. But it is no matter.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Florence,—why this tone?—how have I offended you? Has + Lumley said—” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but in your praise. Oh, be not afraid, you are one of those of + whom all speak highly. But do not let me detain you here; let us join our + host—you have left him alone.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence waited for no reply, nor did Maltravers attempt to detain + her. He looked pained, and when she turned round to catch a glance, that + she hoped would be reproachful, he was gone. Lady Florence became nervous + and uneasy, talked she knew not what, and laughed hysterically. She, + however, deceived Cleveland into the notion that she was in the best + possible spirits. By and by she rose, and passed through the suite of + rooms: her heart was with Maltravers—still he was not visible. At + length she entered the conservatory, and there she observed him, through + the open casements, walking slowly, with folded arms, upon the moonlit + lawn. There was a short struggle in her breast between woman’s pride and + woman’s love; the last conquered, and she joined him. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Ernest,” she said, extending her hand, “I was to blame.” + </p> + <p> + Ernest kissed the fair hand, and answered touchingly: + </p> + <p> + “Florence, you have the power to wound me, be forbearing in its exercise. + Heaven knows that I would not, from the vain desire of showing command + over you, inflict upon you a single pang. Ah! do not fancy that in lovers’ + quarrels there is any sweetness that compensates the sting.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you I was too exacting, Ernest. I told you you would not love me + so well when you knew me better.” + </p> + <p> + “And were a false prophetess. Florence, every day, every hour I love you + more—better than I once thought I could.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” cried this wayward girl, anxious to pain herself, “then once you + did not love me?” + </p> + <p> + “Florence, I will be candid—I did not. You are now rapidly obtaining + an empire over me, greater than my reason should allow. But, beware: if my + love be really a possession you desire,—beware how you arm my reason + against you. Florence, I am a proud man. My very consciousness of the more + splendid alliances you could form renders me less humble a lover than you + might find in others. I were not worthy of you if I were not tenacious of + my self-respect.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Florence, to whose heart these words went home, “forgive me but + this once. I shall not forgive myself so soon.” + </p> + <p> + And Ernest drew her to his heart, and felt that, with all her faults, a + woman whom he feared he could not render as happy as her sacrifices to him + deserved was becoming very dear to him. In his heart he knew that she was + not formed to render him happy; but that was not his thought, his fear. + Her love had rooted out all thought of self from that generous breast. His + only anxiety was to requite her. + </p> + <p> + They walked along the sward, silent, thoughtful; and Florence melancholy, + yet blessed. + </p> + <p> + “That serene heaven, those lovely stars,” said Maltravers at last, “do + they not preach to us the Philosophy of Peace? Do they not tell us how + much of calm belongs to the dignity of man, and the sublime essence of the + soul. Petty distractions and self-wrought cares are not congenial to our + real nature; their very disturbance is a proof that they are at war with + our natures. Ah, sweet Florence, let us learn from yon skies, over which, + in the faith of the poets of old, brooded the wings of primaeval and + serenest Love, what earthly love should be,—a thing pure as light, + and peaceful as immortality, watching over the stormy world, that it shall + survive, and high above the clouds and vapours that roll below. Let little + minds introduce into the holiest of affections all the bitterness and + tumult of common life! Let us love as beings who will one day be + inhabitants of the stars!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0063" id="link2HCH0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A slippery and subtle knave; a finder out of occasions, that + has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages.”—<i>Othello</i>. + + “Knavery’s plain face is never seen till used."-<i>-Ibid.</i> +</pre> + <p> + “You see, my dear Lumley,” said Lord Saxingham, as the next day the two + kinsmen were on their way to London in the earl’s chariot, “you see that + at the best this marriage of Flory’s is a cursed bore.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, indeed, it has its disadvantages. Maltravers is a gentleman and a + man of genius; but gentlemen are plentiful, and his genius only tells + against us, since he is not even of our politics.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly—my own son-in-law voting against me!” + </p> + <p> + “A practicable, reasonable man would change; not so Maltravers—and + all the estates, and all the parliamentary influence, and all the wealth + that ought to go with the family and with the party, go out of the family + and against the party. You are quite right, my dear lord—it is a + cursed bore.” + </p> + <p> + “And she might have had the Duke of ———, a man with a + rental of L100,000 a year. It is too ridiculous. This Maltravers, d——d + disagreeable fellow, too, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Stiff and stately—much changed for the worse of late years—grown + conceited and set up.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, Lumley, I would rather, of the two, have had you for my + son-in-law?” + </p> + <p> + Lumley half started. “Are you serious, my lord? I have not Ernest’s + fortune—I cannot make such settlements: my lineage, too, at least on + my mother’s side, is less ancient.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as to settlements, Flory’s fortune ought to be settled on herself,—and + as compared with that fortune, what could Mr. Maltravers pretend to + settle? Neither she nor any children she may have could want his L4,000 a + year, if he settled it all. As for family, connections tell more nowadays + than Norman descent,—and for the rest, you are likely to be old + Templeton’s heir, to have a peerage (a large sum of ready money is always + useful)—are rising in the House—one of our own set—will + soon be in office—and, flattery apart, a devilish good fellow into + the bargain. Oh, I would sooner a thousand times that Flory had taken a + fancy to you.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley Ferrers bowed his head but said nothing. He fell into a reverie, + and Lord Saxingham took up his official red box, became deep in its + contents, and forgot all about the marriage of his daughter. + </p> + <p> + Lumley pulled the check-string as the carriage entered Pall Mall, and + desired to be set down at “The Travellers.” While Lord Saxingham was borne + on to settle the affairs of the nation, not being able to settle those of + his own household, Ferrers was inquiring the address of Castruccio + Cesarini. The porter was unable to give it him. The Signor generally + called every day for his notes, but no one at the club knew where he + lodged. Ferrers wrote, and left with the porter a line requesting Cesarini + to call on him as soon as possible, and he bent his way to his house in + Great George Street. He went straight into his library, unlocked his + escritoire, and took out that letter which, the reader will remember, + Maltravers had written to Cesarini, and which Lumley had secured; + carefully did he twice read over this effusion, and the second time his + face brightened and his eyes sparkled. It is now time to lay this letter + before the reader: it ran thus:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>“Private and confidential.”</i> +</pre> + <p> + “MY DEAR CESARINI: + </p> + <p> + “The assurance of your friendly feelings is most welcome to me. In much of + what you say of marriage, I am inclined, though with reluctance, to agree. + As to Lady Florence herself, few persons are more calculated to dazzle, + perhaps to fascinate. But is she a person to make a home happy—to + sympathise where she has been accustomed to command—to comprehend, + and to yield to the waywardness and irritability common to our fanciful + and morbid race—to content herself with the homage of a single + heart? I do not know her enough to decide the question; but I know her + enough to feel deep solicitude and anxiety for your happiness, if centred + in a nature so imperious and so vain. But you will remind me of her + fortune, her station. You will say that such are the sources from which, + to an ambitious mind, happiness may well be drawn! Alas! I fear that the + man who marries Lady Florence must indeed confine his dreams of felicity + to those harsh and disappointing realities. But, Cesarini, these are not + words which, were we more intimate, I would address to you. I doubt the + reality of those affections which you ascribe to her and suppose devoted + to yourself. She is evidently fond of conquest. She sports with the + victims she makes. Her vanity dupes others, perhaps to be duped itself at + last. I will not say more to you. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yours, + E. MALTRAVERS.” + </pre> + <p> + “Hurrah!” cried Ferrers, as he threw down the letter, and rubbed his hands + with delight. “I little thought, when I schemed for this letter, that + chance would make it so inestimably serviceable. There is less to alter + than I thought for—the clumsiest botcher in the world could manage + it. Let me look again. Hem, hem—the first phrase to alter is this: + ‘I know her enough to feel deep solicitude and anxiety for <i>your</i> + happiness if centred in a nature so imperious and vain’—scratch out + ‘your,’ and put ‘my.’ All the rest good, good—till we come to + ‘affections which you ascribe to her, and suppose devoted to <i>yourself</i>’—for + ‘<i>yourself</i>’ write ‘<i>myself</i>’—the rest will do. Now, then, + the date—we must change it to the present month, and the work is + done. I wish that Italian blockhead would come. If I can but once make an + irreparable breach between her and Maltravers, I think I cannot fail of + securing his place; her pique, her resentment, will hurry her into taking + the first who offers, by way of revenge. And by Jupiter, even if I fail + (which I am sure I shall not), it will be something to keep Flory as lady + paramount for a duke of our own party. I shall gain immensely by such a + connection; but I lose everything and gain nothing by her marrying + Maltravers—of opposite politics too—whom I begin to hate like + poison. But no duke shall have her—Florence Ferrers, the only + alliteration I ever liked—yet it would sound rough in poetry.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley then deliberately drew towards him his inkstand—“No penknife!—Ah, + true, I never mend pens—sad waste—must send out for one.” He + rang the bell, ordered a penknife to be purchased, and the servant was + still out when a knock at the door was heard, and in a minute more + Cesarini entered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” said Lumley, assuming a melancholy air, “I am glad that you are + arrived; you will excuse my having written to you so unceremoniously. You + received my note—sit down, pray—and how are you? you look + delicate—can I offer you anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Wine,” said Cesarini, laconically, “wine; your climate requires wine.” + </p> + <p> + Here the servant entered with the penknife, and was ordered to bring wine + and sandwiches. Lumley then conversed lightly on different matters till + the wine appeared; he was rather surprised to observe Cesarini pour out + and drink off glass upon glass, with an evident craving for the + excitement. When he had satisfied himself, he turned his dark eyes to + Ferrers, and said, “You have news to communicate—I see it in your + brow. I am now ready to hear all.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then listen to me; you were right in your suspicions; jealousy is + ever a true diviner. I make no doubt Othello was quite right, and + Desdemona was no better than she should be. Maltravers has proposed to my + cousin; and been accepted.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini’s complexion grew perfectly ghastly; his whole frame shook like a + leaf—for a moment he seemed paralysed. + </p> + <p> + “Curse him!” said he, at last, drawing a deep breath, and betwixt his + grinded teeth—“curse him, from the depths of the heart he has + broken!” + </p> + <p> + “And after such a letter to you!—do you remember it?—here it + is. He warns you against Lady Florence, and then secures her to himself—is + this treachery?” + </p> + <p> + “Treachery black as hell! I am an Italian,” cried Cesarini, springing to + his feet, and with all the passions of his climate in his face, “and I + will be avenged! Bankrupt in fortune, ruined in hopes, blasted in heart—I + have still the godlike consolation of the desperate—I have revenge.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you call him out?” asked Lumley, musingly and calmly. “Are you a + dead shot? If so, it is worth thinking about; if not, it is a mockery—your + shot misses, his goes in the air, seconds interpose, and you both walk + away devilish glad to get off so well. Duels are humbug.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ferrers,” said Cesarini, fiercely, “this is not a matter of jest.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not make it a jest; and what is more, Cesarini,” said Ferrers, with + a concentrated energy far more commanding than the Italian’s fury, “what + is more, I so detest Maltravers, I am so stung by his cold superiority, so + wroth with his success, so loathe the thought of his alliance, that I + would cut off this hand to frustrate that marriage! I do not jest, man; + but I have method and sense in my hatred—it is our English way.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini stared at the speaker gloomily, clenched his hand, and strode + rapidly to and fro the room. + </p> + <p> + “You would be avenged, so would I. Now what shall be the means?” said + Ferrers. + </p> + <p> + “I will stab him to the heart—I will—” + </p> + <p> + “Cease these tragic flights. Nay, frown and stamp not; but sit down, and + be reasonable, or leave me and act for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Cesarini, with an eye that might have alarmed a man less + resolute than Ferrers, “have a care how you presume on my distress.” + </p> + <p> + “You are in distress, and you refuse relief; you are bankrupt in fortune, + and you rave like a poet, when you should be devising and plotting for the + attainment of boundless wealth. Revenge and ambition may both be yours; + but they are prizes never won but by a cautious foot as well as a bold + hand.” + </p> + <p> + “What would you have me do? and what but his life would content me?” + </p> + <p> + “Take his life if you can—I have no objection—go and take it; + only just observe this, that if you miss your aim, or he, being the + stronger man, strike you down, you will be locked up in a madhouse for the + next year or two at least; and that is not the place in which I should + like to pass the winter—but as you will.” + </p> + <p> + “You!—you!—But what are you to me? I will go. Good day, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay a moment,” said Ferrers, when he saw Cesarini about to leave the + room; “stay, take this chair, and listen to me—you had better—” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini hesitated, and then, as it were, mechanically obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “Read that letter which Maltravers wrote to you. You have finished—well—now + observe—if Florence sees that letter she will not and cannot marry + the man who wrote it—you must show it to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my guardian angel, I see it all! Yes, there are words in this letter + no woman so proud could ever pardon. Give me it again, I will go at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! You are too quick; you have not remarked that this letter was + written five months ago, before Maltravers knew much of Lady Florence. He + himself has confessed to her that he did not then love her—so much + the more would she value the conquest she has now achieved. Florence would + smile at this letter, and say, ‘Ah, he judges me differently now.’” + </p> + <p> + “Are you seeking to madden me? What do you mean? Did you not just now say + that, did she see that letter, she would never marry the writer?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, but the letter must be altered. We must erase the date;—we + must date it from to-day;—to-day—Maltravers returns to-day. We + must suppose it written, not in answer to a letter from you, demanding his + advice and opinion as to your marriage with Lady Florence, but in answer + to a letter of yours in which you congratulate him on his approaching + marriage to her. By the substitution of one pronoun for another, in two + places, the letter will read as well one way as another. Read it again, + and see; or stop, I will be the lecturer.” + </p> + <p> + Here Ferrers read over the letter, which, by the trifling substitutions he + proposed, might indeed bear the character he wished to give it. + </p> + <p> + “Does the light break in upon you now?” said Ferrers. “Are you prepared to + go through a part that requires subtlety, delicacy, address, and, above + all, self-control?—qualities that are the common attributes of your + countrymen.” + </p> + <p> + “I will do all, fear me not. It may be villainous, it may be base; but I + care not, Maltravers shall not rival, master, eclipse me in all things.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you lodging?” + </p> + <p> + “Where?—out of town a little way.” + </p> + <p> + “Take up your home with me for a few days. I cannot trust you out of my + sight. Send for your luggage; I have a room at your service.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini at first refused; but a man who resolves on a crime feels the awe + of solitude, and the necessity of a companion. He went himself to bring + his effects, and promised to return to dinner. + </p> + <p> + “I must own,” said Lumley, resettling himself at his desk, “this is the + dirtiest trick that ever I played; but the glorious end sanctifies the + paltry means. After all, it is the mere prejudice of gentlemanlike + education.” + </p> + <p> + A very few seconds, and with the aid of the knife to erase, and the pen to + re-write, Ferrers completed his task, with the exception of the change of + date, which, on second thoughts, he reserved as a matter to be regulated + by circumstances. + </p> + <p> + “I think I have hit off his <i>m</i>’s and <i>y</i>’s tolerably,” said he, + “considering I was not brought up to this sort of thing. But the + alteration would be visible on close inspection. Cesarini must read the + letter to her, then if she glances over it herself it will be with + bewildered eyes and a dizzy brain. Above all, he must not leave it with + her, and must bind her to the closest secresy. She is honourable and will + keep her word; and so now that matter is settled. I have just time before + dinner to canter down to my uncle’s and wish the old fellow joy.