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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Lothair, by Benjamin Disraeli
+
+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/license
+
+
+Title: Lothair
+
+Author: Benjamin Disraeli
+
+Release Date: April 5, 2012 [EBook #7835] Last Updated: May 1, 2019
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOTHAIR ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by K. Kay Shearin and David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+LOTHAIR
+
+By Benjamin Disraeli
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+CHAPTER 1
+
+CHAPTER 2
+
+CHAPTER 3
+
+CHAPTER 4
+
+CHAPTER 5
+
+CHAPTER 6
+
+CHAPTER 7
+
+CHAPTER 8
+
+CHAPTER 9
+
+CHAPTER 10
+
+CHAPTER 11
+
+CHAPTER 12
+
+CHAPTER 13
+
+CHAPTER 14
+
+CHAPTER 15
+
+CHAPTER 16
+
+CHAPTER 17
+
+CHAPTER 18
+
+CHAPTER 19
+
+CHAPTER 20
+
+CHAPTER 21
+
+CHAPTER 22
+
+CHAPTER 23
+
+CHAPTER 24
+
+CHAPTER 25
+
+CHAPTER 26
+
+CHAPTER 27
+
+CHAPTER 28
+
+CHAPTER 29
+
+CHAPTER 30
+
+CHAPTER 31
+
+CHAPTER 32
+
+CHAPTER 33
+
+CHAPTER 34
+
+CHAPTER 35
+
+CHAPTER 36
+
+CHAPTER 37
+
+CHAPTER 38
+
+CHAPTER 39
+
+CHAPTER 40
+
+CHAPTER 41
+
+CHAPTER 42
+
+CHAPTER 43
+
+CHAPTER 44
+
+CHAPTER 45
+
+CHAPTER 46
+
+CHAPTER 47
+
+CHAPTER 48
+
+CHAPTER 49
+
+CHAPTER 50
+
+CHAPTER 51
+
+CHAPTER 52
+
+CHAPTER 53
+
+CHAPTER 54
+
+CHAPTER 55
+
+CHAPTER 56
+
+CHAPTER 57
+
+CHAPTER 58
+
+CHAPTER 59
+
+CHAPTER 60
+
+CHAPTER 61
+
+CHAPTER 62
+
+CHAPTER 63
+
+CHAPTER 64
+
+CHAPTER 65
+
+CHAPTER 66
+
+CHAPTER 67
+
+CHAPTER 68
+
+CHAPTER 69
+
+CHAPTER 70
+
+CHAPTER 71
+
+CHAPTER 72
+
+CHAPTER 73
+
+CHAPTER 74
+
+CHAPTER 75
+
+CHAPTER 76
+
+CHAPTER 77
+
+CHAPTER 78
+
+CHAPTER 79
+
+CHAPTER 80
+
+CHAPTER 81
+
+CHAPTER 82
+
+CHAPTER 83
+
+CHAPTER 84
+
+CHAPTER 85
+
+CHAPTER 86
+
+CHAPTER 87
+
+CHAPTER 88
+
+CHAPTER 89
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 1 “I remember him a little boy,” said the duchess, “a pretty
+little boy, but very shy. His mother brought him to us one day. She was
+a dear friend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids?”
+
+“And you have never seen him since, mamma?” inquired a married daughter,
+who looked like the younger sister of her mother.
+
+“Never; he was an orphan shortly after; I have often reproached myself,
+but it is so difficult to see boys. Then, he never went to school, but
+was brought up in the Highlands with a rather savage uncle; and if he
+and Bertram had not become friends at Christchurch, I do not well see
+how we ever could have known him.”
+
+These remarks were made in the morning-room of Brentham, where the
+mistress of the mansion sat surrounded by her daughters, all occupied
+with various works. One knitted a purse, another adorned a slipper a
+third emblazoned a page. Beautiful forms in counsel leaned over frames
+embroidery, while two fair sisters more remote occasionally burst into
+melody as they tried the passages of a new air, which had been dedicated
+to them in the manuscript of some devoted friend.
+
+The duchess, one of the greatest heiresses of Britain, singularly
+beautify and gifted with native grace, had married in her teens one of
+the wealthiest and most powerful of our nobles, and scarcely order than
+herself. Her husband was as distinguished for his appearance and his
+manners as his bride, and those who speculate on race were interested
+in watching the development of their progeny, who in form and color, and
+voice, and manner, and mind, were a reproduction of their parents,
+who seemed only the elder brother and sister of a gifted circle. The
+daughters with one exception came first, and all met the same fate.
+After seventeen years of a delicious home they were presented, and
+immediately married; and all to personages of high consideration. After
+the first conquest, this fate seemed as regular as the order of Nature.
+Then came a son, who was now at Christchurch, and then several others,
+some at school, and some scarcely out of the nursery. There was one
+daughter unmarried, and she was to be presented next season. Though
+the family likeness was still apparent in Lady Corisande, in general
+expression she differed from her sisters. They were all alike with their
+delicate aquiline noses, bright complexions, short upper lips, and eyes
+of sunny light. The beauty of Lady Corisande was even more distinguished
+and more regular, but whether it were the effect of her dark-brown hair
+and darker eyes, her countenance had not the lustre of the rest, and its
+expression was grave and perhaps pensive.
+
+The duke, though still young, and naturally of a gay and joyous
+temperament, had a high sense of duty, and strong domestic feelings. He
+was never wanting in his public place, and he was fond of his wife and
+his children; still more, proud of them. Every day when he looked into
+the glass, and gave the last touch to his consummate toilet, he offered
+his grateful thanks to Providence that his family was not unworthy of
+him.
+
+His grace was accustomed to say that he had only one misfortune, and
+it was a great one; he had no home. His family had married so many
+heiresses, and he, consequently, possessed so many halls and castles, at
+all of which, periodically, he wished, from a right feeling, to reside,
+that there was no sacred spot identified with his life in which his
+heart, in the bustle and tumult of existence, could take refuge.
+Brentham was the original seat of his family, and he was even
+passionately fond of it; but it was remarkable how very short a period
+of his yearly life was passed under its stately roof. So it was his
+custom always to repair to Brentham the moment the season was over, and
+he would exact from his children, that, however short might be the time,
+they would be his companions under those circumstances. The daughters
+loved Brentham, and they loved to please their father; but the
+sons-in-law, though they were what is called devoted to their wives,
+and, unusual as it may seem, scarcely less attached to their legal
+parents, did not fall very easily into this arrangement. The country
+in August without sport was unquestionably to them a severe trial:
+nevertheless, they rarely omitted making their appearance, and, if they
+did occasionally vanish, sometimes to Cowes, sometimes to Switzerland,
+sometimes to Norway, they always wrote to their wives, and always
+alluded to their immediate or approaching return; and their letters
+gracefully contributed to the fund of domestic amusement.
+
+And yet it would be difficult to find a fairer scene than Brentham
+offered, especially in the lustrous effulgence of a glorious English
+summer. It was an Italian palace of freestone; vast, ornate, and in
+scrupulous condition; its spacious and graceful chambers filled with
+treasures of art, and rising itself from statued and stately terraces.
+At their foot spread a gardened domain of considerable extent, bright
+with flowers, dim with coverts of rare shrubs, and musical with
+fountains. Its limit reached a park, with timber such as the midland
+counties only can produce. The fallow deer trooped among its ferny
+solitudes and gigantic oaks; but, beyond the waters of the broad and
+winding lake, the scene became more savage, and the eye caught the dark
+forms of the red deer on some jutting mount, shrinking with scorn from
+communion with his gentler brethren.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 2 Lothair was the little boy whom the duchess remembered. He was
+a posthumous child, and soon lost a devoted mother. His only relation
+was one of his two guardians, a Scotch noble—a Presbyterian and a Whig.
+This uncle was a widower with some children, but they were girls, and,
+though Lothair was attached to them, too young to be his companions.
+Their father was a keen, hard man, honorable and just but with no
+softness of heart or manner. He guarded with precise knowledge and with
+unceasing vigilance over Lothair’s vast inheritance, which was in many
+counties and in more than one kingdom; but he educated him in a Highland
+home, and when he had reached boyhood thought fit to send him to the
+High School of Edinburgh. Lothair passed a monotonous, if not a dull,
+life; but he found occasional solace in the scenes of a wild and
+beautiful nature, and delight in all the sports of the field and forest,
+in which he was early initiated and completely indulged. Although an
+Englishman, he was fifteen before he re-visited his country, and then
+his glimpses of England were brief, and to him scarcely satisfactory. He
+was hurried sometimes to vast domains, which he heard were his own; and
+sometimes whisked to the huge metropolis, where he was shown St. Paul’s
+and the British-Museum. These visits left a vague impression of bustle
+without kindness and exhaustion without excitement; and he was glad to
+get back to his glens, to the moor and the mountain-streams.
+
+His father, in the selection of his guardians, had not contemplated
+this system of education. While he secured by the appointment of his
+brother-in-law, the most competent and trustworthy steward of his son’s
+fortune, he had depended on another for that influence which should
+mould the character, guide the opinions, and form the tastes of his
+child. The other guardian was a clergyman, his father’s private tutor
+and heart-friend; scarcely his parent’s senior, but exercising over
+him irresistible influence, for he was a man of shining talents and
+abounding knowledge, brilliant and profound. But unhappily, shortly
+after Lothair became an orphan, this distinguished man seceded from the
+Anglican communion, and entered the Church of Rome. From this moment
+there was war between the guardians. The uncle endeavored to drive his
+colleague from the trust: in this he failed, for the priest would not
+renounce his office. The Scotch noble succeeded, however, in making it
+a fruitless one: he thwarted every suggestion that emanated from the
+obnoxious quarter; and, indeed, the secret reason of the almost constant
+residence of Lothair in Scotland, and of his harsh education, was the
+fear of his relative, that the moment he crossed the border he might, by
+some mysterious process, fall under the influence that his guardian so
+much dreaded and detested.
+
+There was, however, a limit to these severe precautions, even before
+Lothair should reach his majority. His father had expressed in his will
+that his son should be educated at the University of Oxford, and at the
+same college of which he had been a member. His uncle was of opinion he
+complied with the spirit of this instruction by sending Lothair to the
+University of Edinburgh, which would give the last tonic to his moral
+system; and then commenced a celebrated chancery-suit, instituted by the
+Roman Catholic guardian, in order to enforce a literal compliance
+with the educational condition of the will. The uncle looked upon
+this movement as a popish plot, and had recourse to every available
+allegation and argument to baffle it: but ultimately in vain. With every
+precaution to secure his Protestant principles, and to guard against the
+influence, or even personal interference of his Roman Catholic guardian,
+the lord-chancellor decided that Lothair should be sent to Christchurch.
+
+Here Lothair, who had never been favored with a companion of his own
+age and station, soon found a congenial one in the heir of Brentham.
+Inseparable in pastime, not dissociated even in study, sympathizing
+companionship soon ripened into fervent friendship. They lived so
+much together that the idea of separation became not only painful but
+impossible; and, when vacation arrived, and Brentham was to be visited
+by its future lord, what more natural than that it should be arranged
+that Lothair should be a visitor to his domain?
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 3 Although Lothair was the possessor of as many palaces and
+castles as the duke himself, it is curious that his first dinner at
+Brentham was almost his introduction into refined society. He had been a
+guest at the occasional banquets of his uncle; but these were festivals
+of the Picts and Scots; rude plenty and coarse splendor, with noise
+instead of conversation, and a tumult of obstructive defendants, who
+impeded, by their want of skill, the very convenience which they were
+purposed to facilitate. How different the surrounding scene! A table
+covered with flowers, bright with fanciful crystal, and porcelain that
+had belonged to sovereigns, who had given a name to its color or its
+form. As for those present, all seemed grace and gentleness, from
+the radiant daughters of the house to the noiseless attendants that
+anticipated all his wants, and sometimes seemed to suggest his wishes.
+
+Lothair sat between two of the married daughters. They addressed him
+with so much sympathy that he was quite enchanted. When they asked their
+pretty questions and made their sparkling remarks, roses seemed to drop
+from their lips, and sometimes diamonds. It was a rather large party,
+for the Brentham family were so numerous that they themselves made
+a festival. There were four married daughters, the duke and two
+sons-in-law, a clergyman or two, and some ladies and gentlemen who were
+seldom absent from this circle, and who, by their useful talents and
+various accomplishments, alleviated the toil or cares of life from which
+even princes are not exempt.
+
+When the ladies had retired to the duchess’s drawing-room, all the
+married daughters clustered round their mother.
+
+“Do you know, mamma, we all think him very good-looking,” said the
+youngest married daughter, the wife of the listless and handsome St.
+Aldegonde.
+
+“And not at all shy,” said Lady Montairy, “though reserved.”
+
+“I admire deep-blue eyes with dark lashes,” said the duchess.
+
+Notwithstanding the decision of Lady Montairy, Lothair was scarcely free
+from embarrassment when he rejoined the ladies; and was so afraid of
+standing alone, or talking only to men, that he was almost on the point
+of finding refuge in his dinner-companions, had not he instinctively
+felt that this would have been a social blunder. But the duchess
+relieved him: her gracious glance caught his at the right moment, and
+she rose and met him some way as he advanced. The friends had arrived
+so late, that Lothair had had only time to make a reverence of ceremony
+before dinner.
+
+“It is not our first meeting,” said her grace; “but that you cannot
+remember.”
+
+“Indeed I do,” said Lothair, “and your grace gave me a golden heart.”
+
+“How can you remember such things,” exclaimed the duchess, “which I had
+myself forgotten!”
+
+“I have rather a good memory,” replied Lothair; “and it is not wonderful
+that I should remember this, for it is the only present that ever was
+made me.”
+
+The evenings at Brentham were short, but they were sweet. It was a
+musical family, without being fanatical on the subject. There was always
+music, but it was not permitted that the guests should be deprived of
+other amusements. But music was the basis of the evening’s campaigns.
+The duke himself sometimes took a second; the four married daughters
+warbled sweetly; but the great performer was Lady Corisande. When her
+impassioned tones sounded, there was a hushed silence in every chamber;
+otherwise, many things were said and done amid accompanying melodies,
+that animated without distracting even a whistplayer. The duke himself
+rather preferred a game of piquet or cart with Captain Mildmay,
+and sometimes retired with a troop to a distant, but still visible,
+apartment, where they played with billiard-balls games which were not
+billiards.
+
+The ladies had retired, the duke had taken his glass of seltzer-water,
+and had disappeared. The gentry lingered and looked at each other, as if
+they were an assembly of poachers gathering for an expedition, and then
+Lord St. Aldegonde, tall, fair, and languid, said to Lothair, “do you
+smoke?”
+
+“No!”
+
+“I should have thought Bertram would have seduced you by this time. Then
+let us try. Montairy will give you one of his cigarettes, so mild that
+his wife never finds him out.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 4 The breakfast-room at Brentham was very bright. It opened on
+a garden of its own, which, at this season, was so glowing, and cultured
+into patterns so fanciful and finished, that it had the resemblance of a
+vast mosaic. The walls of the chamber were covered with bright
+drawings and sketches of our modern masters, and frames of interesting
+miniatures, and the meal was served on half a dozen or more round
+tables, which vied with each other in grace and merriment; brilliant as
+a cluster of Greek or Italian republics, instead of a great metropolitan
+table, like a central government absorbing all the genius and resources
+of the society.
+
+Every scene In this life at Brentham charmed Lothair, who, though not
+conscious of being of a particularly gloomy temper, often felt that
+he had, somehow or other, hitherto passed through life rarely with
+pleasure, and never with joy.
+
+After breakfast the ladies retired to their morning-room, and the
+gentlemen strolled to the stables, Lord St. Aldegonde lighting a Manilla
+cheroot of enormous length. As Lothair was very fond of horses, this
+delighted him. The stables at Brentham were rather too far from the
+house, but they were magnificent, and the stud worthy of them. It was
+numerous and choice, and, above all it was useful. It could supply a
+readier number of capital riding-horses than any stable in England.
+Brentham was a great riding family. In the summer season the duke
+delighted to head a numerous troop, penetrate far into the country, and
+scamper home to a nine-o’clock dinner. All the ladies of the house were
+fond and fine horse-women. The mount of one of these riding-parties was
+magical. The dames and damsels vaulted on their barbs, and genets,
+and thorough-bred hacks, with such airy majesty; they were absolutely
+overwhelming with their bewildering habits and their bewitching hats.
+
+Every thing was so new in this life at Brentham to Lothair, as well
+as so agreeable, that the first days passed by no means rapidly; for,
+though it sounds strange, time moves with equal slowness whether we
+experience many impressions or none. In a new circle every character is
+a study, and every incident an adventure; and the multiplicity of the
+images and emotions restrains the hours. But after a few days, though
+Lothair was not less delighted, for he was more so, he was astonished
+at the rapidity of time. The life was exactly the same, but equally
+pleasant; the same charming companions, the same refined festivity, the
+same fascinating amusements; but to his dismay Lothair recollected that
+nearly a fortnight had elapsed since his arrival. Lord St. Aldegonde
+also was on the wing; he was obliged to go to Cowes to see a sick
+friend, though he considerately left Bertha behind him. The other
+son-in-law remained, for he could not tear himself away from his wife.
+He was so distractedly fond of Lady Montairy that he would only
+smoke cigarettes. Lothair felt it was time to go, and he broke the
+circumstance to his friend Bertram.
+
+These two “old fellows,” as they mutually described each other, could
+not at all agree as to the course to be pursued. Bertram looked upon
+Lothair’s suggestion as an act of desertion from himself. At their time
+of life, the claims of friendship are paramount. And where could Lothair
+go to? And what was there to do? Nowhere, and nothing. Whereas, if he
+would remain a little longer, as the duke expected and also the duchess,
+Bertram would go with him anywhere he liked, and do any thing he chose.
+So Lothair remained.
+
+In the evening, seated by Lady Montairy, Lothair observed on her
+sister’s singing, and said, “I never heard any of our great singers, but
+I cannot believe there is a finer voice in existence.”
+
+“Corisande’s is a fine voice,” said Lady Montairy, “but I admire her
+expression more than her tone; for there are certainly many finer
+voices, and some day you will hear them.”
+
+“But I prefer expression,” said Lothair very decidedly.
+
+“Ah, yes! doubtless,” said Lady Montairy, who was working a purse, “and
+that’s what we all want, I believe; at least we married daughters,
+they say. My brother, Granville St. Aldegonde, says we are all too much
+alike, and that Bertha St. Aldegonde would be parallel if she had no
+sisters.”
+
+“I don’t at all agree with Lord St. Aldegonde,” said Lothair, with
+energy. “I do not think it is possible to have too many relatives like
+you and your sisters.”
+
+Lady Montairy looked up with a smile, but she did not meet a smiling
+countenance. He seemed, what is called an earnest young man, this friend
+of her brother Bertram.
+
+At this moment the duke sent swift messengers for all: to come, even
+the duchess, to partake in a new game just arrived from Russia, some
+miraculous combination of billiard-balls. Some rose directly, some
+lingering a moment arranging their work, but all were in motion.
+Corisande was at the piano, and disencumbering herself of some music.
+Lothair went up to her rather abruptly:
+
+“Your singing,” he said, “is the finest thing I ever heard. I am so
+happy that I am not going to leave Brentham to-morrow. There is no place
+in the world that I think equal to Brentham.”
+
+“And I love it, too, and no other place,” she replied; “and I should be
+quite happy if I never left it.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 5 Lord Montairy was passionately devoted to croquet. He
+flattered himself that he was the most accomplished male performer
+existing. He would have thought absolutely the most accomplished, were
+it not for the unrivalled feats of Lady Montairy. She was the queen of
+croquet. Her sisters also used the mallet with admirable skill, but not
+like Georgina. Lord Montairy always looked forward to his summer croquet
+at Brentham. It was a great croquet family, the Brentham family; even
+listless Lord St. Aldegonde would sometimes play, with a cigar never
+out of his mouth. They did not object to his smoking in the air. On the
+contrary, “they rather liked it.” Captain Mildmay, too, was a brilliant
+hand, and had written a treatise on croquet—the best going.
+
+There was a great croquet-party one morning at Brentham. Some neighbors
+had been invited who loved the sport. Mr. Blenkinsop a grave young
+gentleman, whose countenance never relaxed while he played, and who was
+understood to give his mind entirely up to croquet. He was the owner
+of the largest estate in the county, and it was thought would have very
+much liked to have allied himself with one of the young ladies of the
+house of Brentham; but these flowers were always plucked so quickly,
+that his relations with the distinguished circle never grew more
+intimate than croquet. He drove over with some fine horses, and several
+cases and bags containing instruments and weapons for the fray. His
+sister came with him, who had forty thousand pounds, but, they said, in
+some mysterious manner dependent on his consent to her marriage; and
+it was added that Mr. Blenkinsop would not allow his sister to marry
+because he would miss her so much in his favorite pastime. There were
+some other morning visitors, and one or two young curates in cassocks.
+
+It seemed to Lothair a game of great deliberation and of more interest
+than gayety, though sometimes a cordial cheer, and sometimes a ringing
+laugh of amiable derision, notified a signal triumph or a disastrous
+failure. But the scene was brilliant: a marvellous lawn, the duchess’s
+Turkish tent with its rich hangings, and the players themselves, the
+prettiest of all the spectacle, with their coquettish hats, and their
+half-veiled and half-revealed under-raiment scarlet and silver, or blue
+and gold, made up a sparkling and modish scene.
+
+Lothair, who had left the players for a while, and was regaining the
+lawn, met the duchess.
+
+“Your grace is not going to leave us, I hope?” he said, rather
+anxiously.
+
+“For a moment. I have long promised to visit the new dairy; and I think
+this a good opportunity.”
+
+“I wish I might be your companion,” said Lothair; and, invited, he was
+by her grace’s side.
+
+They turned into a winding walk of thick and fragrant shrubs, and,
+after a while, they approached a dell, surrounded with high trees
+that environed it with perpetual shade; in the centre of the dell was
+apparently a Gothic shrine, fair in design and finished in execution,
+and this was the duchess’s new dairy. A pretty sight is a first-rate
+dairy, with its flooring of fanciful tiles, and its cool and shrouded
+chambers, its stained windows and its marble slabs, and porcelain pans
+of cream, and plenteous platters of fantastically-formed butter.
+
+“Mrs. Woods and her dairy-maids look like a Dutch picture,” said the
+duchess. “Were you ever in Holland?”
+
+“I have never been anywhere,” said Lothair.
+
+“You should travel,” said the duchess.
+
+“I have no wish,” said Lothair.
+
+“The duke has given me some Coreean fowls,” said the duchess to Mrs.
+Woods, when they had concluded their visit. “Do you think you could take
+care of them for me?”
+
+“Well, Grace, I am sure I will do my best; but then they are very
+troublesome, and I was not fortunate with my Cochin. I had rather they
+were sent to the aviary, Grace, if it were all the same.”
+
+“I should so like to see the aviary,” said Lothair.
+
+“Well, we will go.”
+
+And this rather extended their walk, and withdrew them more from the
+great amusement of the day.
+
+“I wish your grace would do me a great favor,” said Lothair, abruptly
+breaking a rather prolonged silence.
+
+“And what is that?” said the duchess.
+
+“It is a very great favor,” repeated Lothair.
+
+“If it be in my power to grant it, its magnitude would only be an
+additional recommendation.”
+
+“Well,” said Lothair, blushing deeply, and speaking with much agitation,
+“I would ask your grace’s permission to offer my hand to your daughter.”
+
+The duchess I looked amazed. “Corisande!” she exclaimed.
+
+“Yes, to Lady Corisande.”
+
+“Corisande,” replied the duchess, after a pause, “has absolutely not yet
+entered the world. Corisande is a child; and you—you, my dear friend—I
+am sure you will pardon me If I say, so—you are not very much older than
+Corisande.”
+
+“I have no wish to enter the world,” said Lothair, with much decision.
+
+“I am not an enemy to youthful marriages,” said the duchess. “I married
+early myself, and my children married early; and I am very happy, and I
+hope they are; but some experience of society before we settle is most
+desirable, and is one of the conditions, I cannot but believe, of that
+felicity which we all seek.”
+
+“I hate society,” said Lothair. “I would never go out of my domestic
+circle, if it were the circle I contemplate.”
+
+“My dear young friend,” said the duchess, “you could hardly have seen
+enough of society to speak with so much decision.”
+
+“I have seen quite enough of it,” said Lothair. “I went to an evening
+party last season—I came up from Christchurch on purpose for it—and
+if ever they catch me at another, they shall inflict any penalty they
+please.”
+
+“I fear it was a stupid party,” said the duchess, smiling, and glad to
+turn, if possible, the conversation into a lighter vein.
+
+“No, it was a very grand party, I believe, and not exactly stupid—it was
+not that; but I was disgusted with all I saw and all I heard. It seemed
+to me a mass of affectation, falsehood, and malignity.”
+
+“Oh! dear,” said the duchess, “how very dreadful! But I did not mean
+merely going to parties for society; I meant knowledge of the world, and
+that experience which enables us to form sound opinions on the affairs
+of life.”
+
+“Oh! as for that,” said Lothair, “my opinions are already formed on
+every subject; that is to say, every subject of importance; and, what is
+more, they will never change.”
+
+“I could not say that of Corisande,” said the duchess.
+
+“I think we agree on all the great things,” said Lothair, musingly. “Her
+church views may be a little higher than mine, but I do not anticipate
+any permanent difficulty on that head. Although my uncle made me go to
+kirk, I always hated it and always considered myself a churchman. Then,
+as to churches themselves, she is in favor of building churches, and so
+am I; and schools—there is no quantity of schools I would not establish.
+My opinion is, you cannot have too much education, provided it be
+founded on a religious basis. I would sooner renounce the whole of my
+inheritance than consent to secular education.”
+
+“I should be sorry to see any education but a religious education,”
+remarked the duchess.
+
+“Well, then,” said Lothair, “that is our life, or a great part of it. To
+complete it, here is that to which I really wish to devote my existence,
+and in which I instinctively feel Lady Corisande would sympathize with
+me—the extinction of pauperism.”
+
+“That is a vast subject;” said the duchess.
+
+“It is the terror of Europe and the disgrace of Britain,” said Lothair;
+“and I am resolved to grapple with it. It seems to me that pauperism is
+not an affair so much of wages as of dwellings. If the working-classes
+were properly lodged, at their present rate of wages, they would be
+richer. They would be healthier and happier at the same cost. I am
+so convinced of this, that the moment I am master, I shall build two
+thousand cottages on any estates. I have the designs already.”
+
+“I am much in favor of improved dwellings for the poor,” said the
+duchess; “but then you must take care that your dwellings are cottages,
+and not villas like my cousin’s, the Duke of Luton.”
+
+“I do not think I shall make that mistake,” replied Lothair. “It
+constantly engages my thought. I am wearied of hearing of my wealth,
+and I am conscious it has never brought me any happiness. I have lived a
+great deal alone, dearest duchess, and thought much of these things, but
+I feel now I should be hardly equal to the effort, unless I had a happy
+home to fall back upon.”
+
+“And you will have a happy home in due time,” said the duchess; “and
+with such good and great thoughts you deserve one. But take the advice
+of one who loved your mother, and who would extend to you the same
+affection as to her own children; before you take a step which cannot be
+recalled, see a little more of the world.”
+
+Lothair shook his head. “No,” he said, after a pause. “My idea of
+perfect society is being married as I propose, and paying visits to
+Brentham; and when the visits to Brentham ceased, then I should like you
+and the duke to pay visits to us.”
+
+“But that would be a fairy-tale,” said the duchess.
+
+So they walked on in silence.
+
+Suddenly and abruptly Lothair turned to the duchess and said, “Does your
+grace see objection to my speaking to your daughter?”
+
+“Dear friend, indeed, yes. What you would say would only agitate and
+disturb Corisande. Her character is not yet formed, and its future
+is perplexing, at least to me,” murmured the mother. “She has not the
+simple nature of her sisters. It is a deeper and more complicated mind,
+and I watch its development with fond, but anxious interest.” Then, in
+a lighter tone, she added, “You do not know very much of us. Try to know
+more. Everybody under this roof views you with regard, and you are the
+brother friend of our eldest son. Wherever we are, you will always find
+a home; but do not touch again upon this subject, at least at present,
+for it distresses me.” And then she took his arm, and pressed it, and by
+this time they had gained the croquet-ground.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 6 One of the least known squares in London is Hexham Square,
+though it is one of the oldest. Not that it is very remote from the
+throng of existence, but it is isolated in a dingy district of silent
+and decaying streets. Once it was a favored residence of opulence and
+power, and its architecture still indicates its former and prouder
+destiny. But its noble mansions are now divided and broken up into
+separate dwellings, or have been converted into chambers and offices.
+Lawyers, and architects, and agents, dwell in apartments where the
+richly-sculptured chimney-pieces, the carved and gilded pediments over
+the doors, and sometimes even the painted ceilings, tell a tale of
+vanished stateliness and splendor.
+
+A considerable portion of the north side of the square is occupied by
+one house standing in a courtyard, with iron gates to the thoroughfare.
+This is Hexham House, and where Lord Hexham lived in the days of the
+first Georges. It is reduced in size since his time, two considerable
+wings, having been pulled down about sixty years ago, and their
+materials employed in building some residences of less pretension.
+But the body of the dwelling-house remains, and the court-yard, though
+reduced in size, has been retained.
+
+Hexham House has an old oak entrance-hall panelled with delicacy, and
+which has escaped the rifling of speculators in furniture; and out of
+it rises a staircase of the same material, of a noble character,
+adorned occasionally with figures; armorial animals holding shields, and
+sometimes a grotesque form rising from fruits and flowers, all doubtless
+the work of some famous carver. The staircase led to a corridor, on
+which several doors open, and through one of these, at the moment of
+our history, a man, dressed in a dark cassock, and holding a card in
+his hand, was entering a spacious chamber, meagrely, but not shabbily,
+furnished. There was a rich cabinet and a fine picture. In the next
+room, not less spacious, but which had a more inhabited look, a cheerful
+fire, tables covered with books and papers, and two individuals busily
+at work with their pens; he gave the card to a gentleman who wore also
+the cassock, and who stood before the fire with a book in his hand, and
+apparently dictating to one of the writers.
+
+“Impossible!” said the gentleman shaking his head; “I could not even go
+in, as Monsignore Berwick is with his eminence.”
+
+“But what shall I do?” said the attendant; “his eminence said that when
+Mr. Giles called he never was to be denied.”
+
+“The monsignore has been here a long time; you must beg Mr. Giles to
+wait. Make him comfortable; give him a newspaper; not the Tablet, the
+Times; men like Mr. Giles love reading the advertisements. Or stop, give
+him this, his eminence’s lecture on geology; it will show him the Church
+has no fear of science. Ah! there’s my bell; Mr. Giles will not have
+to wait long.” So saying, the gentleman put down his volume and
+disappeared, through an antechamber, into a farther apartment.
+
+It was a library, of moderate dimensions, and yet its well-filled
+shelves contained all the weapons of learning and controversy which the
+deepest and the most active of ecclesiastical champions could require.
+It was unlike modern libraries, for it was one in which folios greatly
+predominated; and they stood in solemn and sometimes magnificent array,
+for they bore, many of them, on their ancient though costly bindings,
+the proofs that they had belonged to many a prince and even sovereign of
+the Church. Over the mantel-piece hung a portrait of his holiness
+Pius IX., and on the table, in the midst of many papers, was an ivory
+crucifix.
+
+The master of the library had risen from his seat when the chief
+secretary entered, and was receiving an obeisance. Above the middle
+height, his stature seemed magnified by the attenuation of his form. It
+seemed that the soul never had so frail and fragile a tenement. He was
+dressed in a dark cassock with a red border, and wore scarlet stockings;
+and over his cassock a purple tippet, and on his breast a small golden
+cross. His countenance was naturally of an extreme pallor, though at
+this moment slightly flushed with the animation of a deeply-interesting
+conference. His cheeks were hollow, and his gray eyes seemed sunk
+into his clear and noble brow, but they flashed with irresistible
+penetration. Such was Cardinal Grandison.
+
+“All that I can do is,” said his eminence, when his visitor was ushered
+out, and slightly shrugging his shoulders, “is to get it postponed until
+I go to Rome, and even then I must not delay my visit. This crossing the
+Alps in winter is a trial—but we must never repine; and there is nothing
+which we must not encounter to prevent incalculable mischief. The
+publication of the Scotch hierarchy at this moment will destroy the
+labors of years. And yet they will not see it! I cannot conceive who is
+urging them, for I am sure they must have some authority from home.—You
+have something for me, Chidioch,” he added inquiringly, for his keen eye
+caught the card.
+
+“I regret to trouble your eminence when you need repose, but the bearer
+of this card seems to have been importunate, and to have appealed to,
+your name and personal orders;” and he gave the cardinal the card.
+
+“Yes,” said the cardinal, looking at the card with much interest; “this
+is a person I must always see.”
+
+And so, in due course, they ushered into the library a gentleman with
+a crimson and well-stuffed bag, of a composed yet cheerful aspect, who
+addressed the cardinal with respect but without embarrassment,
+saying, “I am ashamed to trouble your eminence with only matters
+of form—absolutely mere matters of form; but I obey, Sir, your own
+instructions.”
+
+“It is not for me to depreciate form,” replied the cardinal; “and in
+business there are no mere matters of form.”
+
+“Merely the wood accounts,” continued the visitor; “they must be
+approved by both the guardians or the money cannot be received by
+the bankers. Your eminence, you see, has sanctioned the felling, and
+authorized the sales, and these are the final accounts, which must be
+signed before we pay in.”
+
+“Give them to me,” said the cardinal, stretching out both his hands as
+he received a mass of paper folios. His eminence resumed his chair,
+and hastily examined the sheets. “Ah!” he said, “no ordinary felling—it
+reaches over seven counties. By-the-by, Bracewood Forest—what about
+the enclosure? I have heard no more of it.” Then, murmuring to
+himself—“Grentham Wood—how well I remember Grentham Wood, with his dear
+father!”
+
+“If we could sign today,” said the visitor in a tone of professional
+cajolery; “time is important.”
+
+“And it shall not be wasted,” replied the cardinal. “But I must look
+over the accounts. I doubt not all is quite regular, but I wish to make
+myself a little familiar with the scene of action; perhaps to recall the
+past,” he added. “You shall have them to-morrow, Mr. Giles.”
+
+“Your eminence will have very different accounts to settle in a short
+time,” said Mr. Giles, smiling. “We are hard at work; it takes three of
+our clerks constantly occupied.”
+
+“But you have yet got time.”
+
+“I don’t know that,” said Mr. Giles. “The affairs are very large. And
+the mines—they give us the greatest trouble. Our Mr. James Roundell was
+two months in Wales last year about them. It took up the whole of his
+vacation. And your eminence must remember that time flies. In less than
+eight months he will be of age.”
+
+“Very true,” said the cardinal; “time indeed flies, and so much to
+be done! By-the-by, Mr. Giles, have you by any chance heard any thing
+lately of my child?”
+
+“I have heard of him a good deal of late, for a client of ours, Lord
+Montairy, met him at Brentham this summer, and was a long time there
+with him. After that, I hear, he went deer-stalking with some of his
+young friends; but he is not very fond of Scotland; had rather too much
+of it, I suspect; but the truth is, sir, I saw him this very day.”
+
+“Indeed!”
+
+“Some affairs have brought him up to town, and I rather doubt whether he
+will return to Oxford—at least, so he talks.”
+
+“Ah! I have never seen him since he was an infant, I might say,” said
+the cardinal. “I suppose I shall see him again, if only when I resign my
+trust; but I know not. And yet few things would be more interesting to
+me than to meet him!”
+
+Mr. Giles seemed moved, for him almost a little embarrassed; he seemed
+to blush, and then he cleared his throat. “It would be too great a
+liberty,” said Mr. Giles, “I feel that very much—and yet, if your
+eminence would condescend, though I hardly suppose it possible, his
+lordship is really going to do us the honor of dining with us to-day;
+only a few friends, and if your eminence could make the sacrifice, and
+it were not an act of too great presumption, to ask your eminence to
+join our party.”
+
+“I never eat and I never drink,” said the cardinal. “I am sorry to say I
+cannot. I like dinner society very much. You see the world, and you hear
+things which you do not hear otherwise. For a time I presumed to accept
+invitations, though I sat with an empty plate, but, though the world
+was indulgent to me, I felt that my habits were an embarrassment to the
+happier feasters: it was not fair, and so I gave it up. But I tell you
+what, Mr. Giles: I shall be in your quarter this evening: perhaps you
+would permit me to drop in and pay my respects to Mrs. Giles—I have
+wished to do so before.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 7 Mr. Giles was a leading partner in the firm of Roundells,
+Giles, and Roundell, among the most eminent solicitors of Lincoln’s Inn.
+He, in those days of prolonged maturity, might be described as still a
+young man. He had inherited from his father not only a large share in a
+first-rate business, but no inconsiderable fortune; and though he had,
+in her circles, a celebrated wife, he had no children. He was opulent
+and prosperous, with no cares and anxieties of his own, and loved
+his profession, for which he was peculiarly qualified, being a man
+of uncommon sagacity, very difficult to deceive, and yet one who
+sympathized with his clients, who were all personally attached to him,
+and many of whom were among the distinguished personages of the realm.
+
+During an important professional visit to Ireland, Mr. Giles had made
+the acquaintance of Miss Apollonia Smylie, the niece of an Irish peer;
+and, though the lady was much admired and courted, had succeeded, after
+a time, in inducing her to become the partner of his life.
+
+Mrs. Giles, or, as she described herself, Mrs. Putney Giles, taking
+advantage of a second and territorial Christian name of her husband,
+was a showy woman; decidedly handsome, unquestionably accomplished, and
+gifted with energy and enthusiasm which far exceeded even her physical
+advantages. Her principal mission was to destroy the papacy and to
+secure Italian unity. Her lesser impulses were to become acquainted with
+the aristocracy, and to be herself surrounded by celebrities. Having a
+fine house in Tyburnia, almost as showy as herself, and a husband who
+was never so happy as when gratifying her wishes, she did not find it
+difficult in a considerable degree to pursue and even accomplish her
+objects. The Putney Giles gave a great many dinners, and Mrs. Putney
+received her world frequently, if not periodically. As they entertained
+with profusion, her well-lighted saloons were considerably attended.
+These assemblies were never dull; the materials not being ordinary,
+often startling, sometimes even brilliant, occasionally rather
+heterogeneous. For, though being a violent Protestant, and of extreme
+conservative opinions, her antipapal antipathies and her Italian
+predilections frequently involved her with acquaintances not so
+distinguished as she deemed herself for devotion to the cause of order
+and orthodoxy. It was rumored that the brooding brow of Mazzini had been
+observed in her rooms, and there was no sort of question that she had
+thrown herself in ecstatic idolatry at the feet of the hero of Caprera.
+
+On the morning of the day on which he intended to visit Cardinal
+Grandison, Mr. Giles, in his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn, was suddenly
+apprised, by a clerk, that an interview with him was sought by a client
+no less distinguished than Lothair.
+
+Although Mr. Giles sat opposite two rows of tin boxes, each of which was
+numbered, and duly inscribed with the name of Lothair and that of the
+particular estate to which it referred, Mr. Giles, though he had had
+occasional communications with his client, was personally unacquainted
+with him. He viewed, therefore, with no ordinary curiosity the young man
+who was ushered into his room; a shapely youth slightly above the middle
+height; of simple, but distinguished mien, with a countenance naturally
+pale, though somewhat bronzed by a life of air and exercise, and a
+profusion of dark-auburn hair.
+
+And for what could Lothair be calling on Mr. Giles?
+
+It seems that one of Lothair’s intimate companions had got into a
+scrape, and under these circumstances had what is styled “made a friend”
+of Lothair; that is to say, confided to him his trouble, and asked his
+advice, with a view, when given, of its being followed by an offer of
+assistance.
+
+Lothair, though inexperienced, and very ingenuous, was not devoid of
+a certain instinctive perception of men and things, which rendered it
+difficult for him to be an easy prey. His natural disposition, and his
+comparatively solitary education, had made him a keen observer, and
+he was one who meditated over his observations. But he was
+naturally generous and sensible of kindness; and this was a favorite
+companion—next to Bertram, his most intimate.
+
+Lothair was quite happy in the opportunity of soothing a perturbed
+spirit whose society had been to him a source of so much gratification.
+
+It was not until Lothair had promised to extricate his friend from his
+whelming difficulties, that, upon examination, he found the act on
+his part was not so simple and so easy as he had assumed it to be. His
+guardians had apportioned to him an allowance in every sense adequate to
+his position; and there was no doubt, had he wished to exceed it for
+any legitimate purpose, not the slightest difficulty on their part would
+have been experienced.
+
+Such a conjuncture had never occurred. Lothair was profuse, but he was
+not prodigal. He gratified all his fancies, but they were not ignoble
+ones; and he was not only sentimentally, but systematically, charitable.
+He had a great number of fine horses, and he had just paid for an
+expensive yacht. In a word, he spent a great deal of money, and until he
+called at his bankers to learn what sums were at his disposition he was
+not aware that he had overdrawn his account.
+
+This was rather awkward. Lothair wanted a considerable sum, and he
+wanted it at once. Irrespective of the consequent delay, he shrunk from
+any communication with his guardians. From his uncle he had become,
+almost insensibly, estranged, and with his other guardian he had never
+had the slightest communication. Under these circumstances he recalled
+the name of the solicitor of the trustees, between whom and himself
+there had been occasional correspondence; and, being of a somewhat
+impetuous disposition, he rode off at once from his hotel to Lincoln’s
+Inn.
+
+Mr. Giles listened to the narrative with unbroken interest and
+unswerving patience, with his eyes fixed on his client, and occasionally
+giving a sympathetic nod.
+
+“And so,” concluded Lothair, “I thought I would come to you.”
+
+“We are honored,” said Mr. Giles. “And, certainly, it is quite absurd
+that your lordship should want money, and for a worthy purpose, and
+not be able to command it. Why! the balance in the name of the trustees
+never was so great as at this moment; and this very day, or to-morrow
+at farthest, I shall pay no less than eight-and-thirty thousand pounds
+timber-money to the account.”
+
+“Well, I don’t want a fifth of that,” said Lothair.
+
+“Your lordship has an objection to apply to the trustees?” inquired Mr.
+Giles.
+
+“That is the point of the whole of my statement,” said Lothair somewhat
+impatiently.
+
+“And yet it is the right and regular thing,” said Mr. Giles.
+
+“It may be right and it may be regular, but it is out of the question.”
+
+“Then we will say no more about it. What I want to prevent,” said Mr.
+Giles, musingly, “is any thing absurd happening. There is no doubt if
+your lordship went into the street and said you wanted ten thousand
+pounds, or a hundred thousand, fifty people would supply you
+immediately—but you would have to pay for it. Some enormous usury! That
+would be bad; but the absurdity of the thing would be greater than the
+mischief. Roundells, Giles, and Roundell could not help you in that
+manner. That is not our business. We are glad to find money for
+our clients at a legal rate of interest, and the most moderate rate
+feasible. But then there must be security, and the best security. But
+here we must not conceal it from ourselves, my lord, we have no
+security whatever. At this moment your lordship has no property. An
+insurance-office might do it with a policy. They might consider that
+they had a moral security; but still it would be absurd. There is
+something absurd in your lordship having to raise money. Don’t you think
+I could see these people,” said Mr. Giles, “and talk to them, and gain a
+little time? We only want a little time.”
+
+“No,” said Lothair, in a peremptory tone. “I said I would do it, and it
+must be done, and at once. Sooner than there should be delay, I would
+rather go into the street, as you suggest, and ask the first man I met
+to lend me the money. My word has been given, and I do not care what I
+pay to fulfil my word.”
+
+“We must not think of such things,” said Mr. Giles, shaking his head.
+“All I want your lordship to understand is the exact position. In this
+case we have no security. Roundells, Giles, and Roundell cannot move
+without security. It would be against our articles of partnership. But
+Mr. Giles, as a private individual, may do what he likes. I will let
+your lordship have the money, and I will take no security whatever—not
+even a note of hand. All that I ask for is that your lordship should
+write me a letter, saying you have urgent need for a sum of money
+(mentioning amount) for an honorable purpose, in which your feelings
+are deeply interested—and that will do. If any thing happens to your
+lordship before this time next year, why, I think the trustees could
+hardly refuse repaying the money; and if they did, why then,” added Mr.
+Giles, “I suppose it will be all the same a hundred years hence.”
+
+“You have conferred on me the greatest obligation,” said Lothair, with
+much earnestness. “Language cannot express what I feel. I am not too
+much used to kindness, and I only hope that I may live to show my sense
+of yours.”
+
+“It is really no great affair, my lord,” said Mr. Giles. “I did not
+wish to make difficulties, but it was my duty to put the matter clearly
+before you. What I propose I could to do is really nothing. I could do
+no less; I should have felt quite absurd if your lordship had gone into
+the money-market.”
+
+“I only hope,” repeated Lothair, rising and offering Mr. Giles his hand,
+“that life may give me some occasion to prove my gratitude.”
+
+“Well, my lord,” replied Mr. Giles, “if your lordship wish to repay me
+for any little interest I have shown in your affairs, you can do that,
+over and over again, and at once.”
+
+“How so?”
+
+“By a very great favor, by which Mrs. Giles and myself would be deeply
+gratified. We have a few friends who honor us by dining with us to-day
+in Hyde Park Gardens. If your lordship would add the great distinction
+your presence—”
+
+“I should only be too much honored,” exclaimed Lothair: “I suppose about
+eight,” and he left the room; and Mr. Giles telegraphed instantly the
+impending event to Apollonia.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 8 It was a great day for Apollonia; not only to have Lothair at
+her right hand at dinner, but the prospect of receiving a cardinal in
+the evening. But she was equal to it; though so engrossed, indeed, in
+the immediate gratification of her hopes and wishes, that she could
+scarcely dwell sufficiently on the coming scene of triumph and social
+excitement.
+
+The repast was sumptuous; Lothair thought the dinner would never end,
+there were so many dishes, and apparently all of the highest pretension.
+But if his simple tastes had permitted him to take an interest in these
+details, which, they did not, he would have been assisted by a gorgeous
+menu of gold and white typography, that was by the side of each guest.
+The table seemed literally to groan under vases and gigantic flagons,
+and, in its midst, rose a mountain of silver, on which apparently
+all the cardinal virtues, several of the pagan deities, and Britannia
+herself, illustrated with many lights a glowing inscription, which
+described the fervent feelings of a grateful client.
+
+There were many guests—the Dowager of Farringford, a lady of quality,
+Apollonia’s great lady, who exercised under this roof much social
+tyranny; in short, was rather fine; but who, on this occasion, was
+somewhat cowed by the undreamt-of presence of Lothair. She had not yet
+met him, and probably never would have met him, had she not had the good
+fortune of dining at his lawyer’s. However, Lady Farringford was placed
+a long way from Lothair, having been taken down to dinner by Mr. Giles;
+and so, by the end of the first course, Lady Farringford had nearly
+resumed her customary despotic vein, and was beginning to indulge in
+several kind observations, cheapening to her host and hostess, and
+indirectly exalting herself; upon which Mr. Giles took an early easy
+opportunity of apprising Lady Farringford, that she had nearly met
+Cardinal Grandison at dinner, and that his eminence would certainly pay
+his respects to Mrs. Putney Giles in the evening. As Lady Farringford
+was at present a high ritualist and had even been talked of as “going
+to Rome,” this intelligence was stunning, and it was observed that her
+ladyship was unusually subdued during the whole of the second course.
+
+On the right of Lothair sat the wife of a vice-chancellor, a quiet
+and pleasing lady, to whom Lothair, with natural good breeding, paid
+snatches of happy attention, when he could for a moment with propriety
+withdraw himself from the blaze of Apollonia’s coruscating conversation.
+Then there was a rather fierce-looking Red Ribbon, medalled, as well
+as be-starred, and the Red Ribbon’s wife, with a blushing daughter, in
+spite of her parentage not yet accustomed to stand fire. A partner and
+his unusually numerous family had the pleasure also of seeing Lothair
+for the first time, and there were no less than four M.P.s, one of whom
+was even in office.
+
+Apollonia was stating to Lothair, with perspicuity, the reasons which
+quite induced her to believe that the Gulf-Stream had changed its
+course, and the political and social consequences that might accrue.
+
+“The religious sentiment of the Southern races must be wonderfully
+affected by a more rigorous climate,” said Apollonia. “I cannot doubt,”
+she continued, “that a series of severe winters at Rome might put an end
+to Romanism.”
+
+“But is there any fear that a reciprocal influence might be exercised
+on the Northern nations?” inquired Lothair. “Would there be any
+apprehension of our Protestantism becoming proportionately relaxed?”
+
+“Of course not,” said Apollonia. “Truth cannot be affected by climate.