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0064" id="link2HCH0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And then my lord has much that he would state + All good to you.”—CRABBE: <i>Tales of the Heart</i>. +</pre> + <p> + LORD VARGRAVE was sitting alone in his library, with his account-books + before him. Carefully did he cast up the various sums which, invested in + various speculations, swelled his income. The result seemed satisfactory—and + the rich man threw down his pen with an air of triumph. + </p> + <p> + “I will invest L120,000 in land—only L120,000. I will not be tempted + to sink more. I will have a fine house—a house fitting for a + nobleman—a fine old Elizabethan house—a house of historical + interest. I must have woods and lakes—and a deer-park, above all. + Deer are very gentlemanlike things, very. De Clifford’s place is to be + sold, I know; they ask too much for it, but ready money is tempting. I can + bargain—bargain, I am a good hand at a bargain. Should I be now Lord + Baron Vargrave, if I had always given people what they asked? I will + double my subscriptions to the Bible Society and the Philanthropic, and + the building of new churches. The world shall not say Richard Templeton + does not deserve his greatness. I will—Come in. Who’s there?—come + in.” + </p> + <p> + The door gently opened—the meek face of the new peeress appeared. “I + disturb you—I beg your pardon—I—” + </p> + <p> + “Come in, my dear, come in—I want to talk to you—I want to + talk to your ladyship—sit down, pray.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Vargrave obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said the peer, crossing his legs, and caressing his left foot + with both hands, while he see-sawed his stately person to and fro in his + chair—“you see that the honour conferred upon me will make a great + change in our mode of life, Mrs. Temple—I mean Lady Vargrave. This + villa is all very well—my country house is not amiss for a country + gentleman—but now we must support our rank. The landed estate I + already possess will go with the title—go to Lumley—I shall + buy another at my own disposal, one that I can feel <i>thoroughly mine</i>—it + shall be a splendid place, Lady Vargrave.” + </p> + <p> + “This place is splendid to me,” said Lady Vargrave, timidly. + </p> + <p> + “This place—nonsense—you must learn loftier ideas, Lady + Vargrave; you are young, you can easily contract new habits, more, easily, + perhaps, than myself. You are naturally ladylike, though I say it—you + have good taste, you don’t talk much, you don’t show your ignorance—quite + right. You must be presented at court, Lady Vargrave—we must give + great dinners, Lady Vargrave. Balls are sinful, so is the opera, at least + I fear so—yet an opera-box would be a proper appendage to your rank, + Lady Vargrave.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mr. Templeton—” + </p> + <p> + “Lord Vargrave, if your ladyship pleases.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon. May you live long to enjoy your honours; but I, my dear + lord—I am not fit to share them: it is only in our quiet life that I + can forget what—what I was. You terrify me when you talk of court—of—” + </p> + <p> + “Stuff, Lady Vargrave! stuff; we accustom ourselves to these things. Do I + look like a man who has stood behind a counter? rank is a glove that + stretches to the hand that wears it. And the child, dear child,—dear + Evelyn, she shall be the admiration of London, the beauty, the heiress, + the—oh, she will do me honour!” + </p> + <p> + “She will, she will!” said Lady Vargrave, and the tears gushed from her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Lord Vargrave was softened. + </p> + <p> + “No mother ever deserved more from a child than you from Evelyn.” + </p> + <p> + “I would hope I have done my duty,” said Lady Vargrave, drying her tears. + </p> + <p> + “Papa, papa!” cried an impatient voice, tapping at the window, “come and + play, papa—come and play at ball, papa!” + </p> + <p> + And there, by the window, stood that beautiful child, glowing with health + and mirth—her light hair tossed from her forehead, her sweet mouth + dimpled with smiles. + </p> + <p> + “My darling, go on the lawn,—don’t over-exert yourself—you + have not quite recovered that horrid sprain—I will join you + immediately—bless you!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be long, papa—nobody plays so nicely as you do;” and, nodding + and laughing from very glee, away scampered the young fairy. Lord Vargrave + turned to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “What think you of my nephew—of Lumley?” said he, abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “He seems all that is amiable, frank, and kind.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Vargrave’s brow became thoughtful. “I think so too,” he said, after a + short pause; “and I hope you will approve of what I mean to do. You see + Lumley was brought up to regard himself as my heir—I owe something + to him, beyond the poor estate which goes with, but never can adequately + support, <i>my</i> title. Family honours, hereditary rank, must be + properly regarded. But that dear girl—I shall leave her the bulk of + my fortune. Could we not unite the fortune and the title? It would secure + the rank to her, it would incorporate all my desires—all my duties.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Lady Vargrave, with evident surprise, “if I understand you + rightly, the disparity of years—” + </p> + <p> + “And what then, what then, Lady Vargrave? Is there no disparity of years + between <i>us</i>?—a greater disparity than between Lumley and that + tall girl. Lumley is a mere youth, a youth still, five-and-thirty; he will + be little more than forty when they marry; I was between fifty and sixty + when I married you, Lady Vargrave. I don’t like boy and girl marriages: a + man should be older than his wife. But you are so romantic, Lady Vargrave. + Besides, Lumley is so gay and good-looking, and wears so well. He has been + very nearly forming another attachment; but that, I trust, is out of his + head now. They must like each other. You will not gainsay me, Lady + Vargrave, and if anything happens to me—life is uncertain—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do not speak so—my friend, my benefactor!” + </p> + <p> + “Why, indeed,” resumed his lordship, mildly, “thank Heaven, I am very well—feel + younger than ever I did—but still life is uncertain; and if you + survive me, you will not throw obstacles in the way of my grand scheme?” + </p> + <p> + “I—no,—no—of course you have the right in all things + over her destiny; but so young—so soft-hearted, if she should love + one of her own years—” + </p> + <p> + “Love!—pooh! love does not come into girls’ heads unless it is put + there. We will bring her up to love Lumley. I have another reason—a + cogent one—our secret!—to him it can be confided—it + should not go out of our family. Even in my grave I could not rest if a + slur were cast on my respectability—my name.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Vargrave spoke solemnly and warmly; then muttering to himself, “Yes, + it is for the best,” he took up his hat and quitted the room. He joined + his stepchild on the lawn. He romped with her—he played with her—that + stiff, stately man!—he laughed louder than she did, and ran almost + as fast. And when she was fatigued and breathless, he made her sit down + beside him, in a little summer-house, and, fondly stroking down her + disordered tresses, said, “You tire me out, child; I am growing too old to + play with you. Lumley must supply my place. You love Lumley?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dearly, he is so good-humoured, so kind: he has given me such a + beautiful doll, with such eyes!” + </p> + <p> + “You shall be his little wife—you would like to be his little wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Wife! why, poor mamma is a wife, and she is not so happy as I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Your mamma has bad health, my dear,” said Lord Vargrave, a little + discomposed. “But it is a fine thing to be a wife and have a carriage of + your own, and a fine house, and jewels, and plenty of money, and be your + own mistress; and Lumley will love you dearly.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I should like all that.” + </p> + <p> + “And you will have a protector, child, when I am no more.” + </p> + <p> + The tone, rather than the words, of her stepfather struck a damp into that + childish heart. Evelyn lifted her eyes, gazed at him earnestly, and then, + throwing her arms round him, burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + Lord Vargrave wiped his own eyes, and covered her with kisses. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you shall be Lumley’s wife, his honoured wife, heiress to my rank as + to my fortunes.” + </p> + <p> + “I will do all that papa wishes.” + </p> + <p> + “You will be Lady Vargrave, then, and Lumley will be your husband,” said + the stepfather, impressively. “Think over what I have said. Now let us + join mamma. But, as I live, here is Lumley himself. However, it is not yet + the time to sound him:—I hope that he has no chance with that Lady + Florence.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0065" id="link2HCH0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Fair encounter + Of two most rare affections.”—<i>Tempest</i>. +</pre> + <p> + MEANWHILE the betrothed were on their road to London. The balmy and serene + beauty of the day had induced them to perform the short journey on + horseback. It is somewhere said, that lovers are never so handsome as in + each other’s company, and neither Florence nor Ernest ever looked so well + as on horseback. There was something in the stateliness and grace of both, + something even in the aquiline outline of their features and the haughty + bend of the neck, that made a sort of likeness between these young + persons, although there was no comparison as to their relative degrees of + personal advantage: the beauty of Florence defied all comparison. And as + they rode from Cleveland’s porch, where the other guests yet lingering + were assembled to give the farewell greeting, there was a general + conviction of the happiness destined to the affianced ones,—a + general impression that both in mind and person they were eminently suited + to each other. Their position was that which is ever interesting, even in + more ordinary people, and at that moment they were absolutely popular with + all who gazed on them; and when the good old Cleveland turned away with + tears in his eyes and murmured “Bless them!” there was not one of the + party who would have hesitated to join the prayer. + </p> + <p> + Florence felt a nameless dejection as she quitted a spot so consecrated by + grateful recollections. + </p> + <p> + “When shall we be again so happy?” said she, softly, as she turned back to + gaze upon the landscape, which, gay with flowers and shrubs, and the + bright English verdure, smiled behind them like a garden. + </p> + <p> + “We will try and make my old hall, and its gloomy shades, remind us of + these fairer scenes, my Florence.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! describe to me the character of your place. We shall live there + principally, shall we not? I am sure I shall like it much better than + Marsden Court, which is the name of that huge pile of arches and columns + in Vanbrugh’s heaviest taste, which will soon be yours.” + </p> + <p> + “I fear we shall never dispose of all your mighty retinue, grooms of the + chamber, and Patagonian footmen, and Heaven knows who besides, in the + holes and corners of Burleigh,” said Ernest smiling. And then he went on + to describe the old place with something of a well-born country + gentleman’s not displeasing pride; and Florence listened, and they + planned, and altered, and added, and improved, and laid out a map for the + future. From that topic they turned to another, equally interesting to + Florence. The work in which Maltravers had been engaged was completed, was + in the hands of the printer, and Florence amused herself with conjectures + as to the criticisms it would provoke. She was certain that all that had + most pleased her would be <i>caviare</i> to the multitude. She never would + believe that any one could understand Maltravers but herself. Thus time + flew on till they passed that part of the road in which had occurred + Ernest’s adventure with Mrs. Templeton’s daughter. Maltravers paused + abruptly in the midst of his glowing periods, as the spot awakened its + associations and reminiscences, and looked round anxiously and + inquiringly. But the fair apparition was not again visible; and whatever + impression the place produced, it gradually died away as they entered the + suburbs of the great metropolis. Two other gentlemen and a young lady of + thirty-three (I had almost forgotten them) were of the party, but they had + the tact to linger a little behind during the greater part of the road, + and the young lady, who was a wit and a flirt, found gossip and sentiment + for both the cavaliers. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come to us this evening?” asked Florence, timidly. + </p> + <p> + “I fear I shall not be able. I have several matters to arrange before I + leave town for Burleigh, which I must do next week. Three months, dearest + Florence, will scarcely suffice to make Burleigh put on its best looks to + greet its new mistress; and I have already appointed the great modern + magicians of draperies and ormolu to consult how we may make Aladdin’s + palace fit for the reception of the new princess. Lawyers, too!—in + short, I expect to be fully occupied. But to-morrow, at three, I shall be + with you, and we can ride out, if the day be fine.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” said Florence, “yonder is Signor Cesarini—how haggard and + altered he appears!” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers, turning his eyes towards the spot to which Florence pointed, + saw Cesarini emerging from a lane, with a porter behind him carrying some + books and a trunk. The Italian, who was talking and gesticulating as to + himself, did not perceive them. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Castruccio! he seems leaving his lodging,” thought Maltravers. “By + this time I fear he will have spent the last sum I conveyed to him—I + must remember to find him out and replenish his stores.—Do not + forget,” said he aloud, “to see Cesarini, and urge him to accept the + appointment we spoke of.” + </p> + <p> + “I will not forget it—I will see him to-morrow before we meet. Yet + it is a painful task, Ernest.” + </p> + <p> + “I allow it. Alas! Florence, you owe him some reparation. He undoubtedly + once conceived himself entitled to form hopes the vanity of which his + ignorance of our English world and his foreign birth prevented him from + suspecting.” + </p> + <p> + “Believe me, I did not give him the right to form such expectations.” + </p> + <p> + “But you did not sufficiently discourage them. Ah, Florence, never + underrate the pangs of hope crushed, of love contemned.” + </p> + <p> + “Dreadful!” said Florence, almost shuddering. “It is strange, but my + conscience never so smote me before. It is since I loved that I feel, for + the first time, how guilty a creature is—” + </p> + <p> + “A coquette!” interrupted Maltravers. “Well, let us think of the past no + more; but if we can restore a gifted man, whose youth promised much, to an + honourable independence and a healthful mind, let us do so. Me, Cesarini + never can forgive; he will think I have robbed him of you. But we men—the + woman we have once loved, even after she rejects us, ever has some power + over us, and your eloquence, which has so often roused me, cannot fail to + impress a nature yet more excitable.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers, on quitting Florence at her own door, went home, summoned his + favourite servant, gave him Cesarini’s address at Chelsea, bade him find + out where he was, if he had left his lodgings; and leave at his present + home, or (failing its discovery) at the “Travellers,” a cover, which he + made his servant address, inclosing a bank-note of some amount. If the + reader wonder why Maltravers thus constituted himself the unknown + benefactor of the Italian, I must tell him that he does not understand + Maltravers. Cesarini was not the only man of letters whose faults he + pitied, whose wants he relieved. Though his name seldom shone in the + pompous list of public subscriptions—though he disdained to affect + the Maecenas and the patron, he felt the brotherhood of mankind, and a + kind of gratitude for those who aspired to rise or to delight their + species. An author himself, he could appreciate the vast debt which the + world owes to authors, and pays but by calumny in life and barren laurels + after death. He whose profession is the Beautiful succeeds only through + the Sympathies. Charity and compassion are virtues taught with difficulty + to ordinary men; to true genius they are but the instincts which direct it + to the destiny it is born to fulfil-viz., the discovery and redemption of + new tracts in our common nature. Genius—the Sublime Missionary—goes + forth from the serene Intellect of the Author to live in the wants, the + griefs, the infirmities of others, in order that it may learn their + language; and as its highest achievement is Pathos, so its most absolute + requisite is Pity! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0066" id="link2HCH0066"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>Don John.</i> How canst thou cross this marriage? + + “<i>Borachio.</i> Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly, that no + dishonesty shall appear in me, my lord.”—<i>Much Ado about Nothing</i>. +</pre> + <p> + FERRERS and Cesarini were both sitting over their wine, and both had sunk + into silence, for they had only one subject in common, when a note was + brought to Lumley from Lady Florence.—“This is lucky enough!” said + he, as he read it. “Lady Florence wishes to see you, and incloses me a + note for you, which she asks me to address and forward to you. There it + is.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini took the note with trembling hands: it was very short, and merely + expressed a desire to see him the next day at two o’clock. + </p> + <p> + “What can it be?” he exclaimed; “can she want to apologise, to explain?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no! Florence will not do that; but, from certain words she + dropped in talking with me, I guess that she has some offer to your + worldly advantage to propose to you. Ha! by the way, a thought strikes + me.