+Truth is truth, alike in Palestine and Scandinavia.”
+
+“I wonder what the cardinal would think of this,” said Lothair, “who,
+you tell me, is coming to you this evening?”
+
+“Yes, I am most interested to see him, though he is the most puissant of
+our foes. Of course he would take refuge in sophistry; and science, you
+know, they deny.”
+
+“Cardinal Grandison is giving some lectures on science,” said the
+vice-chancellor’s lady, quietly.
+
+“It is remorse,” said Apollonia. “Their clever men can never forget that
+unfortunate affair of Galileo, and think they can divert the indignation
+of the ninteenth century by mock zeal about red sandstone or the origin
+of species.”
+
+“And are you afraid of the Gulf-Stream?” inquired Lothair of his calmer
+neighbor.
+
+“I think we want more evidence of a change. The vice-chancellor and
+myself went down to a place we have near town, on Saturday, where there
+is a very nice piece of water; indeed, some people call it a lake; but
+it was quite frozen, and my boys wanted to skate, but that I would not
+permit.”
+
+“You believe in the Gulf-Stream to that extent,” said Lothair—“no
+skating.”
+
+The cardinal came, early; the ladies had not long left the dining-room.
+They were agitated when his name was announced; even Apollonia’s
+heart beat; but then that might be accounted for by the inopportune
+recollection of an occasional correspondence with Caprera.
+
+Nothing could exceed the simple suavity with which the cardinal
+appeared, approached, and greeted them. He thanked Apollonia for her
+permission to pay his respects to her, which he had long wished to do;
+and then they were all presented, and he said exactly the right thing
+to every one. He must have heard of them all before, or read their
+characters in their countenances. In a few minutes they were all
+listening to his eminence with enchanted ease, as, sitting on the
+sofa by his hostess, he described to them the ambassadors who had
+just arrived from Japan, and with whom he had relations of interesting
+affairs. The Japanese government had exhibited enlightened kindness to
+some of his poor people who had barely escaped martyrdom. Much might be
+expected from the Mikado, evidently a man of singular penetration and
+elevated views; and his eminence looked as if the mission of Yokohama
+would speedily end in an episcopal see; but he knew where he was and
+studiously avoided all controversial matter.
+
+After all, the Mikado himself was not more remarkable than this prince
+of the Church in a Tyburnian drawing-room habited in his pink cassock
+and cape, and waving, as he spoke, with careless grace, his pink
+barrette.
+
+The ladies thought the gentlemen rejoined them too soon, but Mr. Giles,
+when he was apprised of the arrival of the cardinal, thought it right
+to precipitate the symposium. With great tact, when the cardinal rose to
+greet him, Mr. Giles withdrew his eminence from those surrounding,
+and, after a brief interchange of whispered words, quitted him and then
+brought forward and presented Lothair to the cardinal, and left them.
+
+“This is not the first time that we should have met,” said the cardinal,
+“but my happiness is so great at this moment that, though I deplore, I
+will not dwell on, the past.”
+
+“I am, nevertheless, grateful to you, sir, for many services, and have
+more than once contemplated taking the liberty of personally assuring
+your eminence of my gratitude.”
+
+“I think we might sit down,” said the cardinal, looking around; and then
+he led Lothair into an open but interior saloon, where none were yet
+present, and where they seated themselves on a sofa and were soon
+engaged in apparently interesting converse.
+
+In the mean time the world gradually filled the principal saloon of
+Apollonia, and, when it approached overflowing, occasionally some
+persons passed the line, and entered the room in which the cardinal and
+his ward were seated, and then, as if conscious of violating some sacred
+place, drew back. Others, on the contrary, with coarser curiosity, were
+induced to invade the chamber from the mere fact that the cardinal was
+to be seen there.
+
+“My geographical instinct,” said the cardinal to Lothair, “assures me
+that I can regain the staircase through these rooms, without rejoining
+the busy world; so I shall bid you good-night and even presume to give
+you my blessing;” and his eminence glided away.
+
+When Lothair returned to the saloon it was so crowded that he was not
+observed; exactly what he liked; and he stood against the wall watching
+all that passed, not without amusement. A lively, social parasite, who
+had dined there, and had thanked his stars at dinner that Fortune had
+decreed he should meet Lothair, had been cruising for his prize all the
+time that Lothair had been conversing with the cardinal and was soon at
+his side.
+
+“A strange scene this!” said the parasite.
+
+“Is it unusual?” inquired Lothair.
+
+“Such a medley! How can they can be got together, I marvel—priests and
+philosophers, legitimists, and carbonari! Wonderful woman, Mrs. Putney
+Giles!”
+
+“She is very entertaining,” said Lothair, “and seems to me clever.”
+
+“Remarkably so,” said the parasite, who had been on the point of
+satirizing his hostess, but, observing the quarter of the wind, with
+rapidity went in for praise. “An extraordinary woman. Your lordship had
+a long talk with the cardinal.”
+
+“I had the honor of some conversation with Cardinal Grandison,” said
+Lothair, drawing up.
+
+“I wonder what the cardinal would have said if he had met Mazzini here?”
+
+“Mazzini! Is he here?”
+
+“Not now; but I have seen him here,” said the parasite, “and our host
+such a Tory! That makes the thing so amusing;” and then the parasite
+went on making small personal observations on the surrounding scene, and
+every now and then telling little tales of great people with whom, it
+appeared, he was intimate—all concerted fire to gain the very great
+social fortress he was now besieging. The parasite was so full of
+himself, and so anxious to display himself to advantage, that with all
+his practice it was some time before he perceived he did not make all
+the way he could wish with Lothair; who was courteous, but somewhat
+monosyllabic and absent.
+
+“Your lordship is struck by that face?” said the parasite.
+
+Was Lothair struck by that face? And what was it?
+
+He had exchanged glances with that face during the last ten minutes, and
+the mutual expression was not one of sympathy but curiosity blended, on
+the part of the face, with an expression, if not of disdain, of extreme
+reserve.
+
+It was the face of a matron, apparently of not many summers, for her
+shapely figure was still slender, though her mien was stately. But it
+was the countenance that had commanded the attention of Lothair: pale,
+but perfectly Attic in outline, with the short upper lip and the round
+chin, and a profusion of dark-chestnut hair bound by a Grecian fillet,
+and on her brow a star.
+
+“Yes I am struck by that face. Who is it?”
+
+“If your lordship could only get a five-franc piece of the last French
+Republic, 1850, you would know. I dare say the money-changers could
+get you one. All the artists of Paris, painters, and sculptors, and
+medallists, were competing to produce a face worthy of representing ‘La
+R publique fran aise;’ nobody was satisfied, when Oudine caught a girl
+of not seventeen, and, with a literal reproduction of Nature, gained the
+prize with unanimity.”
+
+“Ah!”
+
+“And, though years have passed, the countenance has not changed; perhaps
+improved.”
+
+“It is a countenance that will bear, perhaps even would require,
+maturity,” said Lothair; “but she is no longer ‘La République franç
+aise;’ what is she now?”
+
+“She is called Theodora, though married, I believe, to an Englishman,
+a friend of Garibaldi. Her birth unknown; some say an Italian, some
+a Pole; all sorts of stories. But she speaks every language, is
+ultra-cosmopolitan, and has invented a new religion.”
+
+“A new religion!”
+
+“Would your lordship care to be introduced to her? I know her enough for
+that. Shall we go up to her?”
+
+“I have made so many now acquaintances to-day,” said, Lothair, as it
+were starting from a reverie, “and indeed heard so many new things, that
+I think I had better say good-night;” and he graciously retired.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 9 About the same time that Lothair had repaired to the residence
+of Mr. Giles, Monsignore Berwick, whose audience of the cardinal in the
+morning had preceded that of the legal adviser of the trustees, made
+his way toward one of the noblest mansions in St. James’s Square, where
+resided Lord St. Jerome.
+
+It was a mild winter evening; a little fog still hanging about, but
+vanquished by the cheerful lamps, and the voice of the muffin-bell was
+just heard at intervals; a genial sound that calls up visions of trim
+and happy hearths. If we could only so contrive our lives as to go into
+the country for the first note of the nightingale, and return to town
+for the first note of the muffin-bell, existence, it is humbly presumed,
+might be more enjoyable.
+
+Monsignore Berwick was a young man, but looking younger from a
+countenance almost of childhood; fair, with light-blue eyes, and flaxen
+hair and delicate features. He was the last person you would have fixed
+upon as a born Roman; but Nature, in one of the freaks of race, had
+resolved that his old Scottish blood should be reasserted, though his:
+ancestors had sedulously blended it, for, many generations, with that of
+the princely houses of the eternal city. The monsignore was the greatest
+statesman of Rome, formed and favored by Antonelli and probably his
+successor.
+
+The mansion of Lord St. Jerome was a real family mansion, built by his
+ancestors a century and a half ago, when they believed that, from its
+central position, its happy contiguity to the court, the senate, and the
+seats of government, they at last, in St. James’s Square, had discovered
+a site which could defy the vicissitudes of fashion, and not share
+the fate of the river palaces, which they had been obliged in turn
+to relinquish. And in a considerable degree they were right in their
+anticipation; for, although they have somewhat unwisely, permitted the
+clubs to invade too successfully their territory, St. James’s Square
+may be looked upon as our Faubourg St. Germain, and a great patrician
+residing there dwells in the heart of that free and noble life of which
+he ought to be a part.
+
+A marble hall and a marble staircase, lofty chambers with silk or
+tapestried hangings, gilded cornices, and painted ceilings, gave a
+glimpse of almost Venetian splendor, and rare in our metropolitan houses
+of this age; but the first dwellers in St. James’s Square had tender
+and inspiring recollections of the Adrian bride, had frolicked in St.
+Mark’s, and glided in adventurous gondolas. The monsignore was ushered
+into a chamber bright with lights and a blazing fire, and welcomed with
+extreme cordiality by his hostess, who was then alone. Lady St. Jerome
+was still the young wife of a nobleman not old. She was the daughter of
+a Protestant house, but, during a residence at Rome after her marriage,
+she had reverted to the ancient faith, which she professed with the
+enthusiastic convictions of a convert. Her whole life was dedicated to
+the triumph of the Catholic cause; and, being a woman of considerable
+intelligence and of an ardent mind, she had become a recognized power in
+the great confederacy which has so much influenced the human race,
+and which has yet to play perhaps a mighty part in the fortunes of the
+world.
+
+“I was in great hopes that the cardinal would have met you at dinner,”
+said Lady St. Jerome, “but he wrote only this afternoon to say
+unexpected business would prevent him, but he would be here in the
+evening, though late.”
+
+“It must be something sudden, for I was with his eminence this morning,
+and he then contemplated our meeting here.”
+
+“Nothing from abroad?”
+
+“I should think not, or it would be known to me. There is nothing new
+from abroad this afternoon: my time has been spent in writing, not
+receiving, dispatches.”
+
+“And all well, I hope?”
+
+“This Scotch business plagues us. So far as Scotland is concerned, it is
+quite ripe; but the cardinal counsels delay on account of this country,
+and he has such a consummate knowledge of England, that—”
+
+At this moment Lord St Jerome entered the room—a grave but gracious
+personage, polished but looking silent, though he immediately turned
+the conversation to the weather. The monsignore began denouncing English
+fogs; but Lord St. Jerome maintained that, on the whole, there were not
+more fogs in England than in any other country; “and as for the French,”
+he added, “I like their audacity, for, when they revolutionized the
+calendar, they called one of their months Brumaire.”
+
+Then came in one of his lordships chaplains, who saluted the monsignore
+with reverence, and immediately afterward a beautiful young lady, his
+niece, Clare Arundel.
+
+The family were living in a convenient suite of small rooms on the
+ground-floor, called the winter-rooms so dinner was announced by the
+doors of an adjoining chamber being thrown open, and there they saw, in
+the midst of a chamber hung with green silk and adorned with some fine
+cabinet-pictures, a small round table, bright and glowing.
+
+It was a lively dinner. Lord St. Jerome loved conversation, though he
+never conversed. “There must be an audience,” he would say, “and I am
+the audience.” The partner of his life, whom he never ceased admiring,
+had originally fascinated him by her conversational talents; and, even
+if Nature had not impelled her, Lady St. Jerome was too wise a woman
+to relinquish the spell. The monsignore could always, when necessary,
+sparkle with anecdote or blaze with repartee; and all the chaplains, who
+abounded in this house, were men of bright abilities, not merely men of
+reading, but of the world, learned in the world’s ways, and trained to
+govern mankind by versatility of their sympathies. It was a dinner where
+there could not be two conversations going on, and where even the silent
+take their share in the talk by their sympathy.
+
+And among the silent, as silent even as Lord St. Jerome, was Miss
+Arundel; and yet her large violet eyes, darker even than her dark-brown
+hair, and gleaming with intelligence, and her rich face mantling with
+emotion, proved she was not insensible to the witty passages and the
+bright and interesting narratives that were sparkling and flowing about
+her.
+
+The gentlemen left the dining-room with the ladies, in the Continental
+manner. Lady St. Jerome, who was leaning on the arm of the monsignore,
+guided him into a saloon farther than the one they had reentered, and
+then seating herself said, “You were telling me about Scotland, that you
+yourself thought it ripe.”
+
+“Unquestionably. The original plan was to have established our hierarchy
+when the Kirk split up; but that would have been a mistake, it was not
+then ripe. There would have been a fanatical reaction. There is always
+a tendency that way in Scotland: as it is, at this moment, the
+Establishment and the Free Kirk are mutually sighing for some compromise
+which may bring them together and, if the proprietors would give up
+their petty patronage, some flatter themselves it might be arranged. But
+we are thoroughly well informed, and have provided for all this. We sent
+two of our best men into Scotland some time ago, and they have invented
+a new church, called the United Presbyterians. John Knox himself was
+never more violent, or more mischievous. The United Presbyterians will
+do the business: they will render Scotland simply impossible to live
+in; and then, when the crisis arrives, the distracted and despairing
+millions will find refuge in the bosom of their only mother. That is
+why, at home, we wanted no delay in the publication of the bull and the
+establishment of the hierarchy.”
+
+“But the cardinal says no?”
+
+“And must be followed. For these islands he has no equal. He wishes
+great reserve at present. Affairs here are progressing, gradually but
+surely. But it is Ireland where matters are critical, or will be soon.”
+
+“Ireland! I thought there was a sort of understanding there—at least for
+the present.”
+
+The monsignore shook his head. “What do you think of an American
+invasion of Ireland?”
+
+“An American invasion!”
+
+“Even so; nothing more probable, and nothing more to be deprecated by
+us. Now that the civil war in America is over, the Irish soldiery are
+resolved to employ their experience and their weapons in their own
+land; but they have no thought for the interest of the Holy See, or the
+welfare of our holy religion. Their secret organization is tampering
+with the people and tampering with the priests. The difficulty of
+Ireland is that the priests and the people will consider every thing
+in a purely Irish point of view. To gain some local object, they will
+encourage the principles of the most lawless liberalism, which naturally
+land them in Fenianism and atheism. And the danger is not foreseen,
+because the Irish political object of the moment is alone looked to.”
+
+“But surely they can be guided?”
+
+“We want a statesman in Ireland. We have never been able to find one; we
+want a man like the cardinal. But the Irish will have a native for their
+chief. We caught Churchill young, and educated him in the Propaganda;
+but he has disappointed us. At first all seemed well; he was reserved
+and austere; and we heard with satisfaction that he was unpopular. But,
+now that critical times are arriving, his peasant-blood cannot resist
+the contagion. He proclaims the absolute equality of all religions, and
+of the power of the state to confiscate ecclesiastical property, and not
+restore it to us, but alienate it forever. For the chance of subverting
+the Anglican Establishment, he is favoring a policy which will subvert
+religion itself. In his eagerness he cannot see that the Anglicans have
+only a lease of our property, a lease which is rapidly expiring.”
+
+“This is sad.”
+
+“It is perilous, and difficult to deal with. But it must be dealt
+with. The problem is to suppress Fenianism, and not to strengthen the
+Protestant confederacy.”
+
+“And you left Rome for this? We understood you were coming for something
+else,” said Lady St. Jerome, in a significant tone.
+
+“Yes, yes, I have been there, and I have seen him.”
+
+“And have you succeeded?”
+
+“No; and no one will—at least at present.”
+
+“Is all lost, then? Is the Malta scheme again on the carpet?”
+
+“Our Holy Church in built upon a rock,” said the monsignore, “but not
+upon the rock of Malta. Nothing is lost; Antonelli is calm and sanguine,
+though, rest assured, there is no doubt about what I tell you. France
+has washed her hands of us.”
+
+“Where, then, are we to look for aid?” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome,
+“against the assassins and atheists? Austria, the alternative ally,
+is no longer near you; and if she were—that I should ever live to say
+it—even Austria is our foe.”
+
+“Poor Austria!” said the monsignore with an unctuous sneer. “Two things
+made her a nation; she was German and she was Catholic, and now she is
+neither.”
+
+“But you alarm me, my dear lord, with your terrible news. We once
+thought that Spain would be our protector, but we hear bad news from
+Spain.”
+
+“Yes,” said the monsignore, “I think it highly probable that, before a
+few years have elapsed, every government in Europe will be atheistical
+except France. Vanity will always keep France the eldest son of the
+Church, even if she wear a bonnet rouge. But, if the Holy Father keep
+Rome, these strange changes will only make the occupier of the chair of
+St. Peter more powerful. His subjects will be in every clime and every
+country, and then they will be only his subjects. We shall get rid of
+the difficulty of the divided allegiance, Lady St. Jerome, which plagued
+our poor forefathers so much.”
+
+“If we keep Rome,” said Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“And we shall. Let Christendom give us her prayers for the next few
+years, and Pio Nono will become the most powerful monarch In Europe, and
+perhaps the only one.”
+
+“I hear a sound,” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome. “Yes! the cardinal has
+come. Let us greet him.”
+
+But as they were approaching the saloon the cardinal met them, and waved
+them back. “We will return,” he said, “to our friends immediately, but I
+want to say one word to you both.”
+
+He made them sit down. “I am a little restless,” he said, and stood
+before the fire. “Something interesting has happened; nothing to do with
+public affairs. Do not pitch your expectations too high—but still of
+importance, and certainly of great interest—at least to me. I have seen
+my child—my ward.”
+
+“Indeed an event!” said Lady St. Jerome, evidently much interested.
+
+“And what is he like?” inquired the monsignore.
+
+“All that one could wish. Extremely good-looking, highly bred, and most
+ingenuous; a considerable intelligence, and not untrained; but the most
+absolutely unaffected person I ever encountered.”
+
+“Ah! if he had been trained by your eminence,” sighed Lady St. Jerome.
+“Is it too late?”
+
+“‘Tis an immense position,” murmured Berwick.
+
+“What good might he not do?” said Lady St. Jerome; “and if he be so
+ingenuous, it seems impossible that he can resist the truth.”
+
+“Your ladyship is a sort of cousin of his,” said the cardinal, musingly.
+
+“Yes; but very remote. I dare say he would not acknowledge the tie. But
+we are kin; we have the same blood in our veins.”
+
+“You should make his acquaintance,” said the cardinal.
+
+“I more than desire it. I hear he has been terribly neglected, brought
+up among the most dreadful people, entirely infidels and fanatics.”
+
+“He has been nearly two years at Oxford,” said the cardinal. “That may
+have mitigated the evil.”
+
+“Ah! but you, my lord cardinal, you must interfere. Now that you at last
+know him, you must undertake the great task; you must save him.”
+
+“We must all pray, as I pray every morn and every night,” said the
+cardinal, “for the conversion of England.”
+
+“Or the conquest,” murmured Berwick.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 10 As the cardinal was regaining his carriage on leaving Mrs.
+Giles’s party, there was, about the entrance of the house, the usual
+gathering under such circumstances; some zealous linkboys marvellously
+familiar with London life, and some midnight loungers, who thus take
+their humble share of the social excitement, and their happy chance of
+becoming acquainted with some of the notables of the wondrous world of
+which they form the base. This little gathering, ranged at the instant
+into stricter order by the police to facilitate the passage of his
+eminence, prevented the progress of a passenger, who exclaimed in an
+audible, but not noisy voice, as if, he were ejaculating to himself, “A
+bas les pretres!”
+
+This exclamation, unintelligible to the populace, was noticed only
+by the only person who understood it. The cardinal, astonished at the
+unusual sound—for, hitherto, he had always found the outer world of
+London civil; or at least indifferent—threw his penetrating glance at
+the passenger, and caught clearly the visage on which the lamplight
+fully shone. It was a square, sinewy face, closely shaven, with the
+exception of a small but thick mustache, brown as the well-cropped hair,
+and blending with the hazel eye; a calm, but determined countenance;
+clearly not that of an Englishman, for he wore ear-rings.
+
+The carriage drove off, and the passenger, somewhat forcing his way
+through the clustering group, continued his course until he reached the
+cab-stand near the Marble Arch, when he engaged a vehicle and ordered
+to be driven to Leicester Square. That quarter of the town exhibits
+an animated scene toward the witching hour; many lights and much
+population, illuminated coffee-houses, the stir of a large theatre,
+bands of music in the open air, and other sounds, most of them gay, and
+some festive. The stranger, whose compact figure was shrouded by a long
+fur cape, had not the appearance of being influenced by the temptation
+of amusement. As he stopped in the square and looked around him, the
+expression of his countenance was moody, perhaps even anxious. He seemed
+to be making observations on the locality, and, after a few minutes,
+crossed the open space and turned up into a small street which opened
+into the square. In this street was a coffee-house of some pretension,
+connected indeed with an hotel, which had been formed out of two houses,
+and therefore possessed no inconsiderable accommodation.
+
+The coffee-room was capacious, and adorned in a manner which intimated
+it was not kept by an Englishman, or much used by Englishmen. The walls
+were painted in frescoed arabesques. There were many guests, principally
+seated at small tables of marble, and on benches and chairs covered with
+a coarse crimson velvet. Some were sipping coffee, some were drinking
+wine, others were smoking or playing dominoes, or doing both; while many
+were engaged in reading the foreign journals which abounded.
+
+An ever-vigilant waiter was at the side of the stranger the instant he
+entered, and wished to know his pleasure. The stranger was examining
+with his keen eye every individual in the room while this question was
+asked and repeated.
+
+“What would I wish?” said the stranger, having concluded his inspection,
+and as it were summoning back his recollection. “I would wish to see,
+and at once, one Mr. Perroni, who, I believe, lives here.”
+
+“Why, ‘tis the master!” exclaimed the waiter.
+
+“Well, then, go and tell the master that I want him.”
+
+“But the master is much engaged,” said the waiter, “—particularly.”
+
+“I dare say; but you will go and tell him that I particularly want to
+see him.”
+
+The waiter, though prepared to be impertinent to any one else, felt that
+one was speaking to him who must be obeyed, and, with a subdued, but
+hesitating manner, said, “There is a meeting to-night up-stairs, where
+the master is secretary, and it is difficult to see him; but, if I could
+see him, what name am I to give?”
+
+“You will go to him instantly,” said the stranger, “and you will tell
+him that he is wanted by Captain Bruges.”
+
+The waiter was not long absent, and returning with an obsequious bow, he
+invited the stranger to follow him to a private room, where he was
+alone only for a few seconds, for the door opened and he was joined by
+Perroni.
+
+“Ah! my general,” exclaimed the master of the coffee-house, and he
+kissed the stranger’s hand. “You received my telegram?”
+
+“I am here. Now what is your business?”
+
+“There is business, and great business, if you will do it; business for
+you.”
+
+“Well, I am a soldier, and soldiering is my trade, and I do not much
+care what I do in that way, provided it is not against the good cause.
+But I must tell you at once, friend Perroni, I am not a man who will
+take a leap in the dark. I must form my own staff, and I must have my
+commissariat secure.”
+
+“My general, you will be master of your own terms. The Standing
+Committee of the Holy Alliance of Peoples are sitting upstairs at this
+moment. They were unanimous in sending for you. See them; judge for
+yourself; and, rest assured, you will be satisfied.”
+
+“I do not much like having to do with committees,” said the general.
+“However, let it be as you like—I will see them.”
+
+“I had better just announce your arrival,” said Perroni. “And will you
+not take something, my general after your travel you must be wearied.”
+
+“A glass of sugar-and-water. You know, I am not easily tired. And, I
+agree with you, it is better to come to business at once: so prepare
+them.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 11 The Standing Committee of the Holy Alliance of Peoples all
+rose, although they were extreme republicans, when the general entered.
+Such is the magical influence of a man of action over men of the pen
+and the tongue. Had it been, instead of a successful military leader, an
+orator that had inspired Europe, or a journalist who had rights of the
+human race, the Standing Committee would have only seen men of their
+own kidney, who, having been favored with happier opportunities than
+themselves, had reaped a harvest which, equally favored, they might here
+have garnered.
+
+“General,” said Felix Drolin, the president, who was looked upon by the
+brotherhood as a statesman, for he had been in his time, a member of a
+provisional government, “this seat is for you,” and he pointed to one
+on his right hand. “You are ever welcome; and I hope you bring good
+tidings, and good fortune.”
+
+“I am glad to be among my friends, and I may say,” looking around, “my
+comrades. I hope I may bring you better fortune than my tidings.”
+
+“But now they have left Rome,” said the president, “every day we expect
+good news.”
+
+“Ay, ay! he has left Rome, but he has not left Rome with the door open.
+I hope it is not on such gossip you have sent for me. You have something
+on hand. What is it?”
+
+“You shall hear it from the fountain-head,” said the president, “fresh
+from New York,” and he pointed to an individual seated in the centre of
+the table.
+
+“Ah! Colonel Finucane,” said the general, “I have not forgotten James
+River. You did that well. What is the trick now?”
+
+Whereupon a tall, lean man, with a decided brogue, but speaking through
+his nose, rose from his seat and informed the general that the Irish
+people were organized and ready to rise; that they had sent their
+deputies to New York; all they wanted were arms and officers; that the
+American brethren had agreed to supply them with both, and amply; and
+that considerable subscriptions were raising for other purposes. What
+they now required was a commander-in-chief equal to the occasion, and in
+whom all would have confidence; and therefore they had telegraphed for
+the general.
+
+“I doubt not our friends over the water would send us plenty of rifles,”
+said the general, “if we could only manage to land them; and, I think, I
+know men now in the States from whom I could form a good staff; but how
+about the people of Ireland? What evidence have we that they will rise,
+if we land?”
+
+“The best,” said the president. “We have a head-centre here, Citizen
+Desmond, who will give you the most recent and the most authentic
+intelligence on that head.”
+
+“The whole country is organized,” said the head-centre; “we could put
+three hundred thousand men in the field at any time in a fortnight. The
+movement is not sectarian; it pervades all classes and all creeds. All
+that we want are officers and arms.”
+
+“Hem!” said the general; “and as to your other supplies? Any scheme of
+commissariat?”
+
+“There will be no lack of means,” replied the head-centre. “There is no
+country where so much money is hoarded as in Ireland. But, depend
+upon it, so far as the commissariat is concerned, the movement will be
+self-supporting.”
+
+“Well, we shall see,” said, the general; “I am sorry it is an Irish
+affair, though, to be sure, what else could it be? I am not fond of
+Irish affairs: whatever may be said, and however plausible things may
+look, in an Irish business there is always a priest at the bottom of it.
+I hate priests. By-the-by, I was stopped on my way here by a cardinal
+getting into his carriage. I thought I had burnt all those vehicles when
+I was at Rome with Garibaldi in ‘48. A cardinal in his carriage! I had
+no idea you permitted that sort of cattle in London.”
+
+“London is a roost for every bird,” said Felix Drolin.
+
+“Very few of the priests favor this movement,” said Desmond.
+
+“Then you have a great power against you,” said the general, “in
+addition to England.”
+
+“They are not exactly against; the bulk of them are too national for
+that; but Rome does not sanction—you understand?”
+
+“I understand enough,” said the general, “to see that we must not act
+with precipitation. An Irish business is a thing to be turned over
+several times.”
+
+“But yet,” said a Pole, “what hope for humanity except from the rising
+of an oppressed nationality? We have offered ourselves on the altar, and
+in vain! Greece is too small, and Roumania—though both of them are ready
+to do any thing; but they would be the mere tools of Russia. Ireland
+alone remains, and she is at our feet.”
+
+“The peoples will never succeed until they have a fleet,” said a German.
+“Then you could land as many rifles as you like, or any thing else. To
+have a fleet we rose against Denmark in my country, but we have been
+betrayed. Nevertheless, Germany will yet be united, and she can only be
+united as a republic. Then she will be the mistress of the seas.”
+
+“That is the mission of Italy,” said Perroni. “Italy—with the traditions
+of Genoa, Venice, Pisa—Italy is plainly indicated as the future mistress
+of the seas.”
+
+“I beg your pardon,” said the German; “the future mistress of the sees
+is the land of the Viking. It is the forests of the Baltic that will
+build the Best of the future. You have no timber in Italy.”
+
+“Timber is no longer wanted,” said Perroni. “Nor do I know of what will
+be formed the fleets of the future. But the sovereignty of the seas
+depends upon seamen, and the nautical genius of the Italians—”
+
+“Comrades,” said the general, “we have discussed to-night a great
+subject. For my part I have travelled rather briskly, as you wished it.
+I should like to sleep on this affair.”
+
+“‘Tis most reasonable,” said the president. “Our refreshment at council
+is very spare,” he continued, and he pointed to a vase of water and some
+glasses ranged round it in the middle of the table; “but we always drink
+one toast, general, before we separate. It is to one whom you love,
+and whom you have served well. Fill glasses, brethren and now ‘TO
+MARY-ANNE.’”
+
+If they had been inspired by the grape, nothing could be more animated
+and even excited than all their countenances suddenly became. The cheer
+might have been heard in the coffee-room, as they expressed, in
+the phrases of many languages, the never-failing and never-flagging
+enthusiasm invoked by the toast of their mistress.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 12 “Did you read that paragraph, mamma?” inquired Lady Corisande
+of the duchess, in a tone of some seriousness.
+
+“I did.”
+
+“And what did you think of it?”
+
+“It filled me with so much amazement that I have hardly begun to think.”
+
+“And Bertram never gave a hint of such things!”
+
+“Let us believe they are quite untrue.”
+
+“I hope Bertram is in no danger,” said his sister.
+
+“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the mother, with unaffected alarm.
+
+“I know not how it is,” said Lady Corisande, “but I frequently feel that
+some great woe is hanging over our country.”
+
+“You must dismiss such thoughts, my child; they are fanciful.”
+
+“But they will come, and when least expected—frequently in church, but
+also in the sunshine; and when I am riding too, when, once, every thing
+seemed gay. But now I often think of strife, and struggle, and war—civil
+war: the stir of our cavalcade seems like the tramp of cavalry.”
+
+“You indulge your imagination too much, dear Corisande. When you return
+to London, and enter the world, these anxious thoughts will fly.”
+
+“Is it imagination? I should rather have doubted my being of an
+imaginative nature. It seems to me that I am rather literal. But I
+cannot help hearing and reading things, and observing things, and they
+fill me with disquietude. All seems doubt and change, when it would
+appear that we require both faith and firmness.”
+
+“The duke is not alarmed about affairs,” said his wife.
+
+“And, if all did their duty like papa, there might be less, or no
+cause,” said Corisande. “But, when I hear of young nobles, the natural
+leaders of the land, going over to the Roman Catholic Church, I confess
+I lose heart and patience. It seems so unpatriotic, so effeminate.”
+
+“It may not be true,” said the duchess.
+
+“It may not be true of him, but it is true of others,” said Lady
+Corisande. “And why should he escape? He is very young, rather
+friendless, and surrounded by wily persons. I am disappointed about
+Bertram too. He ought to have prevented this, if it be true. Bertram
+seemed to me to have such excellent principles, and so completely to
+feel that he was born to maintain the great country which his ancestors
+created, that I indulged in dreams. I suppose you are right, mamma; I
+suppose I am imaginative without knowing it; but I have always thought,
+and hoped, that when the troubles came the country might, perhaps, rally
+round Bertram.”
+
+“I wish to see Bertram in Parliament,” said the duchess. “That will be
+the best thing for him. The duke has some plans.”
+
+This conversation had been occasioned by a paragraph in the Morning
+Post, circulating a rumor that a young noble, obviously Lothair, on
+the impending completion of his minority, was about to enter the Roman
+Church. The duchess and her daughter were sitting in a chamber of their
+northern castle, and speculating on their return to London, which was to
+take place after the Easter which had just arrived. It was an important
+social season for Corisande, for she was to be formally introduced into
+the great world, and to be presented at court.
+
+In the mean while, was there any truth in the report about Lothair?
+
+After their meeting at their lawyer’s, a certain intimacy had occurred
+between the cardinal and his ward. They met again immediately and
+frequently, and their mutual feelings were cordial. The manners of his
+eminence were refined and affectionate; his conversational powers were
+distinguished; there was not a subject on which his mind did not teem
+with interesting suggestions; his easy knowledge seemed always ready and
+always full; and whether it were art, or letters, or manners, or even
+political affairs, Lothair seemed to listen to one of the wisest, most
+enlightened, and most agreeable of men. There was only one subject
+on which his eminence seemed scrupulous never to touch, and that was
+religion; or so indirectly, that it was only when alone that Lothair
+frequently found himself musing over the happy influence on the arts,
+and morals, and happiness of mankind—of the Church.
+
+In due time, not too soon, but when he was attuned to the initiation,
+the cardinal presented Lothair to Lady St. Jerome. The impassioned
+eloquence of that lady germinated the seed which the cardinal had seemed
+so carelessly to scatter. She was a woman to inspire crusaders. Not that
+she ever: condescended to vindicate her own particular faith, or spoke
+as if she were conscious that Lothair did not possess it. Assuming
+that religion was true, for otherwise man would be in a more degraded
+position than the beasts of the field, which are not aware of their own
+wretchedness, then religion should be the principal occupation of man,
+to which all other pursuits should be subservient. The doom of eternity,
+and the fortunes of life, cannot be placed in competition. Our days
+should be pure, and holy, and heroic—full of noble thoughts and solemn
+sacrifice. Providence, in its wisdom, had decreed that the world should
+be divided between the faithful and atheists; the latter even seemed
+to predominate. There was no doubt that, if they prevailed, all that
+elevated man would become extinct. It was a great trial; but happy
+was the man who was privileged even to endure the awful test. It might
+develop the highest qualities and the most sublime conduct. If he were
+equal to the occasion, and could control and even subdue these sons of
+Korah, he would rank with Michael the Archangel.
+
+This was the text on which frequent discourses were delivered to
+Lothair, and to which he listened at first with eager, and soon with
+enraptured attention. The priestess was worthy of the shrine. Few
+persons were ever gifted with more natural eloquence: a command of
+language, choice without being pedantic; beautiful hands that fluttered
+with irresistible grace; flashing eyes and a voice of melody.
+
+Lothair began to examine himself, and to ascertain whether he possessed
+the necessary qualities, and was capable of sublime conduct. His natural
+modesty and his strong religious feeling struggled together. He feared
+he was not an archangel, and yet he longed to struggle with the powers
+of darkness.
+
+One day he ventured to express to Miss Arundel a somewhat hopeful view
+of the future, but Miss Arundel shook her head.
+
+“I do not agree with my aunt, at least as regards this country,” said
+Miss Arundel; “I think our sins are too great. We left His Church, and
+God is now leaving us.”
+
+Lothair looked grave, but was silent.
+
+Weeks had passed since his introduction to the family of Lord St.
+Jerome, and it was remarkable how large a portion of his subsequent time
+had passed under that roof. At first there were few persons in town,
+and really of these Lothair knew none; and then the house in St. James’s
+Square was not only an interesting but it was an agreeable house. All
+Lady St. Jerome’s family connections were persons of much fashion, so
+there was more variety and entertainment than sometimes are to be found
+under a Roman Catholic roof. Lady St. Jerome was at home every evening
+before Easter. Few dames can venture successfully on so decided a step;
+but her saloons were always attended, and by “nice people.” Occasionally
+the cardinal stepped in, and, to a certain degree, the saloon was the
+rendezvous of the Catholic party; but it was also generally social and
+distinguished. Many bright dames and damsels, and many influential men,
+were there, who little deemed that deep and daring thoughts were there
+masked by many a gracious countenance. The social atmosphere infinitely
+pleased Lothair. The mixture of solemn duty and graceful diversion, high
+purposes and charming manners, seemed to realize some youthful dreams of
+elegant existence. All, too, was enhanced by the historic character of
+the roof and by the recollection that their mutual ancestors, as Clare
+Arundel more than once intimated to him, had created England. Having had
+so many pleasant dinners in St. James’s Square, and spent there so
+many evening hours, it was not wonderful that Lothair had accepted an
+invitation from Lord St. Jerome to pass Easter at his country-seat.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 13 Vauxe, the seat of the St. Jeromes, was the finest specimen
+of the old English residence extant. It was the perfection of the
+style, which had gradually arisen after the Wars of the Roses had alike
+destroyed all the castles and the purpose of those stern erections.
+People said Vauxe looked like a college: the truth is, colleges looked
+like Vauxe, for, when those fair and civil buildings rose, the wise and
+liberal spirits who endowed them intended that they should resemble, as
+much as possible, the residence of a great noble.
+
+There were two quadrangles at Vauxe of gray-stone; the outer one of
+larger dimensions and much covered with ivy; the inner one not so
+extensive, but more ornate, with a lofty tower, a hall, and a chapel.
+The house was full of galleries, and they were full of portraits. Indeed
+there was scarcely a chamber in this vast edifice of which the walls
+were not breathing with English history in this interesting form.
+Sometimes more ideal art asserted a triumphant claim—transcendental Holy
+Families, seraphic saints, and gorgeous scenes by Tintoret and Paul of
+Verona.
+
+The furniture of the house seemed never to have been changed. It was
+very old, somewhat scanty, but very rich—tapestry and velvet hangings,
+marvellous cabinets, and crystal girandoles. Here and there a group of
+ancient plate; ewers and flagons and tall salt-cellars, a foot high and
+richly chiselled; sometimes a state bed shadowed with a huge pomp of
+stiff brocade and borne by silver poles.
+
+Vauxe stood in a large park, studded with stately trees; here and there
+an avenue of Spanish chestnuts or a grove of oaks; sometimes a gorsy
+dell, and sometimes a so great spread of antlered fern, taller than the
+tallest man.
+
+It was only twenty miles from town, and Lord St. Jerome drove Lothair
+down; the last ten miles through a pretty land, which, at the
+right season, would have been bright with orchards, oak-woods, and
+hop-gardens. Lord St. Jerome loved horses, and was an eminent whip. He
+had driven four-in-hand when a boy, and he went on driving four-in-hand;
+not because it was the fashion, but because he loved it. Toward the
+close of Lent, Lady St. Jerome and Clare Arundel had been at a convent
+in retreat, but they always passed Holy Week at home, and they were to
+welcome Lord St. Jerome again at Vauxe.
+
+The day was bright, the mode of movement exhilarating, all the
+anticipated incidents delightful, and Lothair felt the happiness of
+health and youth.
+
+“There is Vauxe,” said Lord St. Jerome, in a tone of proud humility, as
+a turn in the road first displayed the stately pile.
+
+“How beautiful!” said Lothair. “Ah! our ancestors understood the
+country.”
+
+“I used to think when I was a boy,” said Lord St. Jerome, “that I lived
+in the prettiest village in the world; but these railroads have
+so changed every thing that Vauxe seems to me now only a second
+town-house.”
+
+The ladies were in a garden, where they were consulting with the
+gardener and Father Coleman about the shape of some new beds, for the
+critical hour of filling them was approaching. The gardener, like all
+head-gardeners, was opinionated. Living always at Vauxe, he had come to
+believe that the gardens belonged to him, and that the family were only
+occasional visitors; and he treated them accordingly. The lively and
+impetuous Lady St. Jerome had a thousand bright fancies, but her morose
+attendant never indulged them. She used to deplore his tyranny with
+piteous playfulness. “I suppose,” she would say, “it is useless to
+resist, for I observe ‘tis the same everywhere. Lady Roehampton says she
+never has her way with her gardens. It is no use speaking to Lord St.
+Jerome, for, though he is afraid of nothing else, I am sure he is afraid
+of Hawkins.”
+
+The only way that Lady St. Jerome could manage Hawkins was through
+Father Coleman. Father Coleman, who knew every thing, knew a great deal
+about gardens; from the days of Le Notre to those of the fine gentlemen
+who now travel about, and when disengaged deign to give us advice.
+
+Father Coleman had only just entered middle-age, was imperturbable and
+mild in his manner. He passed his life very much at Vauxe, and imparted
+a great deal of knowledge to Mr. Hawkins without apparently being
+conscious of so doing. At the bottom of his mind, Mr. Hawkins felt
+assured that he had gained several distinguished prizes, mainly through
+the hints and guidance of Father Coleman; and thus, though on the
+surface, a little surly, he was ruled by Father Coleman, under the
+combined influence of self-interest and superior knowledge.
+
+“You find us in a garden without flowers,” said Lady St. Jerome; “but
+the sun, I think, alway loves these golden yews.”
+
+“These are for you, dear uncle,” said Clare Arundel, as she gave him a
+rich cluster of violets. “Just now the woods are more fragrant than the
+gardens, and these are the produce of our morning walk. I could have
+brought you some primroses, but I do not like to mix violets with any
+thing.”
+
+“They say primroses make a capital salad,” said Lord St. Jerome.
+
+“Barbarian!” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome. “I see you want luncheon; it
+must, be ready;” and she took Lothair’s arm. “I will show you a portrait
+of one of your ancestors,” she said; “he married an Arundel.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 14 “Now, you know,” said Lady St. Jerome to Lothair in a hushed
+voice, as they sat together in the evening, “you are to be quite free
+here; to do exactly what you like; and we shall follow our ways. If you
+like to have a clergyman of your own Church visit you while you are
+with us, pray say so without the slightest scruple. We have an excellent
+gentleman in this parish; he often dines here; and I am sure he would
+be most happy to attend you. I know that Holy Week is not wholly
+disregarded by some of the Anglicans.”
+
+“It is the anniversary of the greatest event of time,” said Lothair;
+“and I should be sorry if any of my Church did not entirely regard it,
+though they may show that regard in a way different from your own.”
+
+“Yes, yes,” murmured Lady St. Jerome; “there should be no difference
+between our Churches, if things were only properly understood. I would
+accept all who really bow to the name of Christ; they will come to the
+Church at last; they must. It is the atheists alone, I fear, who are now
+carrying every thing before them, and against whom there is no comfort,
+except the rock of St. Peter.”
+
+Miss Arundel crossed the room, whispered something to her aunt, and
+touched her forehead with her lips, and then left the apartment.
+
+“We must soon separate, I fear,” said Lady St. Jerome; “we have an
+office to-night of great moment; the Tenebrae commence to-night. You
+have, I think, nothing like it; but you have services throughout this
+week.”
+
+“I am sorry to say I have not attended them,” said Lothair. “I did
+at Oxford; but I don’t know how it is, but in London there seems no
+religion. And yet, as you sometimes say, religion is the great business
+of life; I sometimes begin to think the only business.”
+
+“Yes, yes,” said Lady St. Jerome, with much interest, “if you believe
+that you are safe. I wish you had a clergyman near you while you are
+here. See Mr. Claughton, if you like; I would; and, if you do not, there
+is Father Coleman. I cannot convey to you how satisfactory conversation
+is with him on religious matters. He is the holiest of men, and yet he
+is a man of the world; he will not invite you into any controversies. He
+will speak with you only on points on which we agree. You know there are
+many points on which we agree?”
+
+“Happily,” said Lothair. “And now about the office to-night: tell me
+about these Tenebrae. Is there any thing in the Tenebrae why I ought not
+to be present?”
+
+“No reason whatever; not a dogma which you do not believe; not a
+ceremony of which you cannot approve. There are Psalms, at the end of
+which a light on the altar is extinguished. There is the Song of Moses,
+the Canticle of Zachary, the Miserere—which is the 50th Psalm you read
+and chant regularly in your church—the Lord’s Prayer in silence; and
+then all is darkness and distress—what the Church was when our Lord
+suffered, what the whole world is now except His Church.”
+
+“If you will permit me,” said Lothair, “I will accompany you to the
+Tenebrae.”
+
+Although the chapel at Vauxe was, of course, a private chapel, it was
+open to the surrounding public, who eagerly availed themselves of a
+permission alike politic and gracious.
+
+Nor was that remarkable. Manifold art had combined to create this
+exquisite temple, and to guide all its ministrations. But to-night
+it was not the radiant altar and the splendor of stately priests,
+the processions and the incense, the divine choir and the celestial
+harmonies resounding lingering in arched roofs, that attracted many
+a neighbor. The altar was desolate, the choir was dumb; and while the
+services proceeded in hushed tones of subdued sorrow, and sometimes even
+of suppressed anguish, gradually, with each psalm and canticle, a light
+of the altar was extinguished, till at length the Miserere was muttered,
+and all became darkness. A sound as of a distant and rising wind was
+heard, and a crash, as it were the fall of trees in a storm. The earth
+is covered with darkness, and the veil of the temple is rent. But just
+at this moment of extreme woe, when all human voices are silent,
+and when it is forbidden even to breathe “Amen”—when every thing is
+symbolical of the confusion and despair of the Church at the loss of her
+expiring Lord—a priest brings forth a concealed light of silvery
+flame from a corner of the altar. This is the light of the world, and
+announced the resurrection, and then all rise up and depart in silence.
+
+As Lothair rose, Miss Arundel passed him with streaming eyes.
+
+“There is nothing in this holy office,” said Father Coleman to Lothair,
+“to which every real Christian might not give his assent.”
+
+“Nothing,” said Lothair, with great decision.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 15 There were Tenebrae on the following days, Maundy Thursday
+and Good Friday, and Lothair was present on both occasions.
+
+“There is also a great office on Friday,” said Father Coleman to
+Lothair, “which perhaps you would not like to attend—the mass of the
+pre-sanctified. We bring back the blessed sacrament to the desolate
+altar, and unveil the cross. It is one of our highest ceremonies,
+the adoration of the cross, which the Protestants persist in calling
+idolatry, though I presume they will give us leave to know the meaning
+of our own words and actions, and hope they will believe us when we tell
+them that our genuflexions and kissing of the cross are no more than
+exterior expressions of that love which we bear in our hearts to Jesus
+crucified; and that the words adoration and adore, as applied to
+the cross, only signify that respect and veneration due to things
+immediately relating to God and His service.”
+
+“I see no idolatry in it,” said Lothair, musingly.
+
+“No impartial person could,” rejoined Father Coleman; “but unfortunately
+all these prejudices were imbibed when the world was not so well
+informed as at present. A good deal of mischief has been done, too, by
+the Protestant versions of the Holy Scriptures; made in a hurry, and by
+men imperfectly acquainted with the Eastern tongues, and quite ignorant
+of Eastern manners. All the accumulated research and investigation of
+modern times have only illustrated and justified the offices of the
+Church.”
+
+“That is very interesting,” said Lothair.
+
+“Now, this question of idolatry,” said Father Coleman, “that is a
+fertile subject of misconception. The house of Israel was raised up
+to destroy idolatry because idolatry then meant dark images of Moloch
+opening their arms by machinery, and flinging the beauteous first-born
+of the land into their huge forms, which were furnaces of fire; or
+Ashtaroth, throned in moonlit groves, and surrounded by orgies of
+ineffable demoralization. It required the declared will of God to redeem
+man from such fatal iniquity, which would have sapped the human race.
+But to confound such deeds with the commemoration of God’s saints, who
+are only pictured because their lives are perpetual incentives to purity
+and holiness, and to declare that the Queen of Heaven and the Mother of
+God should be to human feeling only as a sister of charity or a gleaner
+in the fields, is to abuse reason and to outrage the heart.”
+
+“We live in dark times,” said Lothair, with an air of distress.
+
+“Not darker than before the deluge,” exclaimed Father Coleman; “not
+darker than before the nativity; not darker even than when the saints
+became martyrs. There is a Pharos in the world, and, its light will
+never be extinguished, however black the clouds and wild the waves. Man
+is on his trial now, not the Church; but in the service of the Church
+his highest energies may be developed, and his noblest qualities
+proved.”
+
+Lothair seemed plunged in thought, and Father Coleman glided away as
+Lady St. Jerome entered the gallery, shawled and bonneted, accompanied
+by another priest, Monsignore Catesby.
+
+Catesby was a youthful member of an ancient English house, which for
+many generations had without a murmur, rather in a spirit of triumph,
+made every worldly sacrifice for the Church and court of Rome. For that
+cause they had forfeited their lives, broad estates, and all the
+honors of a lofty station in their own land. Reginald Catesby, with
+considerable abilities, trained with consummate skill, inherited
+their determined will, and the traditionary beauty of their form and
+countenance. His manners were winning, and, he was as well informed in
+the ways of the world as he was in the works of the great casuists.