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley eagerly rang the bell. “Is Lady Florence’s servant waiting for an + answer?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well—detain him.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Cesarini, assurance is made doubly sure. Come into the next room. + There, sit down at my desk, and write, as I shall dictate, to Maltravers.” + </p> + <p> + “I!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, now do put yourself in my hands—write, write. When you have + finished, I will explain.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini obeyed, and the letter was as follows: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MALTRAVERS, + </p> + <p> + “I have learned your approaching marriage with Lady Florence Lascelles. + Permit me to congratulate you. For myself, I have overcome a vain and + foolish passion; and can contemplate your happiness without a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “I have reviewed all my old prejudices against marriage, and believe it to + be a state which nothing but the most perfect congeniality of temper, + pursuits, and minds, can render bearable. How rare is such congeniality! + In your case it may exist. The affections of that beautiful being are + doubtless ardent—and they are yours! + </p> + <p> + “Write me a line by the bearer to assure me of your belief in my + sincerity. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Yours, + + “C. CESARINI.” + </pre> + <p> + “Copy out this letter, I want its ditto—quick. Now seal and direct + the duplicate,” continued Ferrers; “that’s right; go into the hall, give + it yourself to Lady Florence’s servant, and beg him to take it to Seamore + Place, wait for an answer, and bring it here; by which time you will have + a note ready for Lady Florence. Say I will mention this to her ladyship, + and give the man half-a-crown. There, begone.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not understand a word of this,” said Cesarini, when he returned: + “will you explain?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly; the copy of the note you have despatched to Maltravers I shall + show to Lady Florence this evening, as a proof of your sobered and + generous feelings; observe, it is so written, that the old letter of your + rival may seem an exact reply to it. To-morrow a reference to this note of + yours will bring out our scheme more easily; and if you follow my + instructions, you will not seem to <i>volunteer</i> showing our handiwork, + as we at first intended; but rather to yield it to her eyes, from a + generous impulse, from an irresistible desire to save her from an unworthy + husband and a wretched fate. Fortune has been dealing our cards for us, + and has turned up the ace. Three to one now on the odd trick. Maltravers, + too, is at home. I called at his house, on returning from my uncle’s, and + learned that he would not stir out all the evening.” + </p> + <p> + In due time came the answer from Ernest: it was short and hurried; but + full of all the manly kindness of his nature; it expressed admiration and + delight at the tone of Cesarini’s letter; it revoked all former + expressions derogatory to Lady Florence; it owned the harshness and error + of his first impressions; it used every delicate argument that could + soothe and reconcile Cesarini; and concluded by sentiments of friendship + and desire of service, so cordial, so honest, so free from the affectation + of patronage, that even Cesarini himself, half insane as he was with + passion, was almost softened. Lumley saw the change in his countenance—snatched + the letter from his hand—read it—threw it into the fire—and + saying, “We must guard against accidents,” clapped the Italian + affectionately on the shoulder, and added, “Now you can have no remorse; + for a more Jesuitical piece of insulting hypocritical cant I never read. + Where’s your note to Lady Florence? Your compliments, you will be with her + at two. There, now the rehearsal’s over, the scenes arranged, and I’ll + dress, and open the play for you with a prologue.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0067" id="link2HCH0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Aestuat ingens + Imo in corde pudor, mixtoque insania luctu, + Et furiis agitatus amor, et conscia virtus.” *—VIRGIL. +</pre> + <p> + * Deep in her inmost heart is stirred the immense shame, and madness with + commingled grief, and love agitated by rage, and conscious virtue. + </p> + <p> + THE next day, punctual to his appointment, Cesarini repaired to his + critical interview with Lady Florence. Her countenance, which, like that + of most persons whose temper is not under their command, ever too + faithfully expressed what was within, was unusually flushed. Lumley had + dropped words and hints which had driven sleep from her pillow and repose + from her mind. + </p> + <p> + She rose from her seat with nervous agitation as Cesarini entered and made + his grave salutation. After a short and embarrassed pause, she recovered, + however, her self-possession, and with all a woman’s delicate and + dexterous tact, urged upon the Italian the expediency of accepting the + offer of honourable independence now extended to him. + </p> + <p> + “You have abilities,” she said, in conclusion, “you have friends, you have + youth; take advantage of those gifts of nature and fortune, and fulfil + such a career as,” added Lady Florence, with a smile, “Dante did not + consider incompatible with poetry.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot object to any career,” said Cesarini, with an effort, “that may + serve to remove me from a country that has no longer any charms for me. I + thank you for your kindness; I will obey you. May you be happy; and yet—no, + ah! no—happy you must be! Even he, sooner or later, must see you + with my eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” replied Florence, falteringly, “that you have wisely and + generously mastered a past illusion. Mr. Ferrers allowed me to see the + letter you wrote to Er—-to Mr. Maltravers; it was worthy of you: it + touched me deeply; but I trust you will outlive your prejudices against—” + </p> + <p> + “Stay,” interrupted Cesarini; “did Ferrers communicate to you the answer + to that letter?” + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no matter. Heaven bless you; farewell.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I implore you, do not go yet; what was there in that letter that it + could pain me to see? Lumley hinted darkly; but would not speak out: be + more frank.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot: it would be treachery to Maltravers, cruelty to you; yet would + it be cruel?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it would not; it would be kindness and mercy; show me the letter—you + have it with you.” + </p> + <p> + “You could not bear it; you would hate me for the pain it would give you. + Let me depart.” + </p> + <p> + “Man, you wrong Maltravers. I see it now. You would darkly slander him + whom you cannot openly defame. Go; I was wrong to listen to you—go!” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Florence, beware how you taunt me into undeceiving you. Here is the + letter, it is his handwriting; will you read it? I warn you not.” + </p> + <p> + “I will believe nothing but the evidence of my own eyes; give it me.” + </p> + <p> + “Stay then; on two conditions. First, that you promise me sacredly that + you will not disclose to Maltravers, without my consent, that you have + seen this letter. Think not I fear his anger. No! but in the mortal + encounter that must ensue, if you thus betray me, your character would be + lowered in the world’s eyes, and even I (my excuse unknown) might not + appear to have acted with honour in obeying your desire, and warning you, + while there is yet time, of bartering love for avarice. Promise me.” + </p> + <p> + “I do, I do most solemnly.” + </p> + <p> + “Secondly, assure me that you will not ask to keep the letter, but will + immediately restore it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I promise it. Now then.” + </p> + <p> + “Take the letter.” + </p> + <p> + Florence seized and rapidly read the fatal and garbled document: her brain + was dizzy, her eyes clouded, her ears rang as with the sound of water, she + was sick and giddy with emotion; but she read enough. This letter was + written, then, in answer to Castruccio’s of last night; it avowed dislike + of her character; it denied the sincerity of her love; it more than hinted + the mercenary nature of his own feelings. Yes, even there, where she had + garnered up her heart, she was not Florence, the lovely and beloved woman; + but Florence, the wealthy and high-born heiress. The world which she had + built upon the faith and heart of Maltravers crumbled away at her feet. + The letter dropped from her hands; her whole form seemed to shrink and + shrivel up; her teeth were set, and her cheek was as white as marble. + </p> + <p> + “O God!” cried Cesarini, stung with remorse. “Speak to me, speak to me, + Florence! I did wrong; forget that hateful letter! I have been false—false!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, false—say so again—no, no, I remember he told me—he, + so wise, so deep a judge of human character, that he would be sponsor for + your faith—, that your honour and heart were incorruptible. It is + true; I thank you—you have saved me from a terrible fate.” + </p> + <p> + “O, Lady Florence, dear—too dear—yet, would that—alas! + she does not listen to me,” muttered Castruccio, as Florence, pressing her + hands to her temples, walked wildly to and fro the room. At length she + paused opposite to Cesarini, looked him full in the face, returned him the + letter without a word, and pointed to the door. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, do not bid me leave you yet,” said Cesarini, trembling with + repentant emotion, yet half beside himself with jealous rage at her love + for his rival. + </p> + <p> + “My friend, go,” said Florence, in a tone of voice singularly subdued and + soft. “Do not fear me; I have more pride in me than even affection; but + there are certain struggles in a woman’s breast which she could never + betray to any one—any one but a mother. God help me, I have none! + Go; when next we meet, I shall be calm.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand as she spoke, the Italian dropped on his knee, + kissed it convulsively, and, fearful of trusting himself further, vanished + from the room. + </p> + <p> + He had not been long gone before Maltravers was seen riding through the + street. As he threw himself from his horse, he looked up at the window, + and kissed his hand at Lady Florence, who stood there watching his + arrival, with feelings indeed far different from those he anticipated. He + entered the room lightly and gaily. + </p> + <p> + Florence stirred not to welcome him. He approached and took her hand; she + withdrew it with a shudder. + </p> + <p> + “Are you not well, Florence?” + </p> + <p> + “I am well, for I have recovered.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean? why do you turn from me?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Florence fixed her eyes on him, eyes that literally blazed; her lip + quivered with scorn. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maltravers, at length I know you. I understand the feelings with + which you have sought a union between us. O God! why, why was I thus + cursed with riches—why made a thing of barter and merchandise, and + avarice, and low ambition? Take my wealth, take it, Mr. Maltravers, since + that is what you prize. Heaven knows I can cast it willingly away; but + leave the wretch whom you long deceived, and who now, wretch though she + be, renounces and despises you!” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Florence, do I hear aright? Who has accused me to you?” + </p> + <p> + “None, sir, none; I would have believed none. Let it suffice that I am + convinced that our union can be happy to neither: question me no further; + all intercourse between us is for ever over!” + </p> + <p> + “Pause,” said Maltravers, with cold and grave solemnity; “another word, + and the gulf will become impassable. Pause.” + </p> + <p> + “Do not,” exclaimed the unhappy lady, stung by what she considered the + assurance of a hardened hypocrisy—“do not affect this haughty + superiority; it dupes me no longer. I was your slave while I loved you: + the tie is broken. I am free, and I hate and scorn you! Mercenary and + sordid as you are, your baseness of spirit revives the differences of our + rank. Henceforth, Mr. Maltravers, I am Lady Florence Lascelles, and by + that title alone will you know me. Begone, Sir!” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke, with passion distorting every feature of her face, all her + beauty vanished away from the eyes of the proud Maltravers, as if by + witchcraft: the angel seemed transformed into the fury; and cold, bitter, + and withering was the eye which he fixed upon that altered countenance. + </p> + <p> + “Mark me, Lady Florence Lascelles,” said he, very calmly, “you have now + said what you can never recall. Neither in man nor in woman did Ernest + Maltravers ever forget or forgive a sentence which accused him of + dishonour. I bid you farewell for ever; and with my last words I condemn + you to the darkest of all dooms—the remorse that comes too late!” + Slowly he moved away; and as the door closed upon that towering and + haughty form, Florence already felt that his curse was working to its + fulfilment. She rushed to the window—she caught one last glimpse of + him as his horse bore him rapidly away. Ah! when shall they meet again? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0068" id="link2HCH0068"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And now I live—O wherefore do I live? + And with that pang I prayed to be no more.” + WORDSWORTH. +</pre> + <p> + IT was about nine o’clock that evening, and Maltravers was alone in his + room. His carriage was at the door—his servants were arranging the + luggage—he was going that night to Burleigh. London—society-the + world—were grown hateful to him. His galled and indignant spirit + demanded solitude. At this time, Lumley Ferrers entered. + </p> + <p> + “You will pardon my intrusion,” said the latter, with his usual frankness—“but—” + </p> + <p> + “But what, sir? I am engaged.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be very brief. Maltravers, you are my old friend. I retain regard + and affection for you, though our different habits have of late estranged + us. I come to you from my cousin—from Florence—there has been + some misunderstanding between you. I called on her to-day after you left + the house. Her grief affected me. I have only just quitted her. She has + been told by some gossip or other some story or other—women are + credulous, foolish creatures;—undeceive her, and, I dare say, all + may be settled.” + </p> + <p> + “Ferrers, if a man had spoken to me as Lady Florence did, his blood or + mine must have flowed. And do you think that words that might have plunged + me into the guilt of homicide if uttered by a man, I could ever pardon in + one whom I had dreamed of for a wife? Never!” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh, pooh—women’s words are wind. Don’t throw away so splendid a + match for such a trifle.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you too, sir, mean to impute mercenary motives to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid! You know I am no coward, but I really don’t want to fight + you. Come, be reasonable.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you mean well, but the breach is final—all recurrence to + it is painful and superfluous. I must wish you good evening.” + </p> + <p> + “You have positively decided?” + </p> + <p> + “I have.” + </p> + <p> + “Even if Lady Florence made the <i>amende honorable</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing on the part of Lady Florence could alter my resolution. The woman + whom an honourable man—an English gentleman—makes the partner + of his life, ought never to listen to a syllable against his fair name: + his honour is hers, and if her lips, that should breathe comfort in + calumny, only serve to retail the lie—she may be beautiful, gifted, + wealthy, and high-born, but he takes a curse to his arms. That curse I + have escaped.” + </p> + <p> + “And this I am to say to my cousin?” + </p> + <p> + “As you will. And now stay, Lumley Ferrers, and hear me. I neither accuse + nor suspect you, I desire not to pierce your heart, and in this case I + cannot fathom your motives; but if it should so have happened that you + have, in any way, ministered to Lady Florence Lascelles’ injurious + opinions of my faith and honour, you will have much to answer for, and + sooner or later there will come a day of reckoning between you and me.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maltravers, there can be no quarrel between us, with my cousin’s fair + name at stake, or else we should not now part without preparations for a + more hostile meeting. I can bear your language. <i>I</i>, too, though no + philosopher, can forgive. Come, man, you are heated—it is very + natural;—let us part friends—your hand.” + </p> + <p> + “If you can take my hand, Lumley, you are innocent, and I have wronged + you.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley smiled, and cordially pressed the hand of his old friend. + </p> + <p> + As he descended the stairs, Maltravers followed, and just as Lumley turned + into Curzon Street, the carriage whirled rapidly past him, and by the + lamps he saw the pale and stern face of Maltravers. + </p> + <p> + It was a slow, drizzling rain,—one of those unwholesome nights + frequent in London towards the end of autumn. Ferrers, however, insensible + to the weather, walked slowly and thoughtfully towards his cousin’s house. + He was playing for a mighty stake, and hitherto the cast was in his + favour, yet he was uneasy and perturbed. His conscience was tolerably + proof to all compunction, as much from the levity as from the strength of + his nature; and (Maltravers removed) he trusted in his knowledge of the + human heart, and the smooth speciousness of his manner, to win, at last, + in the hand of Lady Florence, the object of his ambition. It was not on + her affection, it was on her pique, her resentment, that he relied. “When + a woman fancies herself slighted by the man she loves, the first person + who proposes must be a clumsy wooer indeed, if he does not carry her + away.” So reasoned Ferrers, but yet he was ruffled and disquieted; the + truth must be spoken,—able, bold, sanguine, and scornful as he was, + his spirit quailed before that of Maltravers; he feared the lion of that + nature when fairly aroused: his own character had in it something of a + woman’s—an unprincipled, gifted, aspiring, and subtle woman’s,—and + in Maltravers—stern, simple, and masculine—he recognised the + superior dignity of the “lords of the creation;” he was overawed by the + anticipation of a wrath and revenge which he felt he merited, and which he + feared might be deadly. + </p> + <p> + While gradually, however, his spirit recovered its usual elasticity, he + came in the vicinity of Lord Saxingham’s house, and suddenly, by a corner + of the street, his arm was seized: to his inexpressible astonishment he + recognised in the muffled figure that accosted him the form of Florence + Lascelles. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” he cried, “is it possible?—You, alone in the + streets, at this hour, in such a night, too! How very wrong—how very + imprudent!” + </p> + <p> + “Do not talk to me—I am almost mad as it is: I could not rest—I + could not brave quiet, solitude,—still less, the face of my father—I + could not!—but quick, what says he?—What excuse has he? Tell + me everything—I will cling to a straw.” + </p> + <p> + “And is this the proud Florence Lascelles?” + </p> + <p> + “No,—it is the humbled Florence Lascelles. I have done with pride—speak + to me!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, what a treasure is such a heart! How can he throw it away?” + </p> + <p> + “Does he deny?” + </p> + <p> + “He denies nothing—he expresses himself rejoiced to have escaped—such + was his expression—a marriage in which his heart never was engaged. + He is unworthy of you—forget him.” + </p> + <p> + Florence shivered, and as Ferrers drew her arm in his own, her ungloved + hand touched his, and the touch was like that of ice. + </p> + <p> + “What will the servants think?—what excuse can we make?” said + Ferrers, when they stood beneath the porch. Florence did not reply; but as + the door opened, she said softly,— + </p> + <p> + “I am ill—ill,” and clung to Ferrers with that unnerved and heavy + weight which betokens faintness. + </p> + <p> + The light glared on her—the faces of the lacqueys betokened their + undisguised astonishment. With a violent effort, Florence recovered + herself, for she had not yet done with pride, swept through the hall with + her usual stately step, slowly ascended the broad staircase, and gained + the solitude of her own room, to fall senseless on the floor. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK IX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I go, the bride of Acheron.—SOPH. <i>Antig.</i> + + These things are in the Future.—<i>Ib.</i> 1333. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0069" id="link2HCH0069"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * * * “There the action lies + In its true nature * * * * + * * * What then? What rests? + Try what repentance can!”—<i>Hamlet</i>. + + “I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.”—<i>King John</i>. +</pre> + <p> + IT was a fine afternoon in December, when Lumley Ferrers turned from Lord + Saxingham’s door. The knockers were muffled—the windows on the third + story were partially closed. There was sickness in that house. + </p> + <p> + Lumley’s face was unusually grave; it was even sad. “So young—so + beautiful,” he muttered. “If ever I loved woman, I do believe I loved her:—that + love must be my excuse.... I repent of what I have done—but I could + not foresee that a mere lover’s stratagem was to end in such effects—the + metaphysician was very right when he said, ‘We only sympathise with + feelings we know ourselves.’ A little disappointment in love could not + have hurt me much—it is d——d odd it should hurt her so. + I am altogether out of luck: old Templeton—I beg his pardon, Lord + Vargrave—(by-the-by, he gets heartier every day—what a + constitution he has!) seems cross with me. He did not like the idea that I + should marry Lady Florence—and when I thought that vision might have + been realised, hinted that I was disappointing some expectations he had + formed; I can’t make out what he means. Then, too, the government have + offered that place to Maltravers instead of to me. In fact, my star is not + in the ascendant. Poor Florence, though,—I would really give a great + deal to know her restored to health!—I have done a villainous thing, + but I thought it only a clever one. However, regret is a fool’s passion. + By Jupiter!—talking of fools, here comes Cesarini.” + </p> + <p> + Wan, haggard, almost spectral, his hat over his brows, his dress + neglected, his air reckless and fierce, Cesarini crossed the way, and thus + accosted Lumley: + </p> + <p> + “We have murdered her, Ferrers; and her ghost will haunt us to our dying + day!” + </p> + <p> + “Talk prose; you know I am no poet. What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “She is worse to-day,” groaned Cesarini, in a hollow voice. “I wander like + a lost spirit round the house; I question all who come from it. Tell me—oh, + tell me, is there hope?” + </p> + <p> + “I do, indeed, trust so,” replied Ferrers, fervently. “The illness has + only of late assumed an alarming appearance. At first it was merely a + severe cold, caught by imprudent exposure one rainy night. Now they fear + it has settled on the lungs; but if we could get her abroad, all might be + well.” + </p> + <p> + “You think so, honestly?” + </p> + <p> + “I do. Courage, my friend; do not reproach yourself; it has nothing to do + with us. She was taken ill of a cold, not of a letter, man!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; I judge her heart by my own. Oh, that I could recall the past! + Look at me; I am the wreck of what I was; day and night the recollection + of my falsehood haunts me with remorse.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw!—we will go to Italy together, and in your beautiful land + love will replace love.” + </p> + <p> + “I am half resolved, Ferrers.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!—to do what?” + </p> + <p> + “To write—to reveal all to her.” + </p> + <p> + The hardy complexion of Ferrers grew livid; his brow became dark with a + terrible expression. + </p> + <p> + “Do so, and fall the next day by my hand; my aim in slighter quarrel never + erred.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you dare to threaten me?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you dare to betray me? Betray one who, if he sinned, sinned on your + account—in your cause; who would have secured to you the loveliest + bride, and the most princely dower in England; and whose only offence + against you is that he cannot command life and health?” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” said the Italian, with great emotion,—“forgive me, and + do not misunderstand; I would not have betrayed <i>you</i>—there is + honour among villains. I would have confessed only my own crime; I would + never have revealed yours—why should I?—it is unnecessary.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you in earnest—are you sincere?” + </p> + <p> + “By my soul!” + </p> + <p> + “Then, indeed, you are worthy of my friendship. You will assume the whole + forgery—an ugly word, but it avoids circumlocution—to be your + own?” + </p> + <p> + “I will.” + </p> + <p> + Ferrers paused a moment, and then stopped suddenly short. + </p> + <p> + “You will swear this!” + </p> + <p> + “By all that is holy.” + </p> + <p> + “Then mark me, Cesarini; if to-morrow Lady Florence be worse, I will throw + no obstacle in the way of your confession, should you resolve to make it; + I will even use that influence which you leave me, to palliate your + offence, to win your pardon. And yet to resign your hopes—to + surrender one so loved to the arms of one so hated—it is magnanimous—it + is noble—it is above my standard! Do as you will.” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini was about to reply, when a servant on horseback abruptly turned + the corner, almost at full speed. He pulled in—his eye fell upon + Lumley—he dismounted. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Ferrers,” said the man breathlessly, “I have been to your house; + they told me I might find you at Lord Saxingham’s—I was just going + there—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well, what is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “My poor master, sir—my lord, I mean—” + </p> + <p> + “What of him?” + </p> + <p> + “Had a fit, sir—the doctors are with him—my mistress—for + my lord can’t speak—sent me express for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Lend me your horse—there, just lengthen the stirrups.” + </p> + <p> + While the groom was engaged at the saddle, Ferrers turned to Cesarini. “Do + nothing rashly,” said he; “I would say, if I might, nothing at all, + without consulting me; but mind, I rely, at all events, on your promise—your + oath.” + </p> + <p> + “You may,” said Cesarini, gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “Farewell, then,” said Lumley, as he mounted; and in a few moments he was + out of sight. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0070" id="link2HCH0070"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O world, thou wast the forest to this hart, + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dost thou here lie?”—<i>Julius Caesar</i>. +</pre> + <p> + AS Lumley leapt from his horse at his uncle’s door, the disorder and + bustle of those demesnes, in which the severe eye of the master usually + preserved a repose and silence as complete as if the affairs of life were + carried on by clockwork, struck upon him sensibly. Upon the trim lawn the + old women employed in cleaning and weeding the walks were all assembled in + a cluster, shaking their heads ominously in concert, and carrying on their + comments in a confused whisper. In the hall, the housemaid (and it was the + first housemaid whom Lumley had ever seen in that house, so invisibly were + the wheels of the domestic machine carried on) was leaning on her broom, + “swallowing with open mouth a footman’s news.” It was as if, with the + first slackening of the rigid rein, human nature broke loose from the + conventual stillness in which it had ever paced its peaceful path in that + formal mansion. + </p> + <p> + “How is he?” + </p> + <p> + “My lord is better, sir; he has spoken, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment a young face, swollen and red with weeping, looked down + from the stairs; and presently Evelyn rushed breathlessly into the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come up—come up—cousin Lumley; he cannot, cannot die in + your presence; you always seem so full of life! He cannot die; you do not + think he will die? Oh, take me with you, they won’t let me go to him!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, my dear little girl, hush; follow me lightly—that is right.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley reached the door, tapped gently—entered; and the child also + stole in unobserved or at least unprevented. Lumley drew aside the + curtains; the new lord was lying on his bed, with his head propped by + pillows, his eyes wide open, with a glassy, but not insensible stare, and + his countenance fearfully changed. + </p> + <p> + Lady Vargrave was kneeling on the other side of the bed, one hand clasped + in her husband’s, the other bathing his temples, and her tears falling, + without sob or sound, fast and copiously down her pale fair cheeks. + </p> + <p> + Two doctors were conferring in the recess of the window; an apothecary was + mixing drugs at a table; and two of the oldest female servants of the + house were standing near the physicians, trying to overhear what was said. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, dear uncle, how are you?” asked Lumley. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you are come, then,” said the dying man, in a feeble yet distinct + voice; “that is well—I have much to say to you.” + </p> + <p> + “But not now—not now—you are not strong enough,” said the + wife, imploringly. + </p> + <p> + The doctors moved to the bedside. Lord Vargrave waved his hand, and raised + his head. + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen,” said he, “I feel as if death were hastening upon me; I have + much need, while my senses remain, to confer with my nephew. Is the + present a fitting time?—if I delay, are you sure that I shall have + another?” + </p> + <p> + The doctors looked at each other. + </p> + <p> + “My lord,” said one, “it may perhaps settle and relieve your mind to + converse with your nephew; afterwards you may more easily compose yourself + to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Take this cordial, then,” said the other doctor. + </p> + <p> + The sick man obeyed. One of the physicians approached Lumley, and beckoned + him aside. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we send for his lordship’s lawyer?” whispered the leech. + </p> + <p> + “I am his heir-at-law,” thought Lumley. “Why, <i>no</i>, my dear sir—no, + I think not, unless he expresses a desire to see him; doubtless my poor + uncle has already settled his worldly affairs. What is his state?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor shook his head. “I will speak to you, sir, after you have left + his lordship.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter there?” cried the patient, sharply and querulously. + “Clear the room—I would be alone with my nephew.” + </p> + <p> + The doctors disappeared; the old women reluctantly followed; when, + suddenly, the little Evelyn sprang forward and threw herself on the breast + of the dying man, sobbing as if her heart would break. + </p> + <p> + “My poor child!—my sweet child—my own, own darling!” gasped + out Lord Vargrave, folding his weak arms round her; “bless you—bless + you! and God will bless you. My wife,” he added, with a voice far more + tender than Lumley had ever before heard him address to Lady Vargrave, “if + these be the last words I utter to you, let them express all the gratitude + I feel for you, for duties never more piously discharged: you did not love + me, it is true; and in health and pride that knowledge often made me + unjust to you. I have been severe—you have had much to bear—forgive + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! do not talk thus; you have been nobler, kinder than my deserts. How + much I owe you—how little I have done in return!” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot bear this; leave me, my dear, leave me. I may live yet—I + hope I may—I do not want to die. The cup may pass from me. Go—go—and + you, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, let <i>me</i> stay.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Vargrave kissed the little creature, as she clung to his neck, with + passionate affection, and then, placing her in her mother’s arms, fell + back exhausted on his pillow. Lumley, with handkerchief to his eyes, + opened the door to Lady Vargrave, who sobbed bitterly, and carefully + closing it, resumed his station by his uncle. + </p> + <p> + When Lumley Ferrers left the room, his countenance was gloomy and excited + rather than sad. He hurried to the room which he usually occupied, and + remained there for some hours while his uncle slept—a long and sound + sleep. But the mother and the stepchild (now restored to the sick-room) + did not desert their watch. + </p> + <p> + It wanted about an hour to midnight, when the senior physician sought the + nephew. + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle asks for you, Mr. Ferrers; and I think it right to say that + his last moments approach. We have done all that can be done.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he fully aware of his danger?” + </p> + <p> + “He is; and has spent the last two hours in prayer—it is a + Christian’s death-bed, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Humph!” said Ferrers, as he followed the physician. The room was darkened—a + single lamp, carefully shaded, burned on a table, on which lay the Book of + Life in Death: and with awe and grief on their faces, the mother and the + child were kneeling beside the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Come here, Lumley,” faltered forth the fast-dying man. + </p> + <p> + “There are none here but you three—nearest and dearest to me?—That + is well. Lumley, then, you know all—my wife, he knows all. My child, + give your hand to your cousin—so you are now plighted. When you grow + up, Evelyn, you will know that it is my last wish and prayer that you + should be the wife of Lumley Ferrers. In giving you this angel, Lumley, I + atone to you for all seeming injustice. And to you, my child, I secure the + rank and honours to which I have painfully climbed, and which I am + forbidden to enjoy. Be kind to her, Lumley—you have a good and frank + heart—let it be her shelter—she has never known a harsh word. + God bless you all, and God forgive me—pray for me. Lumley, to-morrow + you will be Lord Vargrave, and by and by” (here a ghastly, but exultant + smile flitted over the speaker’s countenance), “you will be my Lady—Lady + Vargrave. Lady—so—so—Lady Var—” + </p> + <p> + The words died on his trembling lips; he turned round, and, though he + continued to breathe for more than an hour, Lord Vargrave never uttered + another syllable. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0071" id="link2HCH0071"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hopes and fears + Start up alarmed, and o’er life’s narrow verge + Look down—on what?—a fathomless abyss.”—YOUNG. + + “Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu!” + <i>Much Ado about Nothing</i>. +</pre> + <p> + THE wound which Maltravers had received was peculiarly severe and + rankling. It is true that he had never been what is called violently in + love with Florence Lascelles; but from the moment in which he had been + charmed and surprised into the character of a declared suitor, it was + consonant with his scrupulous and loyal nature to view only the bright + side of Florence’s gifts and qualities, and to seek to enamour his + grateful fancy with her beauty, her genius, and her tenderness for + himself. He had thus forced and formed his thoughts and hopes to centre + all in one object; and Florence and the Future had grown words which + conveyed the same meaning to his mind. Perhaps he felt more bitterly her + sudden and stunning accusations, couched as they were in language so + unqualified, because they fell upon his pride rather than his affection, + and were not softened away by the thousand excuses and remembrances which + a passionate love would have invented and recalled. It was a deep, + concentrated sense of injury and insult, that hardened and soured his + whole nature—wounded vanity, wounded pride, and wounded honour. + </p> + <p> + And the blow, too, came upon him at a time when he was most dissatisfied + with all other prospects. He was disgusted with the littleness of the + agents and springs of political life—he had formed a weary contempt + for the barrenness of literary reputation. At thirty years of age he had + necessarily outlived the sanguine elasticity of early youth, and he had + already broken up many of those later toys in business and ambition which + afford the rattle and the hobby-borse to our maturer manhood. Always + asking for something too refined and too exalted for human life, every new + proof of unworthiness in men and things saddened or revolted a mind still + too fastidious for that quiet contentment with the world as it is, which + we must all learn before we can make our philosophy practical and our + genius as fertile of the harvest as it may be prodigal of the blossom. + Haughty, solitary, and unsocial, the ordinary resources of mortified and + disappointed men were not for Ernest Maltravers. Rigidly secluded in his + country retirement, he consumed the days in moody wanderings; and in the + evenings he turned to books with a spirit disdainful and fatigued. So much + had he already learned, that books taught him little that he did not + already know. And the biographies of authors, those ghost-like beings who + seem to have had no life but in the shadow of their own haunting and + imperishable thoughts, dimmed the inspiration he might have caught from + their pages. Those slaves of the Lamp, those Silkworms of the Closet, how + little had they enjoyed, how little had they lived! Condemned to a + mysterious fate by the wholesale destinies of the world, they seemed born + but to toil and to spin thoughts for the common crowd—and, their + task performed in drudgery and in darkness, to die when no further service + could be wrung from their exhaustion. Names had they been in life, and as + names they lived for ever, in life as in death, airy and unsubstantial + phantoms. It pleased Maltravers at this time to turn a curious eye towards + the obscure and half-extinct philosophies of the ancient world. He + compared the Stoics with the Epicureans—those Epicureans who had + given their own version to the simple and abstemious utilitarianism of + their master. He asked which was the wiser, to sharpen pain or to deaden + pleasure—to bear all or to enjoy all; and, by a natural reaction + which often happens to us in life, this man, hitherto so earnest, + active-spirited, and resolved on great things, began to yearn for the + drowsy pleasures of indolence. The garden grew more tempting than the + porch. He seriously revolved the old alternative of the Grecian demi-god—might + it not be wiser to abandon the grave pursuits to which he had been + addicted, to dethrone the august but severe ideal in his heart, to + cultivate the light loves and voluptuous trifles of the herd, and to plant + the brief space of youth yet left to him with the myrtle and the rose? As + water flows over water, so new schemes rolled upon new—sweeping away + every momentary impression, and leaving the surface facile equally to + receive and to forget. Such is the common state with men of imagination in + those crises of life, when some great revolution of designs and hopes + unsettles elements too susceptible of every changing wind. And thus the + weak are destroyed, while the strong relapse, after terrible but unknown + convulsions, into that solemn harmony and order from which destiny and God + draw their uses to mankind. + </p> + <p> + It was from this irresolute contest between antagonist principles that + Maltravers was aroused by the following letter from Florence Lascelles: + </p> + <p> + “For three days and three sleepless nights I have debated with myself + whether or not I ought to address you. Oh, Ernest, were I what I was, in + health, in pride, I might fear that, generous as you are, you would + misconstrue my appeal; but that is now impossible. Our union never can + take place, and my hopes bound themselves to one sweet and melancholy + hope, that you will remove from my last hours the cold and dark shadow of + your resentment. We have both been cruelly deceived and betrayed. Three + days ago I discovered the perfidy that has been practised against us. And + then, ah! then, with all the weak human anguish of discovering it too late + (<i>your curse is fulfilled</i>, Ernest!), I had at least one moment of + proud, of exquisite rapture. Ernest Maltravers, the hero of my dreams, + stood pure and lofty as of old—a thing it was not unworthy to love, + to mourn, to die for. A letter in your handwriting had been shown to me, + garbled and altered, as it seems—but I detected not the imposture—it + was yourself, yourself alone, brought in false and horrible witness + against yourself! And could you think that any other evidence, the words, + the oaths of others, would have convicted you in my eyes? There you + wronged me. But I deserved it—I had bound myself to secrecy—the + seal is taken from my lips in order to be set upon my tomb. Ernest, + beloved Ernest—beloved till the last breath is extinct—till + the last throb of this heart is stilled—write me one word of comfort + and of pardon. You will believe what I have imperfectly written, for you + ever trusted my faith, if you have blamed my faults. I am now + comparatively happy—a word from you will, make me blest. And Fate + has, perhaps, been more merciful to both, than in our shortsighted and + querulous human vision, we might, perhaps, believe; for now that the frame + is brought low—and in the solitude of my chamber I can duly and + humbly commune with mine own heart, I see the aspect of those faults which + I once mistook for virtues—and feel that, had we been united, I, + loving you ever, might not have constituted your happiness, and so have + known the misery of losing your affection. May He who formed you for + glorious and yet all unaccomplished purposes strengthen you, when these + eyes can no longer sparkle at your triumphs, or weep at your lightest + sorrow. You will go on in your broad and luminous career:—a few + years, and my remembrance will have left but the vestige of a dream + behind. But, but—I can write no more. God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0072" id="link2HCH0072"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh, stop this headlong current of your goodness; + It comes too fast upon a feeble soul.” + DRYDEN: <i>Sebastian and Doras</i>. +</pre> + <p> + THE smooth physician had paid his evening visit; Lord Saxingham had gone + to a cabinet dinner, for Life must ever walk side by side with Death: and + Lady Florence Lascelles was alone. It was a room adjoining her + sleeping-apartment—a room in which, in the palmy days of the + brilliant and wayward heiress, she had loved to display her fanciful and + peculiar taste. There had she been accustomed to muse, to write, to study—there + had she first been dazzled by the novel glow of Ernest’s undiurnal and + stately thoughts—there had she first conceived the romance of + girlhood, which had led her to confer with him, unknown—there had + she first confessed to herself that fancy had begotten love—there + had she gone through love’s short and exhausting process of lone emotion;—the + doubt, the hope, the ecstasy; the reverse, the terror; the inanimate + despondency, the agonised despair! And there now, sadly and patiently, she + awaited the gradual march of inevitable decay. And books and pictures, and + musical instruments, and marble busts, half shadowed by classic draperies—and + all the delicate elegancies of womanly refinement—still invested the + chamber with a grace as cheerful as if youth and beauty were to be the + occupants for ever—and the dark and noisome vault were not the only + lasting residence for the things of clay. + </p> + <p> + Florence Lascelles was dying; but not indeed wholly of that common, if + mystic malady, a broken heart. Her health, always delicate, because always + preyed upon by a nervous, irritable, and feverish spirit, had been + gradually and invisibly undermined, even before Ernest confessed his love. + In the singular lustre of those large-pupilled eyes—in the luxuriant + transparency of that glorious bloom,—the experienced might long + since have traced the seeds which cradled death. In the night when her + restless and maddened heart so imprudently drove her forth to forestall + the communication of Lumley (whom she had sent to Maltravers, she scarce + knew for what object, or with what hope), in that night she was already in + a high state of fever. The rain and the chill struck the growing disease + within—her excitement gave it food and fire—delirium + succeeded; and in that most fearful and fatal of all medical errors, which + robs the frame, when it most needs strength, of the very principle of + life, they had bled her into a temporary calm, and into permanent and + incurable weakness. Consumption seized its victim. The physicians who + attended her were the most renowned in London, and Lord Saxingham was + firmly persuaded that there was no danger. It was not in his nature to + think that death would take so great a liberty with Lady Florence + Lascelles, when there were so many poor people in the world whom there + would be no impropriety in removing from it. But Florence knew her danger, + and her high spirit did not quail before it. Yet, when Cesarini, stung + beyond endurance by the horrors of his remorse, wrote and confessed all + his own share of the fatal treason, though, faithful to his promise, he + concealed that of his accomplice,—then, ah then, she did indeed + repine at her doom, and long to look once more with the eyes of love and + joy upon the face of the beautiful world. But the illness of the body + usually brings out a latent power and philosophy of the soul, which health + never knows; and God has mercifully ordained it as the customary lot of + nature, that in proportion as we decline into the grave, the sloping path + is made smooth and easy to our feet; and every day, as the films of clay + are removed from our eyes, Death loses the false aspect of the spectre, + and we fall at last into its arms as a wearied child upon the bosom of its + mother. + </p> + <p> + It was with a heavy heart that Lady Florence listened to the monotonous + clicking of the clock that announced the departure of moments few, yet not + precious, still spared to her. Her face buried in her hands, she bent over + the small table beside her sofa, and indulged her melancholy thoughts. + Bowed was the haughty crest, unnerved the elastic shape that had once + seemed born for majesty and command—no friends were near, for + Florence had never made friends. Solitary had been her youth, and solitary + were her dying hours. + </p> + <p> + As she thus sat and mused, a sound of carriage wheels in the street below + slightly shook the room—it ceased—the carriage stopped at the + door. Florence looked up. “No, no, it cannot be,” she muttered; yet, while + she spoke, a faint flush passed over her sunken and faded cheek, and the + bosom heaved beneath the robe, “a world too wide for its shrunk” + proportions. There was a silence, which to her seemed interminable, and + she turned away with a deep sigh, and a chill sinking of the heart. + </p> + <p> + At this time her woman entered with a meaning and flurried look. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, my lady—but—” + </p> + <p> + “But what?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Maltravers has called, and asked for your ladyship—so, my lady, + Mr. Burton sent for me, and I said, my lady is too unwell to see any one; + but Mr. Maltravers would not be denied; and he is waiting in my lord’s + library, and insisted on my coming up and ‘nouncing him, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + Now Mrs. Shinfield’s words were not euphonistic, nor her voice + mellifluous; but never had eloquence seemed to Florence so effective. + Youth, love, beauty, all rushed back upon her at once, brightening her + eyes, her cheek, and filling up ruin with sudden and deceitful light. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, after a pause, “let Mr. Maltravers come up.” + </p> + <p> + “Come up, my lady? Bless me!—let me just ‘range your hair—your + ladyship is really in such dish-a-bill.” + </p> + <p> + “Best as it is, Shinfield—he will excuse all.—Go.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Shinfield shrugged her shoulders, and departed. A few moments more—a + step on the stairs, the creaking of the door,—and Maltravers and + Florence were again alone. He stood motionless on the threshold. She had + involuntarily risen, and so they stood opposite to each other, and the + lamp fell full upon her face. Oh, Heaven! when did that sight cease to + haunt the heart of Maltravers! When shall that altered aspect not pass as + a ghost before his eyes!—there it is, faithful and reproachful alike + in solitude and in crowds—it is seen in the glare of noon—it + passes dim and wan at night beneath the stars and the earth—it + looked into his heart and left its likeness there for ever and for ever! + Those cheeks, once so beautifully rounded, now sunken into lines and + hollows—the livid darkness beneath the eyes—the whitened lip—the + sharp, anxious, worn expression, which had replaced that glorious and + beaming regard from which all the life of genius, all the sweet pride of + womanhood had glowed forth, and in which not only the intelligence, but + the eternity of the soul, seemed visibly wrought. + </p> + <p> + There he stood, aghast and appalled. At length a low groan broke from his + lips—he rushed forward, sank on his knees beside her, and clasping + both her hands, sobbed aloud as he covered them with kisses. All the iron + of his strong nature was broken down, and his emotions, long silenced, and + now uncontrollable and resistless, were something terrible to behold! + </p> + <p> + “Do not—do not weep so,” murmured Lady Florence, frightened by his + vehemence; “I am sadly changed, but the fault is mine—Ernest, it is + mine; best, kindest, gentlest, how could I have been so mad! And you + forgive me? I am yours again—a little while yours. Ah, do not grieve + while I am so blessed!” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke, her tears—tears from a source how different from that + whence broke the scorching and intolerable agony of his own! fell soft + upon his bended head, and the hands that still convulsively strained hers. + Maltravers looked wildly up into her countenance, and shuddered as he saw + her attempt to smile. He rose abruptly, threw himself into a chair, and + covered his face. He was seeking by a violent effort to master himself, + and it was only by the heaving of his chest, and now and then a gasp as + for breath, that he betrayed the stormy struggle within. + </p> + <p> + Florence gazed at him a moment in bitter, in almost selfish penitence. + “And this was the man who seemed to me so callous to the softer sympathies—this + was the heart I trampled upon—this the nature I distrusted!” + </p> + <p> + She came near him, trembling and with feeble steps—she laid her hand + upon his shoulder, and the fondness of love came over her, and she wound + her arms around him. + </p> + <p> + “It is our fate—it is my fate,” said Maltravers at last, awaking as + from a hideous dream, and in a hollow but calm voice—“we are the + things of destiny, and the wheel has crushed us. It is an awful state of + being this human life!—What is wisdom—virtue—faith to + men—piety to Heaven—all the nurture we bestow on ourselves—all + our desire to win a loftier sphere, when we are thus the tools of the + merest chance—the victims of the pettiest villainy; and our very + existence—our very senses almost, at the mercy of every traitor and + every fool!” + </p> + <p> + There was something in Ernest’s voice, as well as in his reflections, + which appeared so unnaturally calm and deep that it startled Florence, + with a fear more acute than his previous violence had done. He rose, and + muttering to himself, walked to and fro, as if insensible of her presence—in + fact he was so. At length he stopped short, and fixing his eyes upon Lady + Florence, said in a whispered and thrilling tone: + </p> + <p> + “Now, then, the name of our undoer?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Ernest, no—never, unless you promise me to forego the purpose + which I read in your eyes. He has confessed—he is penitent—I + have forgiven him—you will do so too!” + </p> + <p> + “His name!” repeated Maltravers, and his face, before very flushed, was + unnaturally pale. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive him—promise me.” + </p> + <p> + “His name, I say,—his name?” + </p> + <p> + “Is this kind?—you terrify me—you will kill me!” faltered out + Florence, and she sank on the sofa exhausted: her nerves, now so weakened, + were perfectly unstrung by his vehemence, and she wrung her hands and wept + piteously. + </p> + <p> + “You will not tell me his name?” said Maltravers, softly. “Be it so. I + will ask no more. I can discover it myself. Fate the Avenger will reveal + it.” + </p> + <p> + At the thought he grew more composed; and as Florence wept on, the + unnatural concentration and fierceness of his mind again gave way, and, + seating himself beside her, he uttered all that could soothe, and comfort, + and console. And Florence was soon soothed! And there, while over their + heads the grim skeleton was holding the funeral pall, they again exchanged + their vows, and again, with feelings fonder than of old, spoke of love. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0073" id="link2HCH0073"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Erichtho, then, + Breathes her dire murmurs, which enforce him bear + Her baneful secrets to the spirits of horror.”