+
+“My lord has ordered the charbanc, and is going to drive us all to
+Chart, where we will lunch,” said Lady St. Jerome; “‘tis a curious
+place, and was planted, only seventy years ago, by my lord’s
+grandfather, entirely with spruce-firs, but with so much care and skill,
+giving each plant and tree ample distance, that they have risen to the
+noblest proportions, with all their green branches far-spreading on the
+ground like huge fans.”
+
+It was only a drive of three or four miles entirely in the park. This
+was a district that had been added to the ancient enclosure—a striking
+scene. It was a forest of firs, but quite unlike such as might be met
+with in the north of Europe or of America. Every tree was perfect—huge
+and complete, and full of massy grace. Nothing else was permitted to
+grow there except juniper, of which there were abounding and wondrous
+groups, green and spiral; the whole contrasting with the tall brown
+fern, of which there were quantities about, cut for the deer.
+
+The turf was dry and mossy, and the air pleasant. It was a balmy
+day. They sat down by the great trees, the servants opened the
+luncheon-baskets, which were a present from Balmoral. Lady St. Jerome
+was seldom seen to greater advantage than distributing her viands under
+such circumstances. Never was such gay and graceful hospitality.
+Lothair was quite fascinated as she playfully thrust a paper of
+lobster-sandwiches into his hand, and enjoined Monsignore Catesby to
+fill his tumbler with Chablis.
+
+“I wish Father Coleman were here,” said Lothair to Miss Arundel.
+
+“Why?” said Miss Arundel.
+
+“Because we were in the midst of a very interesting conversation on
+idolatry and on worship in groves, when Lady St. Jerome summoned us to
+our drive. This seems a grove where one might worship.”
+
+“Father Coleman ought to be at Rome,” said Miss Arundel. “He was to have
+passed Holy Week there. I know not why he changed his plans.”
+
+“Are you angry with him for it?”
+
+“No, not angry, but surprised; surprised that any one might be at Rome,
+and yet be absent from it.”
+
+“You like Rome?”
+
+“I have never been there. It is the wish of my life.”
+
+“May I say to you what you said to me just now—why?”
+
+“Naturally, because I would wish to witness the ceremonies of the Church
+in their most perfect form.”
+
+“But they are fulfilled in this country, I have heard, with much
+splendor and precision.”
+
+Miss Arundel shook her head.
+
+“Oh! no,” she said; “in this country we are only just emerging from the
+catacombs. If the ceremonies of the Church were adequately fulfilled in
+England, we should hear very little of English infidelity.”
+
+“That is saying a great deal,” observed Lothair, inquiringly.
+
+“Had I that command of wealth of which we hear so much in the present
+day, and with which the possessors seem to know so little what to do, I
+would purchase some of those squalid streets in Westminster, which are
+the shame of the metropolis, and clear a great space and build a real
+cathedral, where the worship of heaven should be perpetually conducted
+in the full spirit of the ordinances of the Church. I believe, were this
+done, even this country might be saved.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 16 Lothair began to meditate on two great ideas—the
+reconciliation of Christendom, and the influence of architecture on
+religion. If the differences between the Roman and Anglican Churches,
+and between the papacy and Protestantism generally arose, as Father
+Coleman assured him, and seemed to prove, in mere misconception,
+reconciliation, though difficult, did not seem impossible, and appeared
+to be one of the most efficient modes of defeating the atheists. It was
+a result which, of course, mainly depended on the authority of Reason;
+but the power of the imagination might also be enlisted in the good
+cause through the influence of the fine arts, of which the great mission
+is to excite, and at the same time elevate, the feelings of the
+human family. Lothair found himself frequently in a reverie over Miss
+Arundel’s ideal fane; and, feeling that he had the power of buying up
+a district in forlorn Westminster, and raising there a temple to the
+living God, which might influence the future welfare of millions,
+and even effect the salvation of his country, he began to ask himself
+whether he could incur the responsibility of shrinking from the
+fulfilment of this great duty.
+
+Lothair could not have a better adviser on the subject of the influence
+of architecture on religion than Monsignore Catesby. Monsignore Catesby
+had been a pupil of Pugin; his knowledge of ecclesiastical architecture
+was only equalled by his exquisite taste. To hear him expound the
+mysteries of symbolical art, and expatiate on the hidden revelations
+of its beauteous forms, reached even to ecstasy. Lothair hung upon his
+accents like a neophyte. Conferences with Father Coleman on those points
+of faith on which they did not differ, followed up by desultory remarks
+on those points of faith on which they ought not to differ—critical
+discussions with Monsignore Catesby on cathedrals, their forms, their
+purposes, and the instances in several countries in which those forms
+were most perfect and those purposes best secured—occupied a good deal
+of time; and yet these engaging pursuits were secondary in real emotion
+to his frequent conversations with Miss Arundel in whose society every
+day he took a strange and deeper interest.
+
+She did not extend to him that ready sympathy which was supplied by
+the two priests. On the contrary, when he was apt to indulge in those
+speculations which they always encouraged, and rewarded by adroit
+applause, she was often silent, throwing on him only the scrutiny
+of those violet yes, whose glance was rather fascinating than apt to
+captivate. And yet he was irresistibly drawn to her, and, once recalling
+the portrait in the gallery, he ventured to murmur that they were
+kinsfolk.
+
+“Oh! I have no kin, no country,” said Miss Arundel. “These are not times
+for kin and country. I have given up all these things for my Master!”
+
+“But are our times so trying as that?” inquired Lothair.
+
+“They are times for new crusades,” said Miss Arundel, with energy,
+“though it may be of a different character from the old. If I were a
+man, I would draw my sword for Christ. There are as great deeds to
+be done as the siege of Ascalon, or even as the freeing of the Holy
+Sepulchre.”
+
+In the midst of a profound discussion with Father Coleman on Mariolatry,
+Lothair, rapt in reverie, suddenly introduced the subject of Miss
+Arundel. “I wonder what will be her lot?” he exclaimed.
+
+“It seems to, me to be settled,” said Father Coleman. “She will be the
+bride of the Church.”
+
+“Indeed?” and he started, and even changed color.
+
+“She deems it her vocation,” said Father Coleman.
+
+“And yet, with such gifts, to be immured in a convent,” said Lothair.
+
+“That would not necessarily follow,” replied Father Coleman. “Miss
+Arundel may occupy a position in which she may exercise much influence
+for the great cause which absorbs her being.”
+
+“There is a divine energy about her,” said Lothair, almost speaking to
+himself. “It could not have been given for little ends.”
+
+“If Miss Arundel could meet with a spirit as and as energetic as her
+own,” said Father. Coleman, “Her fate might be different. She has no
+thoughts which are not great, and no purposes which are not sublime. But
+for the companion of her life she would require no less than a Godfrey
+de Bouillon.”
+
+Lothair began to find the time pass very rapidly at Vauxe. Easter week
+had nearly vanished; Vauxe had been gay during the last few days. Every
+day some visitors came down from London; sometimes they returned in the
+evening; sometimes they passed the night at Vauxe, and returned to town
+in the morning with large bouquets. Lothair felt it was time for him to
+interfere, and he broke his intention to Lady St. Jerome; but Lady St.
+Jerome would not hear of it. So he muttered something about business.
+
+“Exactly,” she said; “everybody has business, and I dare say you have
+a great deal. But Vauxe is exactly the place for persons who have
+business. You go up to town by an early train, and then you return
+exactly in time for dinner, and bring us all the news from the clubs.”
+
+Lothair was beginning to say something, but Lady St. Jerome, who, when
+necessary, had the rare art of not listening without offending the
+speaker, told him that they did not intend themselves to return to town
+for a week or so, and that she knew Lord St. Jerome would be greatly
+annoyed if Lothair did not remain.
+
+Lothair remained; and he went up to town one or two mornings to transact
+business; that is to say, to see a celebrated architect and to order
+plans for a cathedral, in which all the purposes of those sublime and
+exquisite structures were to be realized. The drawings would take a
+considerable time to prepare, and these must be deeply considered. So
+Lothair became quite domiciliated at Vauxe: he went up to town in the
+morning, and returned, as it were, to his home; everybody delighted to
+welcome him, and yet he seemed not expected. His rooms were called after
+his name; and the household treated him as one of the family.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 17 A few days before Lothair’s visit was to terminate, the
+cardinal and Monsignore Berwick arrived at Vauxe. His eminence was
+received with much ceremony; the marshalled household, ranged in lines,
+fell on their knees at his approach, and Lady St. Jerome, Miss Arundel,
+and some other ladies, scarcely less choice and fair, with the lowest
+obeisance, touched, with their honored lips, his princely hand.
+
+The monsignore had made another visit to Paris on his intended return
+to Rome, but, in consequence of some secret intelligence which he had
+acquired in the French capital, had thought fit to return to England
+to consult with the cardinal. There seemed to be no doubt that the
+revolutionary party in Italy, assured by the withdrawal of the French
+troops from Rome, were again stirring. There seemed also little doubt
+that London was the centre of preparation, though the project and the
+projectors were involved in much, mystery. “They want money,” said
+the monsignore; “that we know, and that is now our best chance. The
+Aspromonte expedition drained their private resources; and as for
+further aid, that is out of the question; the galantuomo is bankrupt.
+But the atheists are desperate, and we must prepare for events.”
+
+On the morning after their arrival, the cardinal invited Lothair to a
+stroll in the park. “There is the feeling of spring this morning,” said
+his eminence, “though scarcely yet its vision.” It was truly a day of
+balm, and sweetness, and quickening life; a delicate mist hung about the
+huge trees and the masses of more distant woods, and seemed to clothe
+them with that fulness of foliage which was not yet theirs. The cardinal
+discoursed much on forest-trees, and, happily. He recommended Lothair to
+read Evelyn’s “Sylva.” Mr. Evelyn had a most accomplished mind; indeed,
+a character in every respect that approached perfection. He was also a
+most religious man.
+
+“I wonder,” said Lothair, “how any man who is religious can think of any
+thing but religion.”
+
+“True,” said the cardinal, and looking at him earnestly, “most true. But
+all things that are good and beautiful make us more religious. They tend
+to the development of the religious principle in us, which is our divine
+nature. And, my dear young friend,” and here his eminence put his arm
+easily and affectionately into that of Lothair, “it is a most happy
+thing for you, that you live so much with a really religious family. It
+is a great boon for a young man, and a rare one.”
+
+“I feel it so,” said Lothair, his face kindling.
+
+“Ah!” said the cardinal, “when we remember that this country once
+consisted only of such families!” And then, with a sigh, and as if
+speaking to himself, “And they made it so great and so beautiful!”
+
+“It is still great and beautiful,” said Lothair, but rather in a tone of
+inquiry than decision.
+
+“But the cause of its greatness and its beauty no longer exists. It
+became great and beautiful because it believed in God.”
+
+“But faith is not extinct?” said Lothair.
+
+“It exists in the Church,” replied the cardinal, with decision. “All
+without that pale is practical atheism.”
+
+“It seems to me that a sense of duty is natural to man,” said Lothair,
+“and that there can be no satisfaction in life without attempting to
+fulfil it.”
+
+“Noble words, my dear young friend; noble and true. And the highest
+duty of man, especially in this age, is to vindicate the principles of
+religion, without which the world must soon become a scene of universal
+desolation.”
+
+“I wonder if England will ever again be a religious country?” said
+Lothair, musingly.
+
+“I pray for that daily,” said the cardinal; and he invited his companion
+to seat himself on the trunk of an oak that had been lying there
+since the autumn fall. A slight hectic flame played over the pale and
+attenuated countenance of the cardinal; he seemed for a moment in deep
+thought; and then, in a voice distinct yet somewhat hushed, and at first
+rather faltering, he said: “I know not a grander, or a nobler career,
+for a young man of talents and position in this age, than to be the
+champion and asserter of Divine truth. It is not probable that there
+could be another conqueror in our time. The world is wearied of
+statesmen; whom democracy has degraded into politicians, and of orators
+who have become what they call debaters. I do not believe there could
+be another Dante, even another Milton. The world is devoted to physical
+science, because it believes these discoveries will increase its
+capacity of luxury and self-indulgence. But the pursuit of science leads
+only to the insoluble. When we arrive at that barren term, the Divine
+voice summons man, as it summoned Samuel; all the poetry and passion and
+sentiment of human nature are taking refuge in religion; and he, whose
+deeds and words most nobly represent Divine thoughts, will be the man of
+this century.”
+
+“But who could be equal to such a task?” murmured Lothair.
+
+“Yourself,” exclaimed the cardinal, and he threw his glittering eye upon
+his companion. “Any one with the necessary gifts, who had implicit faith
+in the Divine purpose.”
+
+“But the Church is perplexed; it is ambiguous, contradictory.”
+
+“No, no,” said the cardinal; “not the Church of Christ; it is never
+perplexed, never ambiguous, never contradictory. Why should it be? How
+could it be? The Divine persons are ever with it, strengthening and
+guiding it with perpetual miracles. Perplexed churches are churches made
+by Act of Parliament, not by God.”
+
+Lothair seemed to start, and looked at his guardian with a scrutinizing
+glance. And then he said, but not without hesitation, “I experience at
+times great despondency.”
+
+“Naturally,” replied the cardinal. “Every man must be despondent who is
+not a Christian.”
+
+“But I am a Christian,” said Lothair.
+
+“A Christian estranged,” said the cardinal; “a Christian without the
+consolations of Christianity.”
+
+“There is something in that,” said Lothair. “I require the consolations
+of Christianity, and yet I feel I have them not. Why is this?”
+
+“Because what you call your religion is a thing apart from your life,
+and it ought to be your life. Religion should be the rule of life, not
+a casual incident of it. There is not a duty of existence, not a joy
+or sorrow which the services of the Church do not assert, or with which
+they do not sympathize. Tell me, now; you have, I was glad to hear,
+attended the services of the Church of late, since you have been under
+this admirable roof. Have you not then found some consolation?”
+
+“Yes; without doubt I have been often solaced.” And Lothair sighed.
+
+“What the soul is to man, the Church is to the world,” said the
+cardinal. “It is the link between us and the Divine nature. It came
+from heaven complete; it has never changed, and it can never alter. Its
+ceremonies are types of celestial truths; its services are suited to all
+the moods of man; they strengthen him in his wisdom and his purity, and
+control and save him in the hour of passion and temptation. Taken as
+a whole, with all its ministrations, its orders, its offices, and the
+divine splendor of its ritual, it secures us on earth some adumbration
+of that ineffable glory which awaits the faithful in heaven, where the
+blessed Mother of God and ten thousand saints perpetually guard over us
+with Divine intercession.”
+
+“I was not taught these things in my boyhood,” said Lothair.
+
+“And you might reproach me, and reasonably, as your guardian, for my
+neglect,” said the cardinal. “But my power was very limited, and, when
+my duties commenced, you must remember that I was myself estranged from
+the Church, I was myself a Parliamentary Christian, till despondency and
+study and ceaseless thought and prayer, and the Divine will, brought
+me to light and rest. But I at least saved you from a Presbyterian
+university; I at least secured Oxford for you; and I can assure you, of
+my many struggles, that was not the least.”
+
+“It gave the turn to my mind,” said Lothair, “and I am grateful to you
+for it. What it will all end in, God only knows.”
+
+“It will end in His glory and in yours,” said the cardinal. “I have
+spoken, perhaps, too much and too freely, but you greatly interest me,
+not merely because you are my charge, and the son of my beloved friend,
+but because I perceive in you great qualities—qualities so great,”
+continued the cardinal with earnestness, “that properly guided, they may
+considerably affect the history of this country, and perhaps even have a
+wider range.”
+
+Lothair shook his head.
+
+“Well, well,” continued the cardinal in a lighter tone, “we will pursue
+our ramble. At any rate, I am not wrong in this, that you have no
+objection to join in my daily prayer for the conversion of this kingdom
+to—religious truth,” his eminence added after a pause.
+
+“Yes religious truth,” said Lothair, “we must all pray for that.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 18 Lothair returned to town excited and agitated. He felt that
+he was on the eve of some great event in his existence, but its precise
+character was not defined. One conclusion, however, was indubitable:
+life must be religion; when we consider what is at stake, and that our
+eternal welfare depends on our due preparation for the future, it was
+folly to spare a single hour from the consideration of the best means to
+secure our readiness. Such a subject does not admit of half measures or
+of halting opinions. It seemed to Lothair that nothing could interest
+him in life that was not symbolical of divine truths and an adumbration
+of the celestial hereafter.
+
+Could truth have descended from heaven ever to be distorted, to be
+corrupted, misapprehended, misunderstood? Impossible! Such a belief
+would confound and contradict all the attributes of the All-wise and the
+All-mighty. There must be truth on earth now as fresh and complete is it
+was at Bethlehem. And how could it be preserved but by the influence
+of the Paraclete acting on an ordained class? On this head his tutor at
+Oxford had fortified him; by a conviction of the Apostolical succession
+of the English bishops, which no Act of Parliament could alter or
+affect. But Lothair was haunted by a feeling that the relations of his
+Communion with the Blessed Virgin were not satisfactory. They could
+not content either his heart or his intellect. Was it becoming that a
+Christian should live as regards the hallowed Mother of his God in a
+condition of harsh estrangement? What mediatorial influence more awfully
+appropriate than the consecrated agent of the mighty mystery? Nor could
+he, even in his early days, accept without a scruple the frigid system
+that would class the holy actors in the divine drama of the Redemption
+as mere units in the categories of vanished generations. Human beings
+who had been in personal relation with the Godhead must be different
+from other human beings. There must be some transcendent quality in
+their lives and careers, in their very organization, which marks them
+out from all secular heroes. What was Alexander the Great, or even Caius
+Julius, compared with that apostle whom Jesus loved?
+
+Restless and disquieted, Lothair paced the long and lofty rooms which
+had been secured for him in a London hotel which rivalled the colossal
+convenience of Paris and the American cities. Their tawdry ornaments
+and their terrible new furniture would not do after the galleries and
+portraits of Vauxe. Lothair sighed.
+
+Why did that visit ever end? Why did the world consist of any thing else
+but Tudor palaces in ferny parks, or time be other than a perpetual Holy
+Week? He never sighed at Vauxe. Why? He supposed it was because their
+religion was his life, and here—and he looked around him with a shudder.
+The cardinal was right: it was a most happy thing for him to be living
+so much with so truly a religious family.
+
+The door opened, and servants came in bearing a large and magnificent
+portfolio. It was of morocco and of prelatial purple with broad bands of
+gold and alternate ornaments of a cross and a coronet. A servant handed
+to Lothair a letter, which enclosed the key that opened its lock. The
+portfolio contained the plans and drawings of the cathedral.
+
+Lothair was lost in admiration of these designs and their execution. But
+after the first fever of investigation was over, he required sympathy
+and also information. In a truly religious family there would always be
+a Father Coleman or a Monsignore Catesby to guide and to instruct. But a
+Protestant, if he wants aid or advice on any matter, can only go to his
+solicitor. But as he proceeded in his researches he sensibly felt
+that the business was one above even an oratorian or a monsignore. It
+required a finer and a more intimate sympathy; a taste at the same
+time more inspired and more inspiring; some one who blended with divine
+convictions the graceful energy of human feeling, and who would not
+only animate him to effort but fascinate him to its fulfilment. The
+counsellor he required was Miss Arundel.
+
+Lothair had quitted Vauxe one week, and it seemed to him a year. During
+the first four-and-twenty hours he felt like a child who had returned to
+school, and, the day after, like a man on a desert island. Various
+other forms of misery and misfortune were suggested by his succeeding
+experience. Town brought no distractions to him; he knew very few
+people, and these be had not yet encountered; he had once ventured to
+White’s, but found only a group of gray-beaded men, who evidently did
+not know him, and who seemed to scan him with cynical nonchalance. These
+were not the golden youth whom he had been assured by Bertram would
+greet him; so, after reading a newspaper for a moment upside downward,
+he got away. But he had no harbor of refuge, and was obliged to ride
+down to Richmond and dine alone, and meditate on symbols and celestial
+adumbrations. Every day he felt how inferior was this existence to that
+of a life in a truly religious family.
+
+But, of all the members of the family to which his memory recurred with
+such unflagging interest, none more frequently engaged his thoughts than
+Miss Arundel. Her conversation, which stimulated his intelligence while
+it rather piqued his self-love, exercised a great influence over him,
+and he had omitted no opportunity of enjoying her society. That society
+and its animating power he sadly missed; and now that he had before him
+the very drawings about which they had frequently talked, and she was
+not by his side to suggest and sympathize and criticise and praise, he
+felt unusually depressed.
+
+Lothair corresponded with Lady St. Jerome, and was aware of her intended
+movements. But the return the family to London had been somewhat
+delayed. When this disappointment was first made known to him, his
+impulse was to ride down to Vauxe; but the tact in which he was not
+deficient assured him that he ought not to reappear on a stage where he
+had already figured for perhaps too considerable a time, and so another
+week had to be passed, softened, however, by visits from the father of
+the oratory and the chamberlain of his holiness, who came to look after
+Lothair with much friendliness, and with whom it was consolatory and
+even delightful for him to converse on sacred art, still holier things,
+and also Miss Arundel.
+
+At length, though it seemed impossible, this second week elapsed, and
+to-morrow Lothair was to lunch with Lady St. Jerome in St. James’s
+Square, and to meet all his friends. He thought of it all day, and he
+passed a restless night. He took an early canter to rally his energies,
+and his fancy was active in the splendor of the spring. The chestnuts
+were in silver bloom, and the pink May had flushed the thorns, and banks
+of sloping turf were radiant with plots of gorgeous flowers. The waters
+glittered in the sun, and the air was fragrant with that spell which
+only can be found in metropolitan mignonette. It was the hour and the
+season when heroic youth comes to great decisions, achieves exploits, or
+perpetrates scrapes.
+
+Nothing could be more cordial, nothing more winning, than the reception
+of Lothair by Lady St. Jerome. She did not conceal her joy at their
+being again together. Even Miss Arundel, though still calm, even a
+little demure, seemed glad to see him: her eyes looked kind and pleased,
+and she gave him her hand with graceful heartiness. It was the sacred
+hour of two when Lothair arrived, and they were summoned to luncheon
+almost immediately. Then they were not alone; Lord St. Jerome was not
+there, but the priests were present and some others. Lothair, however,
+sat next to Miss Arundel.
+
+“I have been thinking of you very often since I left Vauxe,” said
+Lothair to his neighbor.
+
+“Charitably, I am sure.”
+
+“I have been thinking of you every day,” he continued, “for I wanted
+your advice.”
+
+“Ah! but that is not a popular thing to give.”
+
+“But it is precious—at least, yours is to me—and I want it now very
+much.”
+
+“Father Coleman told me you had got the plans for the cathedral,” said
+Miss Arundel.
+
+“And I want to show them to you.”
+
+“I fear I am only a critic,” said Miss Arundel, “and I do not admire
+mere critics. I was very free in my comments to you on several subjects
+at Vauxe; and I must now say I thought you bore it very kindly.”
+
+“I was enchanted,” said Lothair, “and desire nothing but to be ever
+subject to such remarks. But this affair of the cathedral, it is your
+own thought—I would fain hope your own wish, for unless it were your own
+wish I do not think I ever should be able to accomplish it.”
+
+“And when the cathedral is built,” said Miss Arundel “what then?”
+
+“Do you not remember telling me at Vauxe that all sacred buildings
+should be respected, for that in the long-run they generally fell to the
+professors of the true faith?”
+
+“But when they built St. Peter’s, they dedicated it to a saint in
+heaven,” said Miss Arundel. “To whom is yours to be inscribed?”
+
+“To a saint in heaven and in earth,” said Lothair, blushing; “to St.
+Clare.”
+
+But Lady St. Jerome and her guests rose at this moment, and it is
+impossible to say with precision whether this last remark of Lothair
+absolutely reached the ear of Miss Arundel. She looked as if it had
+not. The priests and the other guests dispersed. Lothair accompanied the
+ladies to the drawing-room; he lingered, and he was meditating if the
+occasion served to say more.
+
+Lady St. Jerome was writing a note, Mss Arundel was arranging some work,
+Lothair was affecting an interest in her employment in order that he
+might be seated by her and ask her questions, when the groom of the
+chambers entered and inquired whether her ladyship was at home, and
+being answered in the affirmative, retired, and announced and ushered in
+the duchess and Lady Corisande.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 19 It seemed that the duchess and Lady St. Jerome were intimate,
+for they called each other by their Christian names, and kissed each
+other. The young ladies also were cordial. Her grace greeted Lothair
+with heartiness; Lady Corisande with some reserve. Lothair thought she
+looked very radiant and very proud.
+
+It was some time since they had all met—not since the end of the last
+season—so there was a great deal to talk about. There had been deaths
+and births and marriages which required a flying comment—all important
+events; deaths which solved many difficulties, heirs to estates which
+were not expected, and weddings which surprised everybody.
+
+“And have you seen Selina?” inquired Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“Not yet; except mamma, this is our first visit,” replied the duchess.
+
+“Ah! that is real friendship. She came down to Vauxe the other day, but
+I did not think she was looking well. She frets herself too much about
+her boys; she does not know what to do with them. They will not go into
+the Church, and they have no fortune for the Guards.”
+
+“I understood that Lord Plantagenet was to be a civil engineer,” said
+Lady Corisande.
+
+“And Lord Albert Victor to have a sheep-walk in Australia,” continued
+Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“They say that a lord must not go to the bar,” said Miss Arundel. “It
+seems to me very unjust.”
+
+“Alfred Beaufort went the circuit,” said Lady Corisande, “but I believe
+they drove him into Parliament.”
+
+“You will miss your friend Bertram at Oxford,” said the duchess,
+addressing Lothair.
+
+“Indeed,” said Lothair, rather confused, for he was himself a defaulter
+in collegiate attendance. “I was just going to write to him to see
+whether one could not keep half a term.”
+
+“Oh! nothing will prevent his taking his degree,” said the duchess, “but
+I fear there must be some delay. There is a vacancy for our county—Mr.
+Sandstone is dead, and they insist upon returning Bertram. I hope he
+will be of age before the nomination. The duke is much opposed to it; he
+wishes him to wait; but in these days it is not so easy for young men to
+get into Parliament. It is not as it used to be; we cannot choose.”
+
+“This is an important event,” said Lothair to Lady Corisande.
+
+“I think it is; nor do I believe Bertram is too young for public life.
+These are not times to be laggard.”
+
+“There is no doubt they are very serious times,” said Lothair.
+
+“I have every confidence in Bertram—in his ability and his principles.”
+
+The ladies began to talk about the approaching drawing-room and Lady
+Corisande’s presentation, and Lothair thought it right to make his
+obeisance and withdraw. He met in the hall Father Coleman, who was in
+fact looking after him, and would have induced him to repair to the
+father’s room and hold some interesting conversation, but Lothair was
+not so congenial as usual. He was even abrupt, and the father, who
+never pressed any thing, assuming that Lothair had some engagement,
+relinquished with a serene brow, but not without chagrin, what he had
+deemed might have proved a golden opportunity.
+
+And yet Lothair had no engagement, and did not know where to go or what
+to do with himself. But he wanted to be alone, and of all persons in the
+world at that moment, he had a sort of instinct that the one he wished
+least to converse with was Father Coleman.
+
+“She has every confidence in his principles,” said Lothair to himself as
+he mounted his horse, “and his principles were mine six months ago, when
+I was at Brentham. Delicious Brentham! It seems like a dream; but every
+thing seems like a dream; I hardly know whether life is agony or bliss.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 20 The duke was one of the few gentlemen in London who lived
+in a palace. One of the half-dozen of those stately structures that our
+capital boasts had fallen to his lot.
+
+An heir-apparent to the throne, in the earlier days of the present
+dynasty, had resolved to be lodged as became a prince, and had raised,
+amid gardens which he had diverted from one of the royal parks, an
+edifice not unworthy of Vicenza in its best days, though on a far more
+extensive scale than any pile that favored city boasts. Before the
+palace was finished, the prince died, and irretrievably in debt. His
+executors were glad to sell to the trustees of the ancestors of the
+chief of the house of Brentham the incomplete palace, which ought never
+to have been commenced. The ancestor of the duke was by no means so
+strong a man as the duke himself, and prudent people rather murmured at
+the exploit. But it was what is called a lucky family—that is to say,
+a family with a charm that always attracted and absorbed heiresses; and
+perhaps the splendor of CRECY HOUSE—for it always retained its original
+title—might have in some degree contributed to fascinate the taste or
+imagination of the beautiful women who, generation after generation,
+brought their bright castles and their broad manors to swell the state
+and rent-rolls of the family who were so kind to Lothair.
+
+The centre of Crecy House consisted of a hall of vast proportion, and
+reaching to the roof. Its walls commemorated, in paintings by the most
+celebrated artists of the age, the exploits of the Black Prince; and its
+coved ceiling, in panels resplendent with Venetian gold, contained
+the forms and portraits of English heroes. A corridor round this hall
+contained the most celebrated private collection of pictures in England
+and opened into a series of sumptuous saloons.
+
+It was a rather early hour when Lothair, the morning after his meeting
+the duchess at Lady St. Jerome’s, called at Crecy House; but it was only
+to leave his card. He would not delay for a moment paying his respects
+there, and yet he shrank from thrusting himself immediately into the
+circle. The duke’s brougham was in the court-yard. Lothair was holding
+his groom’s horse, who had dismounted, when the hall-door opened, and
+his grace and Bertram came forth.
+
+“Halloa, old fellow!” exclaimed Bertram, “only think of your being here.
+It seems an age since we met. The duchess was telling us about you at
+breakfast.”
+
+“Go in and see them,” said the duke, “there is a large party at
+luncheon; Augusta Montairy is there. Bertram and I are obliged to go to
+Lincoln’s Inn, something about his election.”
+
+But Lothair murmured thanks and declined.
+
+“What are you going to do with yourself to-day?” said the duke. And
+Lothair hesitating, his grace continued: “Well, then, come and dine with
+us.”
+
+“Of course you will come, old fellow. I have not seen you since you left
+Oxford at the beginning of the year. And then we can settle about your
+term.” And Lothair assenting, they drove away.
+
+It was nine o’clock before they dined. The days were getting very long,
+and soft, and sweet; the riding-parties lingered amid the pink May and
+the tender twilight breeze. The Montairys dined to-day at Crecy House,
+and a charming married daughter without her husband, and Lord and
+Lady Clanmorne, who were near kin to the duchess, and themselves so
+good-looking and agreeable that they were as good at a dinner-party as
+a couple of first-rate entrées. There was also Lord Carisbrooke, a young
+man of distinguished air and appearance; his own master, with a large
+estate, and three years or so older than Lothair.
+
+They dined in the Chinese saloon, which was of moderate dimensions, but
+bright with fantastic forms and colors, brilliantly lit up. It was the
+privilege of Lothair to hand the duchess to her seat. He observed that
+Lord Carisbrooke was placed next to Lady Corisande, though he had not
+taken her out.
+
+“This dinner reminds me of my visit to Brentham,” said Lothair.
+
+“Almost the same party,” said the duchess.
+
+“The visit to Brentham was the happiest time of my life,” said Lothair,
+moodily.
+
+“But you have seen a great deal since,” said the duchess.
+
+“I am not a sure it is of any use seeing things,” said Lothair.
+
+When the ladies retired, there was some talk about horses. Lord
+Carisbrooke was breeding; Lothair thought it was a duty to breed, but
+not to go on the turf. Lord Carisbrooke thought there could be no good
+breeding without racing; Lothair was of opinion that races might be
+confined to one’s own parks, with no legs admitted, and immense prizes,
+which must cause emulation. Then they joined the ladies, and then, in a
+short time, there was music. Lothair hovered about Lady Corisande, and
+at last seized a happy opportunity of addressing her.
+
+“I shall never forget your singing at Brentham,” he said; “at first I
+thought it might be as Lady Montairy said, because I was not used to
+fine singing; but I heard the Venusina the other day, and I prefer your
+voice and style.”
+
+“Have you heard the Venusina?” said Lady Corisande, with animation; “I
+know nothing that I look forward to with more interest. But I was told
+she was not to open her mouth until she appeared at the opera. Where did
+you hear her?”
+
+“Oh, I heard her,” said Lothair, “at the Roman Catholic cathedral.”
+
+“I am sure I shall never hear her there,” said Lady Corisande, looking
+very grave.
+
+“Do not you think music a powerful accessory to religion?” said Lothair,
+but a little embarrassed.
+
+“Within certain limits,” said Lady Corisande—“the limits I am used to;
+but I should prefer to hear opera-singers at the opera.”
+
+“Ah! if all amateurs could sing like you,” said Lothair, “that would be
+unnecessary. But a fine mass by Mozart—it requires great skill as well
+as power to render it. I admire no one so much as Mozart, and especially
+his masses. I have been hearing a great many of them lately.”
+
+“So we understood,” said Lady Corisande, rather dryly, and looking
+about her as if she were not much interested, or at any rate not much
+gratified by the conversation.
+
+Lothair felt he was not getting on, and he wished to get on, but he was
+socially inexperienced, and his resources not much in hand. There was a
+pause—it seemed to him an awkward pause; and then Lady Corisande walked
+away and addressed Lady Clanmorne.
+
+Some very fine singing began at this moment; the room was hushed, no
+one moved, and Lothair, undisturbed, had the opportunity of watching his
+late companion. There was something in Lady Corisande that to him was
+irresistibly captivating; and as he was always thinking and analyzing,
+he employed himself in discovering the cause. “She is not particularly
+gracious,” he said to himself, “at least not to me; she is beautiful,
+but so are others; and others, like her, are clever—perhaps more clever.
+But there is something in her brow, her glance, her carriage, which
+intimate what they call character, which interests me. Six months ago I
+was in love with her, because I thought she was like her sisters. I love
+her sisters, but she is not the least like them.”
+
+The music ceased; Lothair moved away, and he approached the duke.
+
+“I have a favor to ask your grace,” he said. “I have made up my mind
+that I shall not go back to Oxford this term; would your grace do me the
+great favor of presenting me at the next levée?”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 21 One’s life changes in a moment. Half a month ago, Lothair,
+without an acquaintance, was meditating his return to Oxford. Now he
+seemed to know everybody who was anybody. His table was overflowing with
+invitations to all the fine houses in town. First came the routs and
+the balls; then, when he had been presented to the husbands, came the
+dinners. His kind friends the Duchess and Lady St. Jerome were the
+fairies who had worked this sudden scene of enchantment. A single word
+from them, and London was at Lothair’s feet.
+
+He liked it amazingly. He quite forgot the conclusion at which he had
+arrived respecting society a year ago, drawn from his vast experience of
+the single party which he had then attended. Feelings are different when
+you know a great many persons, and every person is trying to please you;
+above all, when there are individuals whom you want to meet, and whom,
+if you do not meet, you become restless.
+
+Town was beginning to blaze. Broughams whirled and bright barouches
+glanced, troops of social cavalry cantered and caracolled in morning
+rides, and the bells of prancing ponies, lashed by delicate hands,
+gingled in the laughing air. There were stoppages in Bond Street,
+which seems to cap the climax of civilisation, after crowded clubs and
+swarming parks.
+
+But the great event of the season was the presentation of Lady
+Corisande. Truly our bright maiden of Brenthani woke and found herself
+famous. There are families whom everybody praises, and families who are
+treated in a different way. Either will do; all the sons and daughters
+of the first succeed, all the sons and daughters of the last are
+encouraged in perverseness by the prophetic determination of society.
+Half a dozen married sisters, who were the delight and ornament of
+their circles, in the case of Lady Corisande were good precursors of
+popularity; but the world would not be content with that: they credited
+her with all their charms and winning qualities, but also with something
+grander and beyond comparison; and from the moment her fair cheek was
+sealed by the gracious approbation of Majesty, all the critics of the
+Court at once recognised her as the cynosure of the Empyrean.
+
+Monsignore Catesby, who looked after Lothair, and was always
+breakfasting with him without the necessity of an invitation (a
+fascinating man, and who talked upon all subjects except High Mass),
+knew everything that took place at Court without being present there
+himself. He led the conversation to the majestic theme, and while he
+seemed to be busied in breaking an egg with delicate precision, and
+hardly listening to the frank expression of opinions which he carelessly
+encouraged, obtained a not insufficient share of Lothair’s views and
+impressions of human beings and affairs in general during the last few
+days, which had witnessed a Levée and a Drawing-room.
+
+‘Ah! then you were so fortunate as to know the beauty before her début,’
+said the Monsignore.
+
+‘Intimately; her brother is my friend. I was at Brentham last summer.
+Delicious place! and the most agreeable visit I ever made in my life, at
+least, one of the most agreeable.’
+
+‘Ah! ah!’ said the Monsignore. ‘Let me ring for some toast.’
+
+On the night of the Drawing-room, a great ball was given at Crecy
+House to celebrate the entrance of Corisande into the world. It was a
+sumptuous festival. The palace, resonant with fantastic music, blazed
+amid illumined gardens rich with summer warmth.
+
+A prince of the blood was dancing with Lady Corisande. Lothair was
+there, vis-à-vis with Miss Arundel.
+
+‘I delight in this hall,’ she said to Lothair; ‘but how superior the
+pictured scene to the reality!’
+
+‘What! would you like, then, to be in a battle?’
+
+‘I should like to be with heroes, wherever they might be. What a fine
+character was the Black Prince! And they call those days the days of
+superstition!’
+
+The silver horns sounded a brave flourish. Lothair had to advance and
+meet Lady Corisande. Her approaching mien was full of grace and majesty,
+but Lothair thought there was a kind expression in her glance, which
+seemed to remember Brentham, and that he was her brother’s friend.
+
+A little later in the evening he was her partner. He could not refrain
+from congratulating her on the beauty and the success of the festival.
+
+‘I am glad you are pleased, and I am glad you think it successful; but,
+you know, I am no judge, for this is my first ball!’
+
+‘Ah! to be sure; and yet it seems impossible,’ he continued, in a tone
+of murmuring admiration.
+
+‘Oh! I have been at little dances at my sisters’; half behind the door,’
+she added, with a slight smile. ‘But to-night I am present at a scene of
+which I have only read.’
+
+‘And how do you like balls?’ said Lothair.
+
+‘I think I shall like them very much,’ said Lady Corisande; ‘but
+to-night, I will confess, I am a little nervous.’
+
+‘You do not look so.’
+
+‘I am glad of that.’
+
+‘Why?’
+
+‘Is it not a sign of weakness?’
+
+‘Can feeling be weakness?’
+
+‘Feeling without sufficient cause is, I should think.’ And then, and in
+a tone of some archness, she said, ‘And how do you like balls?’
+
+‘Well, I like them amazingly,’ said Lothair. ‘They seem to me to have
+every quality which can render an entertainment agreeable: music, light,
+flowers, beautiful faces, graceful forms, and occasionally charming
+conversation.’
+
+‘Yes; and that never lingers,’ said Lady Corisande, ‘for see, I am
+wanted.’
+
+When they were again undisturbed, Lothair regretted the absence of
+Bertram, who was kept at the House.
+
+‘It is a great disappointment,’ said Lady Corisande; ‘but he will yet
+arrive, though late. I should be most unhappy though, if he were absent
+from his post on such an occasion I am sure if he were here I could not
+dance.’
+
+‘You are a most ardent politician,’ said Lothair.
+
+‘Oh! I do not care in the least about common politics, parties and
+office and all that; I neither regard nor understand them,’ replied Lady
+Corisande. ‘But when wicked men try to destroy the country, then I like
+my family to be in the front.’
+
+As the destruction of the country meditated this night by wicked men
+was some change in the status of the Church of England, which Monsignore
+Catesby in the morning had suggested to Lothair as both just and
+expedient and highly conciliatory, Lothair did not pursue the theme,
+for he had a greater degree of tact than usually falls to the lot of the
+ingenuous.
+
+The bright moments flew on. Suddenly there was a mysterious silence in
+the hall, followed by a kind of suppressed stir. Everyone seemed to be
+speaking with bated breath, or, if moving, walking on tiptoe. It was the
+supper hour?
+
+Soft hour which wakes the wish and melts the heart.
+
+Royalty, followed, by the imperial presence of ambassadors, and escorted
+by a group of dazzling duchesses and paladins of high degree, was
+ushered with courteous pomp by the host and hostess into a choice
+saloon, hung with rose-coloured tapestry and illumined by chandeliers of
+crystal, where they were served from gold plate. But the thousand less
+favoured were not badly off, when they found themselves in the more
+capacious chambers, into which they rushed with an eagerness hardly in
+keeping with the splendid nonchalance of the preceding hours.
+
+‘What a perfect family,’ exclaimed Hugo Bohun, as he extracted a couple
+of fat little birds from their bed of aspic jelly; ‘everything they
+do in such perfect taste. How safe you were here to have ortolans for
+supper!’
+
+All the little round tables, though their number was infinite, were
+full. Male groups hung about; some in attendance on fair dames, some
+foraging for themselves, some thoughtful and more patient and awaiting a
+satisfactory future. Never was such an elegant clatter.
+
+‘I wonder where Carisbrooke is,’ said Hugo Bohun. ‘They say he is
+wonderfully taken with the beauteous daughter of the house.’
+
+‘I will back the Duke of Brecon against him,’ said one of his
+companions. ‘He raved about her at White’s yesterday.’
+
+‘Hem!’
+
+‘The end is not so near as all that,’ said a third wassailer.
+
+‘I do not know that,’ said Hugo Bohun. ‘It is a family that marries off
+quickly. If a fellow is obliged to marry, he always likes to marry one
+of them.’
+
+‘What of this new star?’ said his friend, and he mentioned Lothair.
+
+‘Oh! he is too young; not launched. Besides he is going to turn
+Catholic, and I doubt whether that would do in that quarter.’
+
+‘But he has a greater fortune than any of them.’
+
+‘Immense! A man I know, who knows another man——’ and then he began a
+long statistical story about Lothair’s resources.
+
+‘Have you got any room here, Hugo?’ drawled out Lord St. Aldegonde.
+
+‘Plenty, and here is my chair.’
+
+‘On no account; half of it and some soup will satisfy me.’
+
+‘I should have thought you would have been with the swells,’ said Hugo
+Bohun.
+
+‘That does not exactly suit me,’ said St. Aldegonde. ‘I was ticketed to
+the Duchess of Salop, but I got a first-rate substitute with the charm
+of novelty for her Grace, and sent her in with Lothair.’
+
+St. Aldegonde was the heir apparent of the wealthiest, if not the most
+ancient, dukedom in the United Kingdom. He was spoiled, but he knew
+it. Had he been an ordinary being, he would have merely subsided
+into selfishness and caprice, but having good abilities and a
+good disposition, he was eccentric, adventurous, and sentimental.
+Notwithstanding the apathy which had been engendered by premature
+experience, St. Aldegonde held extreme opinions, especially on political
+affairs, being a republican of the reddest dye. He was opposed to all
+privilege, and indeed to all orders of men, except dukes, who were a
+necessity. He was also strongly in favour of the equal division of all
+property, except land. Liberty depended on land, and the greater the
+landowners, the greater the liberty of a country. He would hold forth on
+this topic even with energy, amazed at anyone differing from him; ‘as
+if a fellow could have too much land,’ he would urge with a voice and
+glance which defied contradiction. St. Aldegonde had married for love,
+and he loved his wife, but he was strongly in favour of woman’s rights
+and their extremest consequences. It was thought that he had originally
+adopted these latter views with the amiable intention of piquing Lady
+St. Aldegonde; but if so, he had not succeeded. Beaming with brightness,
+with the voice and airiness of a bird, and a cloudless temper, Albertha
+St. Aldegonde had, from the first hour of her marriage, concentrated her
+intelligence, which was not mean, on one object; and that was never
+to cross her husband on any conceivable topic. They had been married
+several years, and she treated him as a darling spoiled child. When he
+cried for the moon, it was promised him immediately; however irrational
+his proposition, she always assented to it, though generally by tact
+and vigilance she guided him in the right direction. Nevertheless, St.
+Aldegonde was sometimes in scrapes; but then he always went and told
+his best friend, whose greatest delight was to extricate him from his
+perplexities and embarrassments.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 22 Although Lothair was not in the slightest degree shaken in
+his conviction that life should be entirely religious, he was perplexed
+by the inevitable obstacles which seemed perpetually to oppose
+themselves to the practice of his opinions. It was not merely pleasure
+in its multiform appearances that he had to contend against, but
+business began imperiously to solicit his attention. Every month brought
+him nearer to his majority, and the frequent letters from Mr. Putney
+Giles now began to assume the pressing shape of solicitations for
+personal interviews. He had a long conversation one morning with Father
+Coleman on this subject, who greatly relieved him by the assurance that
+a perfectly religious life was one of which the sovereign purpose was to
+uphold the interests of the Church of Christ, the father added after a
+momentary pause. Business, and even amusement, were, not only compatible
+with such a purpose, but might even be conducive to its fulfilment.
+
+Mr. Putney Giles reminded Lothair that the attainment of his majority
+must be celebrated, and in a becoming manner. Preparation, and even
+considerable preparation, was necessary. There were several scenes
+of action—some very distant. It was not too early to contemplate
+arrangements. Lothair really must confer with his guardians. They were
+both now in town, the Scotch uncle having come up to attend Parliament.
+Could they be brought together? Was it indeed impossible? If so, who was
+to give the necessary instructions?
+
+It was much more than a year since Lothair had met his uncle, and he did
+not anticipate much satisfaction from the renewal of their intimacy; but
+every feeling of propriety demanded that it should be recognized, and to
+a certain degree revived. Lord Culloden was a black Scotchman, tall and
+lean, with good features, a hard red face and iron-gray hair. He was a
+man who shrank from scenes, and he greeted Lothair as if they had only
+parted yesterday. Looking at him with his keen, unsentimental, but
+not unkind, eye, he said: “Well, sir, I thought you would have been at
+Oxford.”
+
+“Yes, my dear uncle; but circumstances—”
+
+“Well, well, I don’t want to hear the cause. I am very glad you are not
+there; I believe you might as well be at Rome.”
+
+And then in due course, and after some talk of the past and old times,
+Lothair referred to the suggestions of Mr. Giles, and hinted at a
+meeting of his guardians to confer and advise together.
+
+“No, no,” said the Scotch peer, shaking his head; “I will have nothing
+to do with the Scarlet Lady. Mr. Giles is an able and worthy man; he may
+well be trusted to draw up a programme for our consideration, and indeed
+it is an affair in which yourself should be most consulted. Let all
+be done liberally, for you have a great inheritance, and I would be no
+curmudgeon in these matters.”
+
+“Well, my dear uncle, whatever is arranged, I hope you and my
+cousins will honor and gratify me with your presence throughout the
+proceedings.”
+
+“Well, well, it is not much in my way. You will be having balls and fine
+ladies. There is no fool like an old fool, they say; but I think, from
+what I hear, the young fools will beat us in the present day. Only think
+of young persons going over to the Church of Rome. Why, they are just
+naturals!”
+
+The organizing genius of Mr. Putney Giles had rarely encountered a more
+fitting theme than the celebration of the impending majority. There
+was place for all his energy and talent and resources; a great central
+inauguration; sympathetical festivals and gatherings in half a dozen
+other counties; the troth, as it were, of a sister kingdom to be
+pledged; a vista of balls and banquets, and illuminations and addresses,
+of ceaseless sports and speeches, and processions alike endless.
+
+“What I wish to effect,” said Mr. Giles, as he was giving his
+multifarious orders, “is to produce among all classes an impression
+adequate to the occasion. I wish the lord and the tenantry alike to feel
+they have a duty to perform.”
+
+In the mean time, Monsignore Catesby was pressing Lothair to become one
+of the patrons of a Roman Catholic Bazaar, where Lady St. Jerome and
+Miss Arundel were to preside over a stall. It was of importance to show
+that charity was not the privilege of any particular creed.
+
+Between his lawyers, and his monsignores, and his architects, Lothair
+began to get a little harassed. He was disturbed in his own mind,
+too, on greater matters, and seemed to feel every day that it was more
+necessary to take a decided step, and more impossible to decide upon
+what it should be. He frequently saw the cardinal, who was very kind
+to him, but who had become more reserved on religious subjects. He had
+dined more than once with his eminence, and had met some distinguished
+prelates and some of his fellow-nobles who had been weaned from the
+errors of their cradle. The cardinal, perhaps, thought that the presence
+of these eminent converts would facilitate the progress, perhaps the
+decision, of his ward; but something seemed always to happen to divert
+Lothair in his course. It might-be sometimes apparently a very slight
+cause, but yet for the time sufficient; a phrase of Lady Corisande for
+example, who, though she never directly addressed him on the subject,
+was nevertheless deeply interested in his spiritual condition.
+
+“You ought to speak to him, Bertram,” she said one day to her brother
+very indignantly, as she read a fresh paragraph alluding to an impending
+conversion. “You are his friend. What is the use of friendship if not in
+such a crisis as this?”