—MARLOWE. +</pre> + <p> + WITH a heavy step Maltravers ascended the stairs of his lonely house that + night, and heavily, with a suppressed groan, did he sink upon the first + chair that proffered rest. + </p> + <p> + It was intensely cold. During his long interview with Lady Florence, his + servant had taken the precaution to go to Seamore Place, and make some + hasty preparations for the owner’s return. But the bedroom looked + comfortless and bare, the curtains were taken down, the carpets were taken + up (a single man’s housekeeper is wonderfully provident in these matters; + the moment his back is turned, she bustles, she displaces, she exults; + “things can be put a little to rights!”). Even the fire would not burn + clear, but gleamed sullen and fitful from the smothering fuel. It was a + large chamber, and the lights imperfectly filled it. On the table lay + parliamentary papers, and pamphlets, and bills and presentation-books from + younger authors—evidences of the teeming business of that restless + machine the world. But of all this Maltravers was not sensible: the winter + frost numbed not his feverish veins. His servant, who loved him, as all + who saw much of Maltravers did, fidgeted anxiously about the room, and + plied the sullen fire, and laid out the comfortable dressing-robe, and + placed wine on the table, and asked questions which were not answered, and + pressed service which was not heeded. The little wheels of life go on, + even when the great wheel is paralysed or broken. Maltravers was, if I may + so express it, in a kind of mental trance. His emotions had left him + thoroughly exhausted. He felt that torpor which succeeds and is again the + precursor of great woe. At length he was alone, and the solitude half + unconsciously restored him to the sense of his heavy misery. For it may be + observed, that when misfortune has stricken us home, the presence of any + one seems to interfere between the memory and the heart. Withdraw the + intruder, and the lifted hammer falls at once upon the anvil! He rose as + the door closed on his attendant—rose with a start, and pushed the + hat from his gathered brows. He walked for some moments to and fro, and + the air of the room, freezing as it was, oppressed him. + </p> + <p> + There are times when the arrow quivers within us—in which all space + seems too confined. Like the wounded hart, we could fly on for ever; there + is a vague desire of escape—a yearning, almost insane, to get out + from our own selves: the soul struggles to flee away, and take the wings + of the morning. + </p> + <p> + Impatiently, at last, did Maltravers throw open his window; it + communicated with a balcony, built out to command the wide view which, + from a certain height, that part of the park affords. He stepped into the + balcony and bared his breast to the keen air. The uncomfortable and icy + heavens looked down upon the hoar-rime that gathered over the grass, and + the ghostly boughs of the deathlike trees. All things in the world without + brought the thought of the grave, and the pause of being, and the + withering up of beauty, closer and closer to his soul. In the palpable and + griping winter, death itself seemed to wind around him its skeleton and + joyless arms. And as thus he stood, and, wearied with contending against, + passively yielded to, the bitter passions that wrung and gnawed his heart,—he + heard not a sound at the door—nor the footsteps on the stairs—nor + knew he that a visitor was in his room—till he felt a hand upon his + shoulder, and turning round, he beheld the white and livid countenance of + Castruccio Cesarini. + </p> + <p> + “It is a dreary night and a solemn hour, Maltravers,” said the Italian, + with a distorted smile—“a fitting night and time for my interview + with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Away!” said Maltravers, in an impatient tone. “I am not at leisure for + these mock heroics.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, but you shall hear me to the end. I have watched your arrival—I + have counted the hours in which you remained with her—I have + followed you home. If you have human passions, humanity itself must be + dried up within you, and the wild beast in his cavern is not more fearful + to encounter. Thus, then, I seek and brave you. Be still. Has Florence + revealed to you the name of him who belied you, and who betrayed herself + to the death?” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” said Maltravers, growing very pale, and fixing his eyes on Cesarini, + “you are not the man—my suspicions lighted elsewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “I am the man. Do thy worst.” + </p> + <p> + Scarce were the words uttered, when, with a fierce cry, Maltravers threw + himself on the Italian;—he tore him from his footing—he + grasped him in his arms as a child—he literally whirled him around + and on high; and in that maddening paroxysm, it was, perhaps, but the + balance of a feather, in the conflicting elements of revenge and reason, + which withheld Maltravers from hurling the criminal from the fearful + height on which they stood. The temptation passed—Cesarini leaned + safe, unharmed, but half senseless with mingled rage and fear, against the + wall. + </p> + <p> + He was alone—Maltravers had left him—had fled from himself—fled + into the chamber—fled for refuge from human passions to the wing of + the All-Seeing and All-Present. “Father,” he groaned, sinking on his + knees, “support me, save me: without Thee I am lost.” + </p> + <p> + Slowly Cesarini recovered himself, and re-entered the apartment. A string + in his brain was already loosened, and, sullen and ferocious, he returned + again to goad the lion that had spared him. Maltravers had already risen + from his brief prayer. With locked and rigid countenance, with arms folded + on his breast, he stood confronting the Italian, who advanced towards him + with a menacing brow and arm, but halted involuntarily at the sight of + that commanding aspect. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” said Maltravers at last, with a tone preternaturally calm + and low, “you then are the man. Speak on—what arts did you employ?” + </p> + <p> + “Your own letter. When, many months ago, I wrote to tell you of the hopes + it was mine to conceive, and to ask your opinion of her I loved, how did + you answer me? With doubts, with depreciation, with covert and polished + scorn, of the very woman whom, with a deliberate treachery, you afterwards + wrested from my worshipping and adoring love. That letter I garbled. I + made the doubts you expressed of my happiness seem doubts of your own. I + changed the dates—I made the letter itself appear written, not on + your first acquaintance with her, but subsequent to your plighted and + accepted vows. Your own handwriting convicted you of mean suspicions and + of sordid motives. These were my arts.” + </p> + <p> + “They were most noble. Do you abide by them—or repent?” + </p> + <p> + “For what I have done to <i>thee</i> I have no repentance. Nay, I regard + thee still as the aggressor. Thou hast robbed me of her who was all the + world to me—and, be thine excuses what they may, I hate thee with a + hate that cannot slumber—that abjures the abject name of remorse! I + exult in the very agonies thou endurest. But for her—the stricken—the + dying! O God, O God! The blow falls upon mine own head!” + </p> + <p> + “Dying!” said Maltravers, slowly and with a shudder. “No, no—not + dying—or what art thou? Her murderer! And what must I be? Her + avenger!” + </p> + <p> + Overpowered with his own passions, Cesarini sank down and covered his face + with his clasped hands. Maltravers stalked gloomily to and fro the + apartment. There was silence for some moments. + </p> + <p> + At length Maltravers paused opposite Cesarini and thus addressed him: + </p> + <p> + “You have come hither not so much to confess the basest crime of which man + can be guilty, as to gloat over my anguish and to brave me to revenge my + wrongs. Go, man, go—for the present you are safe. While she lives, + my life is not mine to hazard—if she recover, I can pity you and + forgive. To me your offence, foul though it be, sinks below contempt + itself. It is the consequences of that crime as they relate to—to—that + noble and suffering woman, which can alone raise the despicable into the + tragic and make your life a worthy and a necessary offering—not to + revenge, but justice:—life for life—victim for victim! ‘Tis + the old law—‘tis a righteous one.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall not, with your accursed coldness, thus dispose of me as you + will, and arrogate the option to smite or save! No,” continued Cesarini, + stamping his foot—“no; far from seeking forbearance at your hands—I + dare and defy you! You think I have injured you—I, on the other + hand, consider that the wrong has come from yourself. But for you, she + might have loved me—have been mine. Let that pass. But for you, at + least, it is certain that I should neither have sullied my soul with a + vile sin, nor brought the brightest of human beings to the grave. If she + dies, the murder may be mine, but you were the cause—the devil that + tempted to the offence. I defy and spit upon you—I have no softness + left in me—my veins are fire—my heart thirsts for blood. You—you—have + still the privilege to see—to bless—to tend her:—and I—I, + who loved her so—who could have kissed the earth she trod on—I—well, + well, no matter—I hate you—I insult you—I call you + villain and dastard—I throw myself on the laws of honour, and I + demand that conflict you defer or deny!” + </p> + <p> + “Home, doter—home—fall on thy knees, and pray to Heaven for + pardon—make up thy dread account—repine not at the days yet + thine to wash the black spot from thy soul. For, while I speak, I foresee + too well that her days are numbered, and with her thread of life is + entwined thine own. Within twelve hours from her last moment, we shall + meet again: but now I am as ice and stone,—thou canst not move me. + Her closing life shall not be darkened by the aspect of blood—by the + thought of the sacrifice it demands. Begone, or menials shall cast thee + from my door: those lips are too base to breathe the same air as honest + men. Begone, I say, begone!” + </p> + <p> + Though scarce a muscle moved in the lofty countenance of Maltravers—though + no frown darkened the majestic brow—though no fire broke from the + steadfast and scornful eye—there was a kingly authority in the + aspect, in the extended arm, the stately crest, and a power in the swell + of the stern voice, which awed and quelled the unhappy being whose own + passions exhausted and unmanned him. He strove to fling back scorn to + scorn, but his lips trembled, and his voice died in hollow murmurs within + his breast. Maltravers regarded him with a crushing and intense disdain. + The Italian with shame and wrath wrestled against himself, but in vain: + the cold eye that was fixed upon him was as a spell, which the fiend + within him could not rebel against or resist. Mechanically he moved to the + door,—then turning round, he shook his clenched hand at Maltravers, + and, with a wild, maniacal laugh, rushed from the apartment. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0074" id="link2HCH0074"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “On some fond breast the parting soul relies.”—GRAY. +</pre> + <p> + NOT a day passed in which Maltravers was absent from the side of Florence. + He came early, he went late. He subsided into his former character of an + accepted suitor, without a word of explanation with Lord Saxingham. That + task was left to Florence. She doubtless performed it well, for his + lordship seemed satisfied though grave, and, almost for the first time in + his life, sad. Maltravers never reverted to the cause of their unhappy + dissension. Nor from that night did he once give way to whatever might be + his more agonised and fierce emotions—he never affected to reproach + himself—he never bewailed with a vain despair their approaching + separation. Whatever it cost him, he stood collected and stoical in the + intense power of his self control. He had but one object, one desire, one + hope—to save the last hours of Florence Lascelles from every pang—to + brighten and smooth the passage across the Solemn Bridge. His forethought, + his presence of mind, his care, his tenderness, never forsook him for an + instant: they went beyond the attributes of men, they went into all the + fine, the indescribable minutiae by which woman makes herself, “in pain + and anguish,” the “ministering angel.” It was as if he had nerved and + braced his whole nature to one duty—as if that duty were more felt + than affection itself—as if he were resolved that Florence should + not remember that <i>she had no mother</i>! + </p> + <p> + And, oh, then, how Florence loved him! how far more luxurious, in its + grateful and clinging fondness, was that love, than the wild and jealous + fire of their earlier connection! Her own character, as is often the case + in lingering illness, became incalculably more gentle and softened down, + as the shadows closed around it. She loved to make him read and talk to + her—and her ancient poetry of thought now grew mellowed, as it were, + into religion, which is indeed poetry with a stronger wing.... There was a + world beyond the grave—there was life out of the chrysalis sleep of + death—they would yet be united. And Maltravers, who was a solemn and + intense believer in the GREAT HOPE, did not neglect the purest and highest + of all the fountains of solace. + </p> + <p> + Often in that quiet room, in that gorgeous mansion, which had been the + scene of all vain or worldly schemes—of flirtations and feastings, + and political meetings and cabinet dinners, and all the bubbles of the + passing wave—often there did these persons, whose position to each + other had been so suddenly and so strangely changed—converse on + those matters—daring and divine—which “make the bridal of the + earth and sky.” + </p> + <p> + “How fortunate am I,” said Florence, one day, “that my choice fell on one + who thinks as you do! How your words elevate and exalt me!—yet once + I never dreamt of asking your creed on these questions. It is in sorrow or + sickness that we learn why Faith was given as a soother to man—Faith, + which is Hope with a holier name—hope that knows neither deceit nor + death. Ah, how wisely do you speak of the <i>philosophy</i> of belief! It + is, indeed, the telescope through which the stars grow large upon our + gaze. And to you, Ernest, my beloved—comprehended and known at last—to + you I leave, when I am gone, that monitor—that friend; you will know + yourself what you teach to me. And when you look not on the heaven alone + but in all space—on all the illimitable creation, you will know that + I am there! For the home of a spirit is wherever spreads the Universal + Presence of God. And to what numerous stages of being, what paths, what + duties, what active and glorious tasks in other worlds may we not be + reserved—perhaps to know and share them together, and mount age + after age higher in the scale of being. For surely in heaven there is no + pause or torpor—we do not lie down in calm and unimprovable repose. + Movement and progress will remain the law and condition of existence. And + there will be efforts and duties for us above as there have been below.” + </p> + <p> + It was in this theory, which Maltravers shared, that the character of + Florence, her overflowing life and activity of thought—her + aspirations, her ambition, were still displayed. It was not so much to the + calm and rest of the grave that she extended her unreluctant gaze, as to + the light and glory of a renewed and progressive existence. + </p> + <p> + It was while thus they sat, the low voice of Ernest, tranquil yet half + trembling with the emotions he sought to restrain—sometimes + sobering, sometimes yet more elevating, the thoughts of Florence, that + Lord Vargrave was announced, and Lumley Ferrers, who had now succeeded to + that title, entered the room. It was the first time that Florence had seen + him since the death of his uncle—the first time Maltravers had seen + him since the evening so fatal to Florence. Both started—Maltravers + rose and walked to the window. Lord Vargrave took the hand of his cousin + and pressed it to his lips in silence, while his looks betokened feelings + that for once were genuine. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Lumley, I am resigned,” said Florence, with a sweet smile. “I am + resigned and happy.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley glanced at Maltravers, and met a cold, scrutinising, piercing eye, + from which he shrank with some confusion. He recovered himself in an + instant. + </p> + <p> + “I am rejoiced, my cousin, I <i>am</i> rejoiced,” said he, very earnestly, + “to see Maltravers here again. Let us now hope the best.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers walked deliberately up to Lumley. “Will you take my hand <i>now</i>, + too?” said he, with deep meaning in his tone. + </p> + <p> + “More willingly than ever,” said Lumley; and he did not shrink as he said + it. + </p> + <p> + “I am satisfied,” replied Maltravers, after a pause, and in a voice that + expressed more than his words. + </p> + <p> + There is in some natures so great a hoard of generosity, that it often + dulls their acuteness. Maltravers could not believe that frankness could + be wholly a mask—it was an hypocrisy he knew not of. He himself was + not incapable, had circumstances so urged him, of great crimes; nay, the + design of one crime lay at that moment deadly and dark within his heart, + for he had some passions which in so resolute a character could produce, + should the wind waken them into storm, dire and terrible effects. Even at + the age of thirty, it was yet uncertain whether Ernest Maltravers might + become an exemplary or an evil man. But he could sooner have strangled a + foe than taken the hand of a man whom he had once betrayed. + </p> + <p> + “I love to think you friends,” said Florence, gazing at them + affectionately, “and to you, at least, Lumley, such friendship should be a + blessing. I always loved you much and dearly, Lumley—loved you as a + brother, though our characters often jarred.” + </p> + <p> + Lumley winced. “For Heaven’s sake,” he cried, “do not speak thus tenderly + to me—I cannot bear it, and look on you and think—” + </p> + <p> + “That I am dying. Kind words become us best when our words are approaching + to the last. But enough of this—I grieved for your loss.” + </p> + <p> + “My poor uncle!” said Lumley, eagerly changing the conversation—“the + shock was sudden; and melancholy duties have absorbed me so till this day, + that I could not come even to you. It soothed me, however, to learn, in + answer to my daily inquiries, that Ernest was here. For my part,” he added + with a faint smile, “I have had duties as well as honours devolved on me. + I am left guardian to an heiress, and betrothed to a child.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, my poor uncle was so fondly attached to his wife’s daughter, that he + has left her the bulk of his property: a very small estate—not L2000 + a year—goes with the title (a new title, too, which requires twice + as much to carry it off and make its pinchbeck pass for gold). In order, + however, to serve a double purpose, secure to his <i>protegee</i> his own + beloved peerage, and atone to his nephew for the loss of wealth—he + has left it a last request, that I should marry the young lady over whom I + am appointed guardian, when she is eighteen—alas! I shall then be at + the other side of forty! If she does not take to so mature a bridegroom, + she loses thirty—only thirty of the L200,000 settled upon her, which + goes to me as a sugar-plum after the nauseous draught of the young lady’s + ‘No.’ Now, you know all. His widow, really an exemplary young woman, has a + jointure of L1500 a year, and the villa. It is not much, but she is + contented.” + </p> + <p> + The lightness of the new peer’s tone revolted Maltravers, and he turned + impatiently away. But Lord Vargrave, resolving not to suffer the + conversation to glide back to sorrowful subjects, which he always hated, + turned round to Ernest, and said, “Well, my dear Ernest, I see by the + papers that you are to have N———‘s late appointment—it + is a very rising office. I congratulate you.” + </p> + <p> + “I have refused,” said Maltravers, drily. + </p> + <p> + “Bless me!—indeed!—why?” + </p> + <p> + Ernest bit his lip, and frowned; but his glance wandering unconsciously at + Florence, Lumley thought he detected the true reply to his question, and + became mute. + </p> + <p> + The conversation was afterwards embarrassed and broken up; Lumley went + away as soon as he could, and Lady Florence that night had a severe fit, + and could not leave her bed the next day. That confinement she had + struggled against to the last; and now, day by day, it grew more frequent + and inevitable. The steps of Death became accelerated. And Lord Saxingham, + wakened at last to the mournful truth, took his place by his daughter’s + side, and forgot that he was a cabinet minister. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0075" id="link2HCH0075"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Away, my friends, why take such pains to know + What some brave marble soon in church shall show?” + CRABBE. +</pre> + <p> + IT may seem strange, but Maltravers had never loved Lady Florence as he + did now. Was it the perversity of human nature that makes the things of + mortality dearer to us in proportion as they fade from our hopes, like + birds whose hues are only unfolded when they take wing and vanish amidst + the skies; or was it that he had ever doted more on loveliness of mind + than that of form, and the first bloomed out the more, the more the last + decayed? A thing to protect, to soothe, to shelter—oh, how dear it + is to the pride of man! The haughty woman who can stand alone and requires + no leaning-place in our heart, loses the spell of her sex. + </p> + <p> + I pass over those stages of decline gratuitously painful to record; and + which in this case mine cannot be the cold and technical hand to trace. At + length came that time when physicians could define within a few days the + final hour of release. And latterly the mocking pruderies of rank had been + laid aside, and Maltravers had, for some hours at least in the day, taken + his watch beside the couch to which the admired and brilliant Florence + Lascelles was now almost constantly reduced. But her high and heroic + spirit was with her to the last. To the last she could endure love and + hope. One day when Maltravers left his post, she besought him, with more + solemnity than usual, to return that evening. She fixed the precise hour, + and she sighed heavily when he departed. Maltravers paused in the hall to + speak to the physician, who was just quitting Lord Saxingham’s library. + Ernest spoke to him for some moments calmly, and when he heard the fiat, + he betrayed no other emotion than a slight quiver of the lip! “I must not + weep for her yet,” he muttered, as he turned from the door. He went thence + to the house of a gentleman of his own age, with whom he had formed that + kind of acquaintance which never amounts to familiar friendship, but rests + upon mutual respect, and is often more ready than professed friendship + itself to confer mutual service. Colonel Danvers was a man who usually sat + next to Maltravers in parliament; they voted together, and thought alike + on principles both of politics and honour: they would have lent thousands + to each other without bond or memorandum; and neither ever wanted a warm + and indignant advocate when he was abused behind his back in the presence + of the other. Yet their tastes and ordinary habits were not congenial; and + when they met in the streets, they never said, as they would to companions + they esteemed less, “Let us spend the day together!” Such forms of + acquaintance are not uncommon among honourable men who have already formed + habits and pursuits of their own, which they cannot surrender even to + friendship. Colonel Danvers was not at home—they believed he was at + his club, of which Ernest also was a member. Thither Maltravers bent his + way. On arriving, he found that Danvers had been at the club an hour ago, + and left word that he should shortly return. Maltravers entered and + quietly sat down. The room was full of its daily loungers; but he did not + shrink from, he did not even heed, the crowd. He felt not the desire of + solitude—there was solitude enough within him. Several distinguished + public men were there, grouped around the fire, and many of the hangers-on + and satellites of political life; they were talking with eagerness and + animation, for it was a season of great party conflict. Strange as it may + seem, though Maltravers was then scarcely sensible of their conversation, + it all came back vividly and faithfully on him afterwards, in the first + hours of reflection on his own future plans, and served to deepen and + consolidate his disgust of the world. They were discussing the character + of a great statesman whom, warmed but by the loftiest and purest motives, + they were unable to understand. Their gross suspicions, their coarse + jealousies, their calculations of patriotism by place, all that strips the + varnish from the face of that fair harlot—Political Ambition—sank + like caustic into his spirit. A gentleman seeing him sit silent, with his + hat over his moody brows, civilly extended to him the paper he was + reading. + </p> + <p> + “It is the second edition; you will find the last French express.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Maltravers; and the civil man started as he heard the + brief answer; there was something so inexpressibly prostrate and + broken-spirited in the voice that uttered it. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers’s eyes fell mechanically on the columns, and caught his own + name. That work which, in the fair retirement of Temple Grove it had so + pleased him to compose—in every page and every thought of which + Florence had been consulted—which was so inseparably associated with + her image, and glorified by the light of her kindred genius—was just + published. It had been completed long since; but the publisher had, for + some excellent reason of the craft, hitherto delayed its appearance. + Maltravers knew nothing of its publication; he had meant, after his return + to town, to have sent to forbid its appearance; but his thoughts of late + had crushed everything else out of his memory—he had forgotten its + existence. And now, in all the pomp and parade of authorship, it was sent + into the world! <i>Now</i>, <i>now</i>, when it was like an indecent + mockery of the Bed of Death—a sacrilege, an impiety! There is a + terrible disconnection between the author and the man—-the author’s + life and the man’s life—the eras of visible triumph may be those of + the most intolerable, though unrevealed and unconjectured anguish. The + book that delighted us to compose may first appear in the hour when all + things under the sun are joyless. This had been Ernest Maltravers’s most + favoured work. It had been conceived in a happy hour of great ambition—it + had been executed with that desire of truth, which, in the mind of genius, + becomes ART. How little in the solitary hours stolen from sleep had he + thought of self, and that labourer’s hire called “fame!” how had he dreamt + that he was promulgating secrets to make his kind better, and wiser, and + truer to the great aims of life! How had Florence, and Florence alone, + understood the beatings of his heart in every page! <i>And now</i>!—it + so chanced that the work was reviewed in the paper he read—it was + not only a hostile criticism, it was a personally abusive diatribe, a + virulent invective. All the motives that can darken or defile were + ascribed to him. All the mean spite of some mean mind was sputtered forth. + Had the writer known the awful blow that awaited Maltravers at that time, + it is not in man’s nature but that he would have shrunk from this petty + gall upon the wrung withers; but, as I have said, there is a terrible + disconnection between the author and the man. The first is always at our + mercy—of the last we know nothing. At such an hour Maltravers could + feel none of the contempt that proud—none of the wrath that vain, + minds feel at these stings. He could feel nothing but an undefined + abhorrence of the world, and of the aims and objects he had pursued so + long. Yet that even he did not then feel. He was in a dream; but as men + remember dreams, so when he awoke did he loathe his own former + aspirations, and sicken at their base rewards. It was the first time since + his first year of inexperienced authorship that abuse had had the power + even to vex him for a moment. But here, when the cup was already full, was + the drop that overflowed. The great column of his past world was gone, and + all else seemed crumbling away. + </p> + <p> + At length Colonel Danvers entered. Maltravers drew him aside, and they + left the club. + </p> + <p> + “Danvers,” said the latter, “the time in which I told you I should need + your services is near at hand; let me see you, if possible, to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly—I shall be, at the House till eleven. After that hour you + will find me at home.” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Cannot this matter be arranged amicably?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it is a quarrel of life and death.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet the world is really growing too enlightened for these old mimicries + of single combat.” + </p> + <p> + “There are some cases in which human nature and its deep wrongs will be + ever stronger than the world and its philosophy. Duels and wars belong to + the same principle; both are sinful on light grounds and poor pretexts. + But it is not sinful for a soldier to defend his country from invasion, + nor for man, with a man’s heart, to vindicate truth and honour with his + life. The robber that asks me for money I am allowed to shoot. Is the + robber that tears from me treasures never to be replaced, to go free? + These are the inconsistencies of a pseudo-ethics, which, as long as we are + made of flesh and blood, we can never subscribe to.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet the ancients,” said Danvers, with a smile, “were as passionate as + ourselves, and they dispensed with duels.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, because they resorted to assassination!” answered Maltravers, with a + gloomy frown. “As in revolutions all law is suspended, so are there stormy + events and mighty injuries in life which are as revolutions to + individuals. Enough of this—it is no time to argue like the + schoolmen. When we meet you shall know all, and you will judge like me. + Good day!” + </p> + <p> + “What, are you going already? Maltravers, you look ill, your hand is + feverish—you should take advice.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers smiled—but the smile was not like his own—shook his + head, and strode rapidly away. + </p> + <p> + Three of the London clocks, one after the other, had told the hour of + nine, as a tall and commanding figure passed up the street towards + Saxingham House. Five doors before you reach that mansion there is a + crossing, and at this spot stood a young man, in whose face youth itself + looked sapless and blasted. It was then March;—the third of March; + the weather was unusually severe and biting, even for that angry month. + There had been snow in the morning, and it lay white and dreary in various + ridges along the street. But the wind was not still in the keen but quiet + sharpness of frost; on the contrary, it howled almost like a hurricane + through the desolate thoroughfares, and the lamps flickered unsteadily in + the turbulent gusts. Perhaps it was the blasts which increased the + haggardness of aspect in the young man I have mentioned. His hair, which + was much longer than is commonly worn, was tossed wildly from cheeks + preternaturally shrunken, hollow, and livid: and the frail, thin form + seemed scarcely able to support itself against the rush of the winds. + </p> + <p> + As the tall figure, which, in its masculine stature and proportions, and a + peculiar and nameless grandeur of bearing, strongly contrasted that of the + younger man, now came to the spot where the streets met, it paused + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “You are here once more, Castruccio Cesarini; it is well!” said the low + but ringing voice of Ernest Maltravers. “This, I believe, will not be our + last interview to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I ask you, sir,” said Cesarini, in a tone in which pride struggled with + emotion—“I ask you to tell me how she is; whether you know—I + cannot speak—” + </p> + <p> + “Your work is nearly done,” answered Maltravers. “A few hours more, and + your victim, for she is yours, will bear her tale to the Great Judgment + Seat. Murderer as you are, tremble, for your own hour approaches!” + </p> + <p> + “She dies and I cannot see her! and you are permitted that last glimpse of + human perfectness; you who never loved her as I did; you—hated and + detested! you—” + </p> + <p> + Cesarini paused, and his voice died away, choked in his own convulsive + gaspings for breath. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers looked at him from the height of his erect and lofty form, with + a merciless eye; for in this one quarter, Maltravers had shut out pity + from his soul. + </p> + <p> + “Weak criminal!” said he, “hear me. You received at my hands forbearance, + friendship, fostering and anxious care. When your own follies plunged you + into penury, mine was the unseen hand that plucked you from famine, or the + prison. I strove to redeem, and save, and raise you, and endow your + miserable spirit with the thirst and the power of honour and independence. + The agent of that wish was Florence Lascelles; you repaid us well! a base + and fraudulent forgery, attaching meanness to me, fraught with agony and + death to her. Your conscience at last smote you; you revealed to her your + crime—one spark of manhood made you reveal it also to myself. Fresh + as I was in that moment from the contemplations of the ruin you had made, + I curbed the impulse that would have crushed the life from your bosom. I + told you to live on while life was left to her. If she recovered, I could + forgive; if she died, I must avenge. We entered into that solemn compact, + and in a few hours the bond will need the seal: it is the blood of one of + us. Castruccio Cesarini, there is justice in Heaven. Deceive yourself not; + you will fall by my hand. When the hour comes, you will hear from me. Let + me pass—I have no more now to say.” + </p> + <p> + Every syllable of this speech was uttered with that thrilling distinctness + which seems as if the depth of the heart spoke in the voice. But Cesarini + did not appear to understand its import. He seized Maltravers by the arm, + and looked in his face with a wild and menacing glare. + </p> + <p> + “Did you tell me she was dying?” he said. “I ask you that question: why do + you not answer me? Oh, by the way, you threaten me with your vengeance. + Know you not that I long to meet you front to front, and to the death? Did + I not tell you so—did I not try to move your slow blood—to + insult you into a conflict in which I should have gloried? Yet then you + were marble.” + </p> + <p> + “Because <i>my</i> wrong I could forgive, and <i>hers</i>—there was + then a hope that hers might not need the atonement. Away!” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers shook the hold of the Italian from his arm, and passed on. A + wild, sharp yell of despair rang after him, and echoed in his ear as he + strode the long, dim, solitary stairs that led to the death-bed of + Florence Lascelles. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers entered the room adjoining that which contained the sufferer—the + same room, still gay and cheerful, in which had been his first interview + with Florence since their reconciliation. + </p> + <p> + Here he found the physician dozing in a <i>fauteuil</i>. Lady Florence had + fallen asleep during the last two or three hours. Lord Saxingham was in + his own apartment, deeply and noisily affected; for it was not thought + that Florence could survive the night. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers sat himself quietly down. Before him, on a table, lay several + manuscript books, gaily and gorgeously bound; he mechanically opened them. + Florence’s fair, noble Italian characters met his eye in every page. Her + rich and active mind, her love for poetry, her thirst for knowledge, her + indulgence of deep thought, spoke from those pages like the ghosts of + herself. Often, underscored with the marks of her approbation, he chanced + upon extracts from his own works, sometimes upon reflections by the writer + herself, not inferior in truth and depth to his own; snatches of wild + verse never completed, but of a power and energy beyond the delicate grace + of lady-poets; brief, vigorous criticisms on books, above the common + holiday studies of the sex; indignant and sarcastic aphorisms on the real + world, with high and sad bursts of feeling upon the ideal one; all + chequering and enriching the various volumes, told of the rare gifts with + which this singular girl was endowed—a herbal, as it were, of + withered blossoms that might have borne Hesperian fruits. And sometimes in + these outpourings of the full mind and laden heart were allusions to + himself, so tender and so touching—the pencilled outline of his + features, traced by memory in a thousand aspects—the reference to + former interviews and conversations—the dates and hours marked with + a woman’s minute and treasuring care!—all these tokens of genius and + of love spoke to him with a voice that said, “And this creature is lost to + you, forever: you never appreciated her till the time for her departure + was irrevocably fixed!” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers uttered a deep groan; all the past rushed over him. Her + romantic passion for one yet unknown—her interest in his glory—her + zeal for his life of life, his spotless and haughty name. It was as if + with her, Fame and Ambition were dying also, and henceforth nothing but + common clay and sordid motives were to be left on earth. + </p> + <p> + How sudden—how awfully sudden had been the blow! True, there had + been an absence of some months in which the change had operated. But + absence is a blank, a nonentity. He had left her in apparent health, in + the time of prosperity and pride. He saw her again—stricken down in + body and temper—chastened—humbled—dying. And this being, + so bright and lofty, how had she loved him! Never had he been so loved, + except in that morning dream, haunted by the vision of the lost and + dim-remembered Alice. Never on earth could he be so loved again. The air + and aspect of the whole chamber grew to him painful and oppressive. It was + full of her—the owner! There the harp, which so well became her + muse-like form that it was associated with her like a part of herself! + There the pictures, fresh and glowing from her hand,-the grace—the + harmony—the classic and simple taste everywhere displayed. + </p> + <p> + Rousseau has left to us an immortal portrait of the lover waiting for the + first embraces of his mistress. But to wait with a pulse as feverish, a + brain as dizzy, for her last look—to await the moment of despair, + not rapture—to feel the slow and dull time as palpable a load upon + the heart, yet to shrink from your own impatience, and wish that the agony + of suspense might endure for ever—this, oh, this is a picture of + intense passion—of flesh and blood reality—of the rare and + solemn epochs of our mysterious life—which had been worthier the + genius of that “Apostle of Affliction”! + </p> + <p> + At length the door opened; the favourite attendant of Florence looked in. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mr. Maltravers there? Oh, sir, my lady is awake and would see you.” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers rose, but his feet were glued to the ground, his sinking heart + stood still—it was a mortal terror that possessed him. With a deep + sigh he shook off the numbing spell, and passed to the bedside of + Florence. + </p> + <p> + She sat up, propped by pillows, and as he sank beside her, and clasped her + wan, transparent hand, she looked at him with a smile of pitying love. + </p> + <p> + “You have been very, very kind to me,” she said, after a pause, and with a + voice which had altered even since the last time he heard it. “You have + made that part of life from which human nature shrinks with dread, the + happiest and the brightest of all my short and vain existence. My own + clear Ernest—Heaven reward you!” + </p> + <p> + A few grateful tears dropped from her eyes, and they fell on the hand + which she bent her lips to kiss. + </p> + <p> + “It was not here—nor amidst the streets and the noisy abodes of + anxious, worldly men—nor was it in this harsh and dreary season of + the year, that I could have wished to look my last on earth. Could I have + seen the face of Nature—could I have watched once more with the + summer sun amidst those gentle scenes we loved so well, Death would have + had no difference from sleep. But what matters it? With you there are + summer and Nature everywhere!” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers raised his face, and their eyes met in silence—it was a + long, fixed gaze, which spoke more than all words could. Her head dropped + on his shoulder, and there it lay, passive and motionless, for some + moments. A soft step glided into the room—it was the unhappy + father’s. He came to the other side of his daughter, and sobbed + convulsively. + </p> + <p> + She then raised herself, and even in the shades of death, a faint blush + passed over her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “My good dear father, what comfort will it give you hereafter to think how + fondly you spoiled your Florence!” + </p> + <p> + Lord Saxingham could not answer: he clasped her in his arms and wept over + her. Then he broke away—looked on her with a shudder— + </p> + <p> + “O God!” he cried, “she is dead—she is dead!” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers started. The physician kindly approached, and, taking Lord + Saxingham’s hand, led him from the room—he went mute and obedient + like a child. + </p> + <p> + But the struggle was not yet past. Florence once more opened her eyes, and + Maltravers uttered a cry of joy. But along those eyes the film was + darkening rapidly, as still through the mist and shadow they sought the + beloved countenance which hung over her, as if to breathe life into waning + life. Twice her lips moved, but her voice failed her; she shook her head + sadly. + </p> + <p> + Maltravers hastily held to her mouth a cordial which lay ready on the + table near her, but scarce had it moistened her lips, when her whole frame + grew heavier and heavier, in his clasp. Her head once more sank upon his + bosom—she thrice gasped wildly for breath—and at length, + raising her hand on high, life struggled into its expiring ray. + </p> + <p> + “<i>There</i>—above!—Ernest—that name—Ernest!” + </p> + <p> + Yes, that name was the last she uttered; she was evidently conscious of + that thought, for a smile, as her voice again faltered—a smile sweet + and serene—that smile never seen but on the faces of the dying and + the dead—borrowed from a light that is not of this world—settled + slowly on her brow, her lips, her whole countenance; still she breathed, + but the breath grew fainter! at length, without murmur, sound, or + struggle, it passed away—the head dropped from his bosom—the + form fell from his arms-all was over! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0076" id="link2HCH0076"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * * * * “Is this the promised end?”—<i>Lear</i>. +</pre> + <p> + IT was two hours after that scene before Maltravers left the house. It was + then just on the stroke of the first hour of morning. To him, while he + walked through the streets, and the sharp winds howled on his path, it was + as if a strange and wizard life had passed into and supported him—a + sort of drowsy, dull existence. He was like a sleepwalker, unconscious of + all around him; yet his steps went safe and free; and the one thought that + possessed his being—into which all intellect seemed shrunk—the + thought, not fiery nor vehement, but calm, stern, and solemn—the + thought of revenge—seemed, as it were, grown his soul itself. He + arrived at the door of Colonel Danvers, mounted the stairs, and as his + friend advanced to meet him, said calmly, “Now, then, the hour has + arrived.” + </p> + <p> + “But what would you do now?” + </p> + <p> + “Come with me, and you shall learn.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, my carriage is below. Will you direct the servants?” + </p> + <p> + Maltravers nodded, gave his orders to the careless footman, and the two + friends were soon driving through the less known and courtly regions of + the giant city. It was then that Maltravers concisely stated to Danvers + the fraud that had been practised by Cesarini. + </p> + <p> + “You will go with me now,” concluded Maltravers, “to his house. To do him + justice, he is no coward; he has not shrunk from giving me his address, + nor will he shrink from the atonement I demand. I shall wait below while + you arrange our meeting—at daybreak for to-morrow.” Danvers was + astonished and even appalled by the discovery made to him. There was + something so unusual and strange in the whole affair. But neither his + experience, nor his principles of honour, could suggest any alternative to + the plan proposed. For though not regarding the cause of quarrel in the + same light as Maltravers, and putting aside all question as to the right + of the latter to constitute himself the champion of the betrothed, or the + avenger of the dead, it seemed clear to the soldier that a man whose + confidential letter had been garbled by another for the purpose of + slandering his truth and calumniating his name, had no option but + contempt, or the sole retribution (wretched though it be) which the + customs of the higher class permit to those who live within its pale. But + contempt for a wrong that a sorrow so tragic had followed—was <i>that</i> + option in human philosophy? + </p> + <p> + The carriage stopped at a door in a narrow lane in an obscure suburb. Yet, + dark as all the houses around were, lights were seen in the upper windows + of Cesarini’s residence, passing to and fro; and scarce had the servant’s + loud knock echoed through the dim thoroughfare, ere the door was opened. + Danvers descended, and entered the passage—“Oh, sir, I am so glad + you are come!” said an old woman, pale and trembling; “he do take on so!” + </p> + <p> + “There is no mistake,” asked Danvers, halting; “an Italian gentleman named + Cesarini lodges here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, poor cretur—I sent for you to come to him—for says + I to my boy, says I—” + </p> + <p> + “Whom do you take me for?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, la, sir, you be’s the doctor, ben’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Danvers made no reply; he had a mean opinion of the courage of one who + could act dishonourably; he thought there was some design to cheat his + friend out of his revenge; accordingly he ascended the stairs, motioning + the woman to precede him. + </p> + <p> + He came back to the door of the carriage in a few minutes. “Let us go + home, Maltravers,” said he, “this man is not in a state to meet you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” cried Maltravers, frowning darkly, and all his long-smothered + indignation rushing like fire through every vein of his body; “would he + shrink from the atonement?” He pushed Danvers impatiently aside, leapt + from the carriage, and rushed up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + Danvers followed. + </p> + <p> + Heated, wrought-up, furious, Ernest Maltravers burst into a small and + squalid chamber; from the closed doors of which, through many chinks, had + gleamed the light that told him Cesarini was within. And Cesarini’s eyes, + blazing with horrible fire, were the first object that met his gaze. + Maltravers stood still, as if frozen into stone. + </p> + <p> + “Ha! ha!” laughed a shrill and shrieking voice, which contrasted dreadly + with the accents of the soft Tuscan, in which the wild words were strung—“who + comes here with garments dyed in blood? You cannot accuse me—for my + blow drew no blood, it went straight to the heart—it tore no flesh + by the way; we Italians poison our victims! Where art thou—where art + thou, Maltravers? I am ready. Coward, you do not come! Oh, yes, yes, here + you are; the pistols—I will not fight so. I am a wild beast. Let us + rend each other with our teeth and talons!” + </p> + <p> + Huddled up like a heap of confused and jointless limbs in the furthest + corner of the room, lay the wretch, a raving maniac;—two men keeping + their firm gripe on him, which, ever and anon, with the mighty strength of + madness, he shook off, to fall back senseless and exhausted; his strained + and bloodshot eyes starting from their sockets, the slaver gathering round + his lips, his raven hair standing on end, his delicate and symmetrical + features distorted into a hideous and Gorgon aspect. It was, indeed, an + appalling and sublime spectacle, full of an awful moral, the meeting of + the foes! Here stood Maltravers, strong beyond the common strength of men, + in health, power, conscious superiority, premeditated vengeance—wise, + gifted; all his faculties ripe, developed, at his command;—the + complete and all-armed man, prepared for defence and offence against every + foe—a man who, once roused in a righteous quarrel, would not have + quailed before an army; and there and thus was his dark and fierce purpose + dashed from his soul, shivered into atoms at his feet. He felt the + nothingness of man and man’s wrath—in the presence of the madman on + whose head the thunderbolt of a greater curse than human anger ever + breathes had fallen. In his horrible affliction the Criminal triumphed + over the Avenger! + </p> + <p> + “Yes! yes!” shouted Cesarini, again; “they tell me she is dying; but he is + by her side;—pluck him thence—he shall not touch her hand—she + shall not bless him—she is mine—if I killed her, I have saved + her from him—she is mine in death. Let me in, I say,—I will + come in,—I will, I will see her, and strangle him at her feet.” With + that, by a tremendous effort, he tore himself from the clutch of his + holders, and with a sudden and exultant bound sprang across the room, and + stood face to face with Maltravers. The proud brave than turned pale, and + recoiled a step—“It is he! it is he!” shrieked the maniac, and he + leaped like a tiger at the throat of his rival. Maltravers quickly seized + his arm, and whirled him round. Cesarini fell heavily on the floor, mute, + senseless, and in strong convulsions. + </p> + <p> + “Mysterious Providence!” murmured Maltravers, “thou hast justly rebuked + the mortal for dreaming he might arrogate to himself thy privilege of + vengeance. Forgive the sinner, O God, as I do—as thou teachest this + stubborn heart to forgive—as she forgave who is now with thee, a + blessed saint in heaven!” + </p> + <p> + When, some minutes afterwards, the doctor, who had been sent for, arrived, + the head of the stricken patient lay on the lap of his foe, and it was the + hand of Maltravers that wiped the froth from the white lips, and the voice + of Maltravers that strove to soothe, and the tears of Maltravers that were + falling on that fiery brow. + </p> + <p> + “Tend him, sir, tend him as my brother,” said Maltravers, hiding his face + as he resigned the charge. “Let him have all that can alleviate and cure—remove + him hence to some fitter abode—send for the best advice. Restore + him, and—and—” He could say no more, but left the room + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + It was afterwards ascertained that Cesarini had remained in the streets + after his short interview with Ernest, that at length he had knocked at + Lord Saxingham’s door just in the very hour when death had claimed its + victim. He heard the announcement—he sought to force his way + up-stairs—they thrust him from the house, and nothing more of him + was known till he arrived at his own door, an hour before Danvers and + Maltravers came, in raging frenzy. Perhaps by one of the dim erratic + gleams of light which always chequer the darkness of insanity, he retained + some faint remembrance of his compact and assignation with Maltravers, + which had happily guided his steps back to his abode. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + It was two months after this scene, a lovely Sabbath morning, in the + earliest May, as Lumley, Lord Vargrave, sat alone, by the window in his + late uncle’s villa, in his late uncle’s easy-chair—his eyes were + resting musingly on the green lawn on which the windows opened, or rather + on two forms that were seated upon a rustic bench in the middle of the + sward. One was the widow in her weeds, the other was that fair and lovely + child destined to be the bride of the new lord. The hands of the mother + and daughter were clasped each in each. There was sadness in the faces of + both—deeper if more resigned on that of the elder, for the child + sought to console her parent, and grief in childhood comes with a + butterfly’s wing. + </p> + <p> + Lumley gazed on them both, and on the child more earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “She is very lovely,” he said; “she will be very rich. After all, I am not + to be pitied. I am a peer, and I have enough to live upon at present. I am + a rising man—our party wants peers; and though I could not have had + more than a subaltern’s seat at the Treasury Board six months ago, when I + was an active, zealous, able commoner, now that I am a lord, with what + they call a stake in the country, I may open my mouth and—bless me! + I know not how many windfalls may drop in! My uncle was wiser than I + thought in wrestling for this peerage, which he won and I wear!—Then, + by and by, just at the age when I want to marry and have an heir (and a + pretty wife saves one a vast deal of trouble), L200,000 and a young + beauty! Come, come, I have strong cards in my hands if I play them + tolerably. I must take care that she falls desperately in love with me. + Leave me alone for that—I know the sex, and have never failed except + in—ah, that poor Florence! Well, it is no use regretting! Like + thrifty artists, we must paint out the unmarketable picture, and call + luckier creations to fill up the same canvas!” + </p> + <p> + Here the servant interrupted Lord Vargrave’s meditation by bringing in the + letters and the newspapers which had just been forwarded from his town + house. Lord Vargrave had spoken in the Lords on the previous Friday, and + he wished to see what the Sunday newspapers said of his speech. So he took + up one of the leading papers before he opened the letters. His eyes rested + upon two paragraphs in close neighbourhood with each other: the first ran + thus: + </p> + <p> + “The celebrated Mr. Maltravers has abruptly resigned his seat for the + ——— of ———, and left town yesterday on + an extended tour on the Continent. Speculation is busy on the causes of + the singular and unexpected self-exile of a gentleman so distinguished—in + the very zenith of his career.” + </p> + <p> + “So, he has given up the game!” muttered Lord Vargrave; “he was never a + practical man—I am glad he is out of the way. But what’s this about + myself?” + </p> + <p> + “We hear that important changes are to take place in the government—-it + is said that ministers are at last alive to the necessity of strengthening + themselves with new talent. Among other appointments confidently spoken of + in the best-informed circles, we learn that Lord Vargrave is to have the + place of ———. It will be a popular appointment. Lord + Vargrave is not a holiday orator, a mere declamatory rhetorician—but + a man of clear business-like views, and was highly thought of in the House + of Commons. He has also the art of attaching his friends, and his frank, + manly character cannot fail to have its due effect with the English + public. In another column of our journal our readers will see a full + report of his excellent maiden speech in the House of Lords, on Friday + last: the sentiments there expressed do the highest honour to his + lordship’s patriotism and sagacity.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, very well indeed!” said Lumley, rubbing his hands; and turning + to his letters, his attention was drawn to one with an enormous seal, + marked “Private and confidential.” He knew before he opened it that it + contained the offer of the appointment alluded to in the newspaper. He + read, and rose exultantly; passing through the French windows, he joined + Lady Vargrave and Evelyn on the lawn, and, as he smiled on the mother and + caressed the child, the scene and the group made a pleasant picture of + English domestic happiness. + </p> + <p> + Here ends the First Portion of this work: it ends in the view that bounds + us when we look on the practical world with the outward unspiritual eye—and + see life that dissatisfies justice,—for life is so seen but in + fragments. The influence of fate seems so small on the man who, in erring, + but errs as the egotist, and shapes out of ill some use that can profit + himself. But Fate hangs a shadow so vast on the heart that errs but in + venturing and knows only in others the sources of sorrow and joy. + </p> + <p> + Go alone, O Maltravers, unfriendly, remote—thy present a waste, and + thy past life a ruin, go forth to the future!—Go, Ferrers, light + cynic—with the crowd take thy way,—complacent, elated,—no + cloud upon conscience, for thou seest but sunshine on fortune.—Go + forth to the future! + </p> + <p> + Human life is compared to the circle.—Is the simile just? All lines + that are drawn from the centre to touch the circumference, by the law of + the circle, are equal. But the lines that are drawn from the heart of the + man to the verge of his destiny—do they equal each other?—Alas! + some seem so brief, and some lengthen on as for ever. + </p> + <p> + THE END <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ernest Maltravers, Complete, by +Edward Bulwer-Lytton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ERNEST MALTRAVERS, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 7649-h.htm or 7649-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/6/4/7649/ + +Produced by David Widger and Dagny + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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