+
+“I see no use in speaking to a man about love or religion,” said
+Bertram; “they are both stronger than friendship. If there be any
+foundation for the paragraph, my interference would be of no avail; if
+there be none, I should only make myself ridiculous.”
+
+Nevertheless, Bertram looked a little more after his friend, and
+disturbing the monsignore, who was at breakfast with Lothair one
+morning, Bertram obstinately outstayed the priest, and then said: “I
+tell you what, old fellow, you are rather hippish; I wish you were in
+the House of Commons.”
+
+“So do I,” said Lothair, with a sigh; “but I have come into every thing
+ready-made. I begin to think it very unfortunate.”
+
+“What are you going to do with yourself to-day? If you be disengaged, I
+vote we dine together at White’s, and then we will go down to the House.
+I will take you to the smoking-room and introduce you to Bright, and we
+will trot him out on primogeniture.”
+
+At this moment the servant brought Lothair two letters: one was an
+epistle from Father Coleman, meeting Lothair’s objections to becoming a
+patron of the Roman Catholic Bazaar, in a very unctuous and exhaustive
+manner; and the other from his stud-groom at Oxford, detailing some of
+those disagreeable things which will happen with absent masters who
+will not answer letters. Lothair loved his stable, and felt particularly
+anxious to avoid the threatened visit of Father Coleman on the morrow.
+His decision was rapid. “I must go down, this afternoon to Oxford,
+my dear fellow. My stable is in confusion. I shall positively return
+to-morrow, and I will dine with you at White’s, and we will go to the
+House of Commons together, or go to the play.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 23 Lothair’s stables were about three miles from Oxford. They
+were a rather considerable establishment, in which he had taken much
+interest, and, having always intended to return to Oxford in the early
+part of the year, although he had occasionally sent for a hack or two to
+London, his stud had been generally maintained.
+
+The morning after his arrival, he rode over to the stables, where he
+had ordered his drag to be ready. About a quarter of a mile before he
+reached his place of destination, he observed at some little distance
+a crowd in the road, and, hastening on, perceived as he drew nearer
+a number of men clustered round a dismantled vehicle, and vainly
+endeavoring to extricate and raise a fallen horse; its companion,
+panting and foaming, with broken harness but apparently uninjured,
+standing aside and held by a boy. Somewhat apart stood a lady alone.
+Lothair immediately dismounted and approached her, saying, “I fear you
+are in trouble, madam. Perhaps I may be of service?”
+
+The lady was rather tall, and of a singularly distinguished presence.
+Her air and her costume alike intimated high breeding and fashion. She
+seemed quite serene amid the tumult and confusion, and apparently the
+recent danger. As Lothair spoke, she turned her head to him, which had
+been at first a little averted, and he beheld a striking countenance,
+but one which he instantly felt he did not see for the first time.
+
+She bowed with dignity to Lothair, and said in a low but distinct voice:
+“You are most courteous, sir. We have had a sad: accident, but a great
+escape. Our horses ran away with us, and, had it not been for that heap
+of stones, I do not see how we could have been saved.”
+
+“Fortunately my stables are at hand,” said Lothair, “and I have a
+carriage waiting for me at this moment, not a quarter of a mile away. It
+is at your service, and I will send for it,” and his groom, to whom he
+gave directions, galloped off.
+
+There was a shout as the fallen horse was on his legs again, much cut,
+and the carriage shattered and useless. A gentleman came from the crowd
+and approached the lady. He was tall and fair, and not ill-favored, with
+fine dark eyes and high cheekbones, and still young, though an enormous
+beard at the first glance gave him an impression of years, the burden of
+which he really did not bear. His dress, though not vulgar, was richer
+and more showy than is usual in this country, and altogether there was
+something in his manner which, though calm and full of self-respect,
+was different from the conventional refinement of England. Yet he was
+apparently an Englishman, as he said to the lady, “It is a bad business,
+but we must be thankful it is no worse. What troubles me is how you are
+to get back. It will be a terrible walk over these stony roads, and I
+can hear of no conveyance.”
+
+“My husband,” said the lady, as with dignity she presented the person
+to Lothair. “This gentleman,” she continued, “has most kindly offered us
+the use of his carriage, which is almost at hand.”
+
+“Sir, you are a friend,” said the gentleman. “I thought there were no
+horses that I could not master, but it seems I am mistaken. I bought
+these only yesterday; took a fancy to them as we were driving about, and
+bought them of a dealer in the road.”
+
+“That seems a clever animal,” said Lothair, pointing to the one
+uninjured.
+
+“Ah! you like horses?” said the gentleman.
+
+“Well, I have some taste that way.”
+
+“We are visitors to Oxford,” said the lady. “Colonel Campian, like all
+Americans, is very interested in the ancient parts of England.”
+
+“To-day we were going to Blenheim,” said the colonel, “but I thought I
+would try these new tits a bit on a by-road first.”
+
+“All’s well that ends well,” said Lothair; “and there is no reason why
+you should not fulfil your intention of going to Blenheim, for here is
+my carriage, and it is entirely at your service for the whole day, and,
+indeed, as long as you stay at Oxford.”
+
+“Sir, there requires no coronet on your carriage to tell me you are
+a nobleman,” said the colonel. “I like frank manners, and I like your
+team. I know few things that would please me more than to try them.”
+
+They were four roans, highly bred, with black manes and tails. They had
+the Arab eye, with arched neck and seemed proud of themselves and their
+master.
+
+“I do not see why we should not go to Blenheim,” said the colonel.
+
+“Well, not to-day,” said the lady, “I think. We have had an escape, but
+one feels these things a little more afterward than at the time. I
+would rather go back to Oxford and be quiet; and there is more than one
+college which you have not yet seen.”
+
+“My team is entirely at your service wherever you go,” said Lothair;
+“but I cannot venture to drive you to Oxford, for I am there in statu
+pupillari and a proctor might arrest us all. But perhaps,” and he
+approached the lady, “you will permit me to call on you to-morrow, when
+I hope I may find you have not suffered by this misadventure.”
+
+“We have got a professor dining with us to-day at seven o’clock,” said
+the colonel, “at our hotel, and if you be disengaged and would join the
+party you would add to the favors which you know so well how to confer.”
+
+Lothair handed the lady into the carriage, the colonel mounted the box
+and took the ribbons like a master, and the four roans trotted away with
+their precious charge and their two grooms behind with folded arms and
+imperturbable countenances.
+
+Lothair watched the equipage until it vanished in the distance.
+
+“It is impossible to forget that countenance,” he said; “and I fancy
+I did hear at the time that she had married an American. Well, I shall
+meet her at dinner—that is something.” And he sprang into his saddle.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 24 The Oxford professor, who was the guest of the American
+colonel, was quite a young man, of advanced opinions on all
+subjects, religious, social, and political. He was clever, extremely
+well-informed, so far as books can make a man knowing, but unable to
+profit even by his limited experience of life from a restless vanity and
+overflowing conceit, which prevented him from ever observing or thinking
+of any thing but himself. He was gifted with a great command of words,
+which took the form of endless exposition, varied by sarcasm and
+passages of ornate jargon. He was the last person one would have
+expected to recognize in an Oxford professor; but we live in times of
+transition.
+
+A Parisian man of science, who had passed his life in alternately
+fighting at barricades and discovering planets, had given Colonel
+Campian, who had lived much in the French capital, a letter of
+introduction to the professor, whose invectives against the principles
+of English society were hailed by foreigners as representative of the
+sentiments of venerable Oxford. The professor, who was not satisfied
+with his home career, and, like many men of his order of mind, had
+dreams of wild vanity which the New World, they think, can alone
+realize, was very glad to make the colonel’s acquaintance, which might
+facilitate his future movements. So he had lionized the distinguished
+visitors during the last few days over the university, and had availed
+himself of plenteous opportunities for exhibiting to them his celebrated
+powers of exposition, his talent for sarcasm, which he deemed peerless,
+and several highly-finished, picturesque passages, which were introduced
+with contemporary art.
+
+The professor was very much surprised when he saw Lothair enter the
+saloon at the hotel. He was the last person in Oxford whom he expected
+to encounter. Like sedentary men of extreme opinions, he was a social
+parasite, and instead of indulging in his usual invectives against peers
+and princes, finding himself unexpectedly about to dine with one of that
+class, he was content only to dazzle and amuse him.
+
+Mrs. Campian only entered the room when dinner was announced. She
+greeted Lothair with calmness but amenity, and took his offered arm.
+
+“You have not suffered, I hope?” said Lothair.
+
+“Very little, and through your kindness.”
+
+It was a peculiar voice, low and musical, too subdued to call thrilling,
+but a penetrating voice, so that, however ordinary the observation, it
+attracted and impressed attention. But it was in harmony with all her
+appearance and manner. Lothair thought he had never seen any one or any
+thing so serene; the serenity, however, not of humbleness, nor of merely
+conscious innocence; it was not devoid of a degree of majesty; what one
+pictures of Olympian repose. And the countenance was Olympian: a Phidian
+face, with large gray eyes and dark lashes; wonderful hair, abounding
+without art, and gathered together by Grecian fillets.
+
+The talk was of Oxford, and was at first chiefly maintained by the
+colonel and the professor.
+
+“And do you share Colonel Campian’s feeling about Old England?” inquired
+Lothair of his hostess.
+
+“The present interests me more than the past,” said the lady, “and the
+future more than the present.”
+
+“The present seems to me as unintelligible as the future,” said Lothair.
+
+“I think it is intelligible,” said the lady, with a faint smile. “It has
+many faults but, not, I think, the want of clearness.”
+
+“I am not a destructive,” said the professor, addressing the colonel,
+but speaking loudly; “I would maintain Oxford, under any circumstances,
+with the necessary changes.”
+
+“And what are those might I ask?” inquired Lothair.
+
+“In reality, not much. I would get rid of the religion.”
+
+“Get rid of the religion!” said Lothair.
+
+“You have got rid of it once,” said the professor.
+
+“You have altered, you have what people call reformed it,” said Lothair;
+“but you have not abolished or banished it from the university.”
+
+“The shock would not be greater, nor so great, as the change from the
+papal to the Reformed faith. Besides, universities have nothing to do
+with religion.”
+
+“I thought universities were universal,” said Lothair, “and had
+something to do with every thing.”
+
+“I cannot conceive any society of any kind without religion,” said the
+lady.
+
+Lothair glanced at her beautiful brow with devotion as she uttered these
+words.
+
+Colonel Campian began to talk about horses. After that the professor
+proved to him that he was related to Edmund Campian, the Jesuit;
+and then he got to the Gunpowder Plot, which, he was not sure, if
+successful, might not have beneficially influenced the course of our
+history. Probably the Irish difficulty would not then have existed.
+
+“I dislike plots,” said the lady; “they always fail.”
+
+“And, whatever their object, are they not essentially immoral?” said
+Lothair.
+
+“I have more faith in ideas than in persons,” said the lady. “When a
+truth is uttered, it will, sooner or later, be recognized. It is only
+an affair of time. It is better that it should mature and naturally
+germinate than be forced.”
+
+“You would reduce us to lotus-eaters,” exclaimed the professor. “Action
+is natural to man. And what, after all, are conspiracies and revolutions
+but great principles in violent action?”
+
+“I think you must be an admirer of repose,” said Lothair to the lady, in
+a low voice.
+
+“Because I have seen something of action in my life;” said the lady,
+“and it is an experience of wasted energies and baffled thoughts.”
+
+When they returned to the saloon, the colonel and the professor
+became interested in the constitution and discipline of the American
+universities. Lothair hung about the lady, who was examining some views
+of Oxford, and who was ascertaining what she had seen and what she had
+omitted to visit. They were thinking of returning home on the morrow.
+
+“Without seeing Blenheim?” said Lothair.
+
+“Without seeing Blenheim,” said the lady; “I confess to a pang; but I
+shall always associate with that name your great kindness to us.”
+
+“But cannot we for once enter into a conspiracy together,” said Lothair,
+“and join in a happy plot and contrive to go? Besides, I could take you
+to the private gardens, for the duke has given me a perpetual order, and
+they are really exquisite.”
+
+The lady seemed to smile.
+
+“Theodora,” said the colonel, speaking from the end of the room, “what
+have you settled about your train to-morrow?”
+
+“We want to stay another day here,” said Theodora, “and go to Blenheim.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 25 They were in the private gardens at Blenheim. The sun was
+brilliant over the ornate and yet picturesque scene.
+
+“Beautiful, is it not?” exclaimed Lothair.
+
+“Yes, certainly beautiful,” said Theodora. “But, do you know, I do
+not feel altogether content in these fine gardens? The principle of
+exclusion on which they are all founded is to me depressing. I require
+in all things sympathy. You would not agree with me in this. The manners
+of your country are founded on exclusion.”
+
+“But, surely, there are times and places when one would like to be
+alone.”
+
+“Without doubt,” said the lady; “only I do not like artificial
+loneliness. Even your parks, which all the world praises, do not quite
+satisfy me. I prefer a forest where all may go—even the wild beasts.”
+
+“But forests are not at command,” said Lothair.
+
+“So you make a solitude and call it peace,” said the lady, with a slight
+smile. “For my part, my perfect life would be a large and beautiful
+village. I admire Nature, but I require the presence of humanity. Life
+in great cities is too exhausting; but in my village there should be
+air, streams, and beautiful trees, a picturesque scene, but enough of my
+fellow-creatures to insure constant duty.”
+
+“But the fulfilment of duty and society, founded on what you call the
+principle of exclusion, are not incompatible,” said Lothair.
+
+“No, but difficult. What should be natural becomes an art; and in every
+art it is only the few who can be first rate.”
+
+“I have an ambition to be a first-rate artist in that respect,” said
+Lothair, thoughtfully.
+
+“That does you much honor,” she replied, “for you necessarily embark
+in a most painful enterprise. The toiling multitude have their sorrows,
+which, I believe, will some day be softened, and obstacles hard to
+overcome; but I have always thought that the feeling of satiety, almost
+inseparable from large possessions, is a surer cause of misery than
+ungratified desires.”
+
+“It seems to me that there is a great deal to do,” said Lothair.
+
+“I think so,” said the lady.
+
+“Theodora,” said the colonel, who was a little in advance with the
+professor, and turning round his head, “this reminds me of Mirabel,”
+and he pointed to the undulating banks covered with rare shrubs, and
+touching the waters of the lake.
+
+“And where is Mirabel?” said Lothair.
+
+“It was a green island in the Adriatic,” said the lady, “which belonged
+to Colonel Campian; we lost it in the troubles. Colonel Campian was very
+fond of it. I try to persuade him that our home was of volcanic origin,
+and has only vanished and subsided into its native bed.”
+
+“And were not you fond of it?”
+
+“I never think of the past,” said the lady.
+
+“Oxford is not the first place where I had the pleasure of meeting you,”
+Lothair ventured at length to observe.
+
+“Yes, we have met before, in Hyde Park Gardens. Our hostess is a clever
+woman, and has been very kind to some friends of mine.”
+
+“And have you seen her lately?”
+
+“She comes to see us sometimes. We do not live in London, but in the
+vicinity. We only go to London for the opera, of which we are devotees.
+We do not at all enter general society; Colonel Campian only likes
+people who interest or amuse him, and he is fortunate in having rather a
+numerous acquaintance of that kind.”
+
+“Rare fortune!” said Lothair.
+
+“Colonel Campian lived a great deal at Paris before we marred,” said
+the lady, “and in a circle of considerable culture and excitement. He is
+social, but not conventional.”
+
+“And you—are you conventional?”
+
+“Well, I live only for climate and the affections,” said the lady “I am
+fond of society that pleases me, that is, accomplished and natural and
+ingenious; otherwise I prefer being alone. As for atmosphere, as I look
+upon it as the main source of felicity, you may be surprised that I
+should reside in your country. I should myself like to go to America,
+but that would not suit Colonel Campian; and, if we are to live in
+Europe, we must live in England. It is not pleasant to reside in a
+country where, if you happen to shelter or succor a friend, you may be
+subject to a domiciliary visit.”
+
+The professor stopped to deliver a lecture or address on the villa
+of Hadrian. Nothing could be more minute or picturesque than his
+description of that celebrated pleasaunce. It was varied by portraits of
+the emperor and some of his companions, and, after a rapid glance at
+the fortunes of the imperial patriciate, wound up with some conclusions
+favorable to communism. It was really very clever, and would have made
+the fortune of a literary society.
+
+“I wonder if they had gravel-walks in the villa of Hadrian?” said
+the colonel. “What I admire most in your country, my lord, are your
+gravel-walks, though that lady would not agree with me that matter.”
+
+“You are against gravel-walks,” said Lothair.
+
+“Well, I cannot bring myself to believe that they had gravel-walks in
+the garden of Eden,” said the lady.
+
+They had a repast at Woodstock, too late for luncheon, too early for
+dinner, but which it was agreed should serve as the latter meal.
+
+“That suits me exactly,” said the lady; “I am a great foe to dinners,
+and indeed to all meals. I think when the good time comes we shall give
+up eating in public, except perhaps fruit on a green bank with music.”
+
+It was a rich twilight as they drove home, the lady leaning back in
+the carriage silent. Lothair sat opposite to her, and gazed upon
+a countenance on which the moon began to glisten, and which seemed
+unconscious of all human observation.
+
+He had read of such countenances in Grecian dreams; in Corinthian
+temples, in fanes of Ephesus, in the radiant shadow of divine groves.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 26 When they had arrived at the hotel, Colonel Campian proposed
+that they should come in and have some coffee; but Theodora did not
+enforce this suggestion; and Lothair, feeling that she might be wearied,
+gracefully though unwillingly waived the proposal. Remembering that on
+the noon of the morrow they were to depart, with a happy inspiration, as
+he said farewell, he asked permission to accompany them to the station.
+
+Lothair walked away with the professor, who seemed in a conservative
+vein, and graciously disposed to make several concessions to the customs
+of an ancient country. Though opposed to the land laws, he would operate
+gradually, and gave Lothair more than one receipt how to save the
+aristocracy. Lothair would have preferred talking about the lady they
+had just quitted, but, as he soon found the professor could really give
+him no information about her, he let the subject drop.
+
+But not out of his own mind. He was glad to be alone and brood over the
+last two days. They were among the most interesting of his life. He had
+encountered a character different from any he had yet met, had listened
+to new views, and his intelligence had been stimulated by remarks made
+casually, in easy conversation, and yet to him pregnant with novel
+and sometimes serious meaning. The voice, too, lingered in his ear,
+so hushed and deep, and yet so clear and sweet. He leaned over his
+mantel-piece in teeming reverie.
+
+“And she is profoundly religious,” he said to himself; “she can conceive
+no kind of society without religion. She has arrived at the same
+conclusion as myself. What a privilege it would be to speak to her on
+such subjects!”
+
+After a restless night the morrow came. About eleven o’clock Lothair
+ventured to call on his new friends. The lady was alone; she was
+standing by the window, reading an Italian newspaper, which she folded
+up and placed aside when Lothair was announced.
+
+“We propose to walk to the station,” said Theodora; “the servants have
+gone on. Colonel Campian has a particular aversion to moving with any
+luggage. He restricts me to this,” she said, pointing to her satchel, in
+which she had placed the foreign newspaper, “and for that he will not be
+responsible.”
+
+“It was most kind of you to permit me to accompany you this morning,”
+said Lothair; “I should have been grieved to have parted abruptly last
+night.”
+
+“I could not refuse such a request,” said the lady; “but do you know, I
+never like to say farewell, even for four-and-twenty hours? One should
+vanish like a spirit.”
+
+“Then I have erred,” said Lothair, “against your rules and principles.”
+
+“Say my fancies,” said the lady, “my humors, my whims. Besides, this is
+not a farewell. You will come and see us. Colonel Campian tells me you
+have promised to give us that pleasure.”
+
+“It will be the greatest pleasure to me,” said Lothair; “I can conceive
+nothing greater.” And then hesitating a little, and a little blushing,
+he added, “When do you think I might come?”
+
+“Whenever you like,” said the lady; “you will always find me at home. My
+life is this: I ride every day very early, and far into the country, so
+I return tamed some two or three hours after noon, and devote myself to
+my friends. We are at home every evening, except opera nights; and
+let me tell you, because it is not the custom generally among your
+compatriots, we are always at home on Sundays.”
+
+Colonel Campian entered the room; the moment of departure was at hand.
+Lothair felt the consolation of being their companion to the station. He
+had once hoped it might be possible to be their companion in the train;
+but he was not encouraged.
+
+“Railways have elevated and softened the lot of man,” said Theodora,
+“and Colonel Campian views them with almost a religious sentiment. But I
+cannot read in a railroad, and the human voice is distressing to me
+amid the whirl and the whistling, and the wild panting of the loosened
+megatheria who drag us. And then those terrible grottos—it is quite a
+descent of Proserpine; so I have no resources but my thoughts.”
+
+“And surely that is sufficient,” murmured Lothair.
+
+“Not when the past is expelled,” said the lady.
+
+“But the future,” said Lothair.
+
+“Yes, that is ever interesting, but so vague that it sometimes induces
+slumber.”
+
+The bell sounded; Lothair handed the lady to her compartment.
+
+“Our Oxford visit,” she said, “has been a great success, and mainly
+through you.”
+
+The colonel was profuse in his cordial farewells, and it seemed they
+would never have ended had not the train moved.
+
+Lothair remained upon the platform until it was out of sight, and then
+exclaimed, “Is it a dream, or shall I ever see her again?”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 27 Lothair reached London late in the afternoon. Among the notes
+and cards and letters on his table was a long and pressing dispatch from
+Mr. Putney Giles awaiting his judgment and decision on many points.
+
+“The central inauguration, if I may use the term,” said Mr. Putney
+Giles, “is comparatively easy. It is an affair of expense and of
+labor—great labor; I may say unremitting labor. But your lordship will
+observe the other points are not mere points of expense and labor. We
+have to consult the feelings of several counties where your lordship
+cannot be present, at least certainly not on this occasion, and yet
+where an adequate recognition of those sentiments which ought to exist
+between the proprietor and all classes connected with him ought to be
+secured. Then Scotland: Scotland is a very difficult business to manage.
+It is astonishing how the sentiment lingers in that country connected
+with its old independence. I really am quite surprised at it. One of
+your lordship’s most important tenants wrote to me only a few days back
+that great dissatisfaction would prevail among your lordship’s friends
+and tenantry in Scotland, if that country on this occasion were placed
+on the same level as a mere English county. It must be recognized as
+a kingdom. I almost think it would be better if we could persuade Lord
+Culloden, not to attend the English inauguration, but remain in the
+kingdom of Scotland, and take the chair and the lead throughout the
+festal ceremonies. A peer of the realm, and your lordship’s guardian,
+would impart something of national character to the proceedings, and
+this, with a judicious emblazoning on some of the banners of the royal
+arms of Scotland, might have a conciliatory effect. One should always
+conciliate. But your lordship, upon all these points, and especially
+with reference to Lord Culloden, must be a much better judge than I am.”
+
+Lothair nearly gave a groan. “I almost wish,” he thought, “my minority
+would never end. I am quite satisfied with things as they are. What is
+the kingdom of Scotland to me and all these counties? I almost begin to
+feel that satiety which she said was inseparable from vast possessions.”
+
+A letter from Bertram, reminding him that he had not dined at White’s as
+he had promised, and suggesting some new arrangement, and another from
+Monsignore Catesby, earnestly urging him to attend a most peculiar and
+solemn function of the Church next Sunday evening, where the cardinal
+would officiate and preach, and in which Lady St. Jerome and Miss
+Arundel were particularly interested, did not restore his equanimity.
+
+A dinner at White’s! He did not think he could stand a dinner at
+White’s. Indeed, he was not sure that he could stand any dinner
+anywhere, especially in this hot weather. There was a good deal in what
+she said: “One ought to eat alone.”
+
+The ecclesiastical function was a graver matter. It had been long
+contemplated, often talked about, and on occasions looked forward to
+by him even with a certain degree of eagerness. He wished he had had
+an opportunity of speaking with her on these matters. She was eminently
+religious; that she had voluntarily avowed. And he felt persuaded that
+no light or thoughtless remark could fall from those lips. He wondered
+to what Church she belonged? Protestant or papal? Her husband, being
+an American, was probably a Protestant, but he was a gentleman of the
+South, and with nothing puritanical about him. She was a European, and
+probably of a Latin race. In all likelihood she was a Roman Catholic.
+
+It was Wednesday evening, and his valet reminded him that he was engaged
+to dine with Lord and Lady Montairy.
+
+Lothair sighed. He was so absorbed by his new feelings that he shrunk
+from society with a certain degree of aversion. He felt it quite out of
+his power to fulfil his engagement. He sent an excuse. It was Lothair’s
+first excuse. In short, he “threw over” the Montairys, to whom he was
+so much attached, whom he so much admired, and whose society he had
+hitherto so highly prized.
+
+To “throw over” a host is the most heinous of social crimes. It
+ought never to be pardoned. It disjoints a party, often defeats the
+combinations which might affect the results of a season, and generally
+renders the society incoherent and unsatisfactory. If the outrage
+could ever be condoned, it might be in the instance of a young man
+very inexperienced, the victim of some unexpected condition of nervous
+feelings over which the defaulter has really no control.
+
+It was evening, and the restless Lothair walked forth without a purpose,
+and in a direction which he rarely visited. “It is a wonderful place,”
+said he, “this London; a nation, not a city; with a population greater
+than some kingdoms, and districts as different as if they were under
+different governments and spoke different languages. And what do I know
+of it? I have been living here six months, and my life has been passed
+in a park, two or three squares, and half a dozen streets!”
+
+So he walked on and soon crossed Oxford Street, like the Rhine a natural
+boundary, and then got into Portland Place, and then found himself
+in the New Road, and then he hailed a cruising Hansom, which he had
+previously observed was well horsed.
+
+“‘Tis the gondola of London,” said Lothair as he sprang in.
+
+“Drive on till I tell you to stop.”
+
+And the Hansom drove on, through, endless boulevards, some bustling,
+some dingy, some tawdry and flaring, some melancholy and mean; rows of
+garden gods, planted on the walls of yards full of vases and divinities
+of concrete, huge railway halls, monster hotels, dissenting chapels in
+the form of Gothic churches, quaint ancient almshouses that were once
+built in the fields, and tea-gardens and stingo-houses and knackers’
+yards. They were in a district far beyond the experience of Lothair,
+which indeed had been exhausted when he had passed Eustonia, and from
+that he had been long separated. The way was broad but ill-lit, with
+houses of irregular size but generally of low elevation, and sometimes
+detached in smoke-dried gardens. The road was becoming a bridge which
+crossed a canal, with barges and wharves and timber-yards, when their
+progress was arrested by a crowd. It seemed a sort of procession; there
+was a banner, and the lamp-light fell upon a religious emblem. Lothair
+was interested, and desired the driver not to endeavor to advance. The
+procession was crossing the road and entering a building.
+
+“It’s a Roman Catholic chapel,” said a bystander in answer to Lothair.
+“I believe it is a meeting about one of their schools. They always have
+banners.”
+
+“I think I will get out,” said Lothair to his driver. “This, I suppose,
+will pay your fare.”
+
+The man stared with delight at the sovereign in his astonished palm, and
+in gratitude suggested that he should remain and wait for the gentleman,
+but the restless Lothair declined the proposal.
+
+“Sir, sir,” said the man, leaning down his head as low as possible
+from his elevated seat, and speaking in a hushed voice, “you are a real
+gentleman. Do you know what all this is?”
+
+“Yes, yes; some meeting about a Roman Catholic school.”
+
+The man shook his head. “You are a real gentleman, and I will tell you
+the truth. They meet about the schools of the order of St. Joseph—over
+the left—it is a Fenian meeting.”
+
+“A Fenian meeting?”
+
+“Ay, ay, and you cannot enter that place without a ticket. Just you try!
+However, if a gentleman like you wants to go, you shall have my ticket,”
+said the cab-driver; “and here it is. And may I drive to-morrows as true
+a gentleman as I have driven to-day!”
+
+So saying, he took a packet from his breast-pocket, and opening it
+offered to Lothair a green slip of paper, which was willingly accepted.
+“I should like above all things to go,” he said, and he blended with
+the rear of those who were entering the building. The collector of
+the tickets stared at Lothair and scrutinized his pass, but all was in
+order, and Lothair was admitted.
+
+He passed through a house and a yard, at the bottom of which was a
+rather spacious building. When he entered it, he saw in an instant it
+was not a chapel. It was what is called a temperance-hall, a room to be
+hired for public assemblies, with a raised platform at the end, on which
+were half a dozen men. The hall was tolerably full, and Lothair came
+in among the last. There were some children sitting on a form placed
+against the wall of the room, each with a bun which kept them quiet; the
+banner belonged to this school, and was the banner of St. Joseph.
+
+A man dressed like a priest, and known as Father O’Molloy, came forward.
+He was received with signs of much sympathy, succeeded by complete
+silence. He addressed them in a popular and animated style on the
+advantages of education. They knew what that was, and then they
+cheered.. Education taught them to know their rights. But what was the
+use of knowing their rights unless they enforced them? That was not
+to be done by prayer-books, but by something else, and something else
+wanted a subscription.
+
+This was the object of the meeting and the burden of all the speeches
+which followed, and which were progressively more outspoken than the
+adroit introductory discourse. The Saxon was denounced, sometimes with
+coarseness, but sometimes in terms of picturesque passion; the vast and
+extending organization of the brotherhood was enlarged on, the great
+results at hand intimated; the necessity of immediate exertion on the
+part of every individual pressed with emphasis. All these views and
+remarks received from the audience an encouraging response; and when
+Lothair observed men going round with boxes, and heard the clink of
+coin, he felt very embarrassed as to what he should do when asked to
+contribute to a fund raised to stimulate and support rebellion against
+his sovereign. He regretted the rash restlessness which had involved him
+in such a position.
+
+The collectors approached Lothair, who was standing at the end of the
+room opposite to the platform, where the space was not crowded.
+
+“I should like to speak to Father O’Molloy,” said Lothair; “he is a
+priest, and will understand my views.”
+
+“He is a priest here,” said one of the collectors with a sardonic laugh,
+“but I am glad to say you will not find his name in the directory.
+Father O’Molloy is on the platform and engaged.”
+
+“If you want to speak to the father, speak from where you are,” said
+the other collector. “Here, silence! a gentleman wants to address the
+meeting.”
+
+And there was silence, and Lothair felt extremely embarrassed, but he
+was not wanting, though it was the first time in his life that he had
+addressed a public meeting.
+
+“Gentlemen,” said Lothair, “I really had no wish to intrude upon you;
+all I desired was to speak to Father O’Molloy. I wished to tell him that
+it would have given me pleasure to subscribe to these schools. I am not
+a Roman Catholic, but I respect the Roman Catholic religion. But I can
+do nothing that will imply the slightest sanction of the opinions I have
+heard expressed this evening. For your own sakes—” but here a yell arose
+which forever drowned his voice.
+
+“A spy, a spy!” was the general exclamation. “We are betrayed! Seize
+him! Knock him over!” and the whole meeting seemed to have turned their
+backs on the platform and to be advancing on the unfortunate Lothair.
+Two of the leaders on the platform at the same time leaped down from it,
+to direct as it were the enraged populace.
+
+But at this moment a man who had been in the lower part of the hall, in
+the vicinity of Lothair and standing alone, pushed forward, and by his
+gestures and general mien arrested somewhat the crowd, so that the two
+leaders who leaped from the platform and bustled through the crowd came
+in contact with him.
+
+The stranger was evidently not of the class or country of the rest
+assembled. He had a military appearance, and spoke with a foreign accent
+when he said, “This is no spy. Keep your people off.”
+
+“And who are you?” inquired the leader thus addressed.
+
+“One accustomed to be obeyed,” said the stranger.
+
+“You may be a spy yourself,” said the leader.
+
+“I will not undertake to say that there are no spies in this room,” said
+the stranger, “but this person is not one, and anybody who touches this
+person will touch this person at his peril. Stand off, men!” And they
+stood off. The wave retreated backward, leaving the two leaders in
+front. A couple of hundred men, a moment before apparently full of
+furious passion and ready to take refuge in the violence of fear, were
+cowed by a single human being.
+
+“Why, you are not afraid of one man?” said the leaders, ashamed of their
+following. “Whatever betides, no one unknown shall leave this room, or
+it will be Bow Street to-morrow morning.”
+
+“Nevertheless,” said the stranger, “two unknown men will leave this room
+and with general assent. If any one touches this person or myself I will
+shoot him dead,” and he drew out his revolver, “and as for the rest,
+look at that,” he added, giving a paper to the leader of the Fenian
+Lodge, “and then give it me back again.”
+
+The leader of the Fenian Lodge glanced at the paper; he grew pale, then
+scarlet, folded the paper with great care and returned it reverentially
+to the stranger, then looking round to the assembly and waving his hand
+he said, “All right, the gentlemen are to go.”
+
+“Well, you have got out of a scrape, young air,” said the stranger to
+Lothair when they had escaped from the hall.
+
+“And how can I express my gratitude to you?” Lothair replied.
+
+“Poh!” said the stranger, “a mere affair of common duty. But what
+surprises me is how you got your pass-ticket.”
+
+Lothair told him all.
+
+“They manage their affairs in general wonderfully close,” said the
+stranger, “but I have no opinion of them. I have just returned from
+Ireland, where I thought I would go and see what they really are after.
+No real business in them. Their treason is a fairy tale, and their
+sedition a child talking in its sleep.”
+
+They walked together about half a mile, and then the stranger said, “At
+the end of this we shall get into the City Road, and the land again of
+omnibus and public conveyances, and I shall wish you good night.”
+
+“But it is distressing to me to part thus,” said Lothair. “Pray let me
+call and pay my respects to my benefactor.”
+
+“No claim to any such title,” said the stranger; “I am always glad to
+be of use. I will not trouble you to call on me, for, frankly, I have no
+wish to increase the circle of my acquaintance. So, good-night; and, as
+you seem to be fond of a little life, take my advice, and never go about
+unarmed.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 28 The Fenian adventure furnished the distraction which Lothair
+required It broke that absorbing spell of sentiment which is the
+delicious but enervating privilege of the youthful heart; yet, when
+Lothair woke in the morning from his well-earned slumbers, the
+charm returned, and he fell at once into a reverie of Belmont, and
+a speculation when he might really pay his first visit there. Not
+to-day—that was clearly out of the question. They had separated only
+yesterday, and yet it seemed an age, and the adventure of another world.
+There are moods of feeling which defy alike time and space.
+
+But on the morrow, Friday, he might venture to go. But, then, would
+to-morrow ever come? It seemed impossible. How were the intervening
+hours to pass? The world, however, was not so devoid of resources
+as himself, and had already appropriated his whole day. And, first,
+Monsignore Catesby came to breakfast with him, talking of every thing
+that was agreeable or interesting, but in reality bent on securing his
+presence at the impending ecclesiastical ceremony of high import, where
+his guardian was to officiate, and where the foundation was to be laid
+of the reconciliation of all churches in the bosom of the true one.
+Then, in the afternoon, Lothair had been long engaged to a match of
+pigeon-shooting, in which pastime Bertram excelled. It seemed there was
+to be a most exciting sweepstakes to-day, in which the flower of England
+were to compete; Lothair among them, and for the first time.
+
+This great exploit of arms was to be accomplished at the Castle in the
+Air, a fantastic villa near the banks of the Thames, belonging to
+the Duke of Brecon. His grace had been offended by the conduct or
+the comments of the outer world, which in his pastime had thwarted or
+displeased him in the free life of Battersea. The Duke of Brecon was a
+gentleman easily offended, but not one of those who ever confined their
+sense of injury to mere words. He prided himself on “putting down” any
+individual or body of men who chose to come into collision with him. And
+so in the present instance he formed a club of pigeon-shooters, and
+lent them his villa for their rendezvous and enjoyment. The society was
+exquisite, exclusive, and greatly sought after. And the fine ladies,
+tempted, of course, by the beauty of the scene, honored and inspired the
+competing confederates by their presence.
+
+The Castle in the Air was a colossal thatched cottage, built by a
+favorite of King George IV. It was full of mandarins and pagodas and
+green dragons, and papered with birds of many colors and with vast
+tails. The gardens were pretty, and the grounds park-like, with some
+noble cedars and some huge walnut-trees.
+
+The Duke of Brecon was rather below the middle size, but he had a
+singularly athletic frame not devoid of symmetry. His head was well
+placed on his broad shoulders, and his mien was commanding. He was
+narrow-minded and prejudiced, but acute, and endowed with an unbending
+will. He was an eminent sportsman, and brave even to brutality. His
+boast was that he had succeeded in every thing he had attempted, and he
+would not admit the possibility of future failure. Though still a
+very young man, he had won the Derby, training his own horse; and he
+successfully managed a fine stud in defiance of the ring, whom it was
+one of the secret objects of his life to extirpate. Though his manner
+to men was peremptory, cold, and hard, he might be described as popular,
+for there existed a superstitious belief in his judgment, and it was
+known that in some instances, when he had been consulted, he had given
+more than advice. It could not be said that he was beloved, but he was
+feared and highly considered. Parasites were necessary to him, though he
+despised them.
+
+The Duke of Brecon was an avowed admirer, of Lady Corisande, and was
+intimate with her family. The duchess liked him much, and was often seen
+at ball or assembly on his arm. He had such excellent principles, she
+said; was so straight-forward, so true and firm. It was whispered that
+even Lady Corisande had remarked that the Duke of Brecon was the only
+young man of the time who had “character.” The truth is, the duke,
+though absolute and hard to men, could be soft and deferential to women,
+and such an exception to a general disposition has a charm. It was said,
+also, that he had, when requisite, a bewitching smile.
+
+If there were any thing or any person in the world that St. Aldegonde
+hated more than another, it was the Duke of Brecon. Why St. Aldegonde
+hated him was not very clear, for they had never crossed each other,
+nor were the reasons for his detestation, which he occasionally gave,
+entirely satisfactory: sometimes it was because the duke drove piebalds;
+sometimes because he had a large sum in the funds, which St. Aldegonde
+thought disgraceful for a duke; sometimes because he wore a particular
+hat, though, with respect to this last allegation, it does not follow
+that St. Aldegonde was justified in his criticism, for in all these
+matters St. Aldegonde was himself very deficient, and had once strolled
+up St. James’s Street with his dishevelled looks crowned with a
+wide-awake. Whatever might be the cause, St. Aldegonde generally wound
+up—“I tell you what, Bertha, if Corisande marries that follow, I have
+made up my mind to go to the Indian Ocean. It is a country I never have
+seen, and Pinto tells me you cannot do it well under five years.”
+
+“I hope you will take me, Grenville, with you,” said Lady St. Aldegonde,
+“because it is highly probable Corisande will marry the duke; mamma, you
+know, likes him so much.”
+
+“Why cannot Corisande marry Carisbrooke?” said St. Aldegonde, pouting;
+“he is a really good fellow, much better-looking, and so far as land is
+concerned, which after all is the only thing, has as large an estate as
+the duke.”
+
+“Well, these things depend a little upon taste,” said Lady St.
+Aldegonde.
+
+“No, no,” said St. Aldegonde; “Corisande must marry Carisbrooke.
+Your father would not like my going to the Indian Archipelago and not
+returning for five years, perhaps never returning. Why should Corisande
+break up our society?—why are people so selfish? I never could go to
+Brentham again if the Duke of Brecon is always to be there, giving his
+opinion, and being what your mother calls ‘straightforward’—I hate a
+straightforward fellow. As Pinto says, if every man were straightforward
+in his opinions, there would be no conversation. The fun of talk is to
+find out what a man really thinks, then contrast it with the enormous
+lies he has been telling all dinner, and, perhaps, all his life.”
+
+It was a favorable day for the Castle in the Air; enough, but not
+too much sun, and a gentle breeze. Some pretty feet, not alone, were
+sauntering in the gardens, some pretty lips lingered in the rooms
+sipping tea; but the mass of the fair visitors, marvellously attired,
+were assembled at the scene of action, seated on chairs and in groups,
+which assumed something of the form of an amphitheatre. There were many
+gentlemen in attendance on them, or independent spectators of the sport.
+The field was large, not less than forty competitors, and comprising
+many of the best shots in England. The struggle therefore, was long and
+ably maintained; but, as the end approached, it was evident that the
+contest would be between Bertram, Lothair, and the Duke of Brecon.
+
+Lady St. Aldegonde and Lady Montairy were there and their unmarried
+sister. The married sisters were highly excited in favor of their
+brother, but Lady Corisande said nothing. At last Bertram missed a
+bird, or rather his bird, which he had hit, escaped, and fell beyond the
+enclosure. Lothair was more successful, and it seemed that it might be
+a tie between him and the duke. His grace, when called, advanced with
+confident composure, and apparently killed both his birds, when, at
+this moment, a dog rushed forward and chased one of the mortally-struck
+pigeons. The blue-rock, which was content to die by the hand of a duke,
+would not deign to be worried by a dog, and it frantically moved its
+expiring wings, scaled the paling, and died. So Lothair won the prize.
+
+“Well,” said Lady Montairy to Lothair, “as Bertram was not to win, I am
+glad it was you.”
+
+“And you will not congratulate me?” said Lothair to Lady Corisande.
+
+She rather shook her head. “A tournament of doves,” she said. “I would
+rather see you all in the lists of Ashby.”
+
+Lothair had to dine this day with one of the vanquished. This was Mr.
+Brancepeth, celebrated for his dinners, still more for his guests. Mr.
+Brancepeth was a grave young man. It was supposed that he was always
+meditating over the arrangement of his menus, or the skilful means by
+which he could assemble together the right persons to partake of them.
+Mr. Brancepeth had attained the highest celebrity in his peculiar
+career. To dine with Mr. Brancepeth was a social incident that was
+mentioned. Royalty had consecrated his banquets, and a youth of note was
+scarcely a graduate of society who had not been his guest. There was one
+person, however, who, in this respect, had not taken his degree, and, as
+always happens under such circumstances, he was the individual on
+whom Mr. Brancepeth was most desirous to confer it; and this was St.
+Aldegonde. In vain Mr. Brancepeth had approached him with vast cards of
+invitation to hecatombs, and with insinuating little notes to dinners
+sans falcon; proposals which the presence of princes might almost
+construe into a command, or the presence of some one even more
+attractive than princes must invest with irresistible charm. It was all
+in vain. “Not that I dislike Brancepeth,” said St. Aldegonde; “I rather
+like him: I like a man who can do only one thing, but does that well.
+But then I hate dinners.”
+
+But the determined and the persevering need never despair of gaining
+their object in this world. And this very day, riding home from the
+Castle in the Air, Mr. Brancepeth overtook St. Aldegonde, who was
+lounging about on a rough Scandinavian cob, as dishevelled as himself,
+listless and groomless. After riding together for twenty minutes, St.
+Aldegonde informed Mr. Brancepeth, as was his general custom with his
+companions, that he was bored to very extinction, and that he did not
+know what he should do with himself for the rest of the day. “If I could
+only get Pinto to go with me, I think I would run down to the Star and
+Garter, or perhaps to Hampton Court.”
+
+“You will not be able to get Pinto today,” said Mr. Brancepeth, “for he
+dines with me.”
+
+“What an unlucky fellow I am!” exclaimed St. Aldegonde, entirely to
+himself. “I had made up my mind to dine with Pinto to-day.”
+
+“And why should you not? Why not meet Pinto at my house?”
+
+“Well, that is not my way,” said St. Aldegonde, but not in a decided
+tone. “You know I do not like strangers, and crowds of wine-glasses, and
+what is called all the delicacies of the season.”
+
+“You will meet no one that you do not know and like. It is a little
+dinner I made for—” and he mentioned Lothair.
+
+“I like Lothair,” said St. Aldegonde, dreamily. “He is a nice boy.”
+
+“Well, you will have him and Pinto to yourself.”
+
+The large fish languidly rose and swallowed the bait, and the exulting
+Mr. Brancepeth cantered off to Hill Street to give the necessary
+instructions.
+
+Mr. Pinto was one of the marvels of English society; the most sought
+after of all its members, though no one could tell you exactly why. He
+was a little oily Portuguese, middle-aged, corpulent, and somewhat bald,
+with dark eyes of sympathy, not unmixed with humor. No one knew who he
+was, and in a country the most scrutinizing as to personal details, no
+one inquired or cared to know. A quarter of a century ago an English
+noble had caught him in his travels, and brought him young to England,
+where he had always remained. From the favorite of an individual, he had
+become the oracle of a circle, and then the idol of society. All this
+time his manner remained unchanged. He was never at any time either
+humble or pretentious. Instead of being a parasite, everybody flattered
+him; and instead of being a hanger-on of society, society hung on Pinto.
+
+It must have been the combination of many pleasing qualities, rather
+than the possession of any commanding one, that created his influence.
+He certainly was not a wit yet he was always gay, and always said
+things that made other people merry. His conversation was sparkling,
+interesting, and fluent, yet it was observed he never gave an opinion
+on any subject and never told an anecdote. Indeed, he would sometimes
+remark, when a man fell into his anecdotage, it was a sign for him to
+retire from the world. And yet Pinto rarely opened his mouth without
+everybody being stricken with mirth. He had the art of viewing common
+things in a fanciful light, and the rare gift of raillery which
+flattered the self-love of those whom it seemed sportively not to spare.
+Sometimes those who had passed a fascinating evening with Pinto would
+try to remember on the morrow what he had said, and could recall
+nothing. He was not an intellectual Croesus, but his pockets were full
+of six-pences.
+
+One of the ingredients of his social spell was no doubt his manner,
+which was tranquil even when he was droll. He never laughed except with
+his eyes, and delivered himself of his most eccentric fancies in an
+unctuous style. He had a rare gift of mimicry, which he used with
+extreme reserve, and therefore was proportionately effective when
+displayed. Add to all this, a sweet voice, a soft hand, and a
+disposition both soft and sweet, like his own Azores. It was understood
+that Pinto was easy in his circumstances, though no one know where these
+circumstances were. His equipage was worthy of his position, and in his
+little house in May Fair he sometimes gave a dinner to a fine lady, who
+was as proud of the event as the Queen of Sheba of her visit to Solomon
+the Great.
+
+When St. Aldegonde arrived in Hill Street, and slouched into the saloon
+with as uncouth and graceless a general mien as a handsome and naturally
+graceful man could contrive to present, his keen though listless glance
+at once revealed to him that he was as he described it at dinner to Hugo
+Bohun in a social jungle, in which there was a great herd of animals
+that he particularly disliked, namely, what he entitled “swells.” The
+scowl on his distressed countenance at first intimated a retreat; but
+after a survey, courteous to his host, and speaking kindly to Lothair as
+he passed on, he made a rush to Mr. Pinto, and, cordially embracing him,
+said, “Mind we sit together.”
+
+The dinner was not a failure, though an exception to the polished
+ceremony of the normal Brancepeth banquet. The host headed his table,
+with the Duke of Brecon on his right and Lothair on his left hand, and
+“swells” of calibre in their vicinity; but St. Aldegonde sat far away,
+next to Mr. Pinto, and Hugo Bohun on the other side of that gentleman.
+Hugo Bohun loved swells, but he loved St. Aldegonde more. The general
+conversation in the neighborhood of Mr. Brancepeth did not flag: they
+talked of the sport of the morning, and then, by association of ideas,
+of every other sport. And then from the sports of England they ranged
+to the sports of every other country. There were several there who had
+caught salmon in Norway and killed tigers in Bengal, and visited those
+countries only for that purpose. And then they talked of horses, and
+then they talked of women.
+
+Lothair was rather silent; for in this society of ancients, the youngest
+of whom was perhaps not less than five-and-twenty, and some with nearly
+a lustre added to that mature period, he felt the awkward modesty of
+a freshman. The Duke of Brecon talked much, but never at length. He
+decided every thing, at least to his own satisfaction; and if his
+opinion were challenged, remained unshaken, and did not conceal it.
+
+All this time a different scene was enacting at the other end of the
+table. St. Aldegonde, with his back turned to his other neighbor, hung
+upon the accents of Mr. Pinto, and Hugo Bohun imitated St. Aldegonde.
+What Mr. Pinto said or was saying was quite inaudible, for he always
+spoke low, and in the present case he was invisible, like an ortolan
+smothered in vine-leaves; but every now and then St. Aldegonde broke
+into a frightful shout, and Hugo Bohun tittered immensely. Then St.
+Aldegonde, throwing himself back in his chair, and talking to himself or
+the ceiling, would exclaim, “Best thing I ever heard,” while Hugo nodded
+sympathy with a beaming smile.
+
+The swells now and then paused in their conversation and glanced at the
+scene of disturbance.
+
+“They seem highly amused there,” said Mr. Brancepeth. “I wish they would
+pass it on.”
+
+“I think St. Aldegonde,” said the Duke of Brecon, “is the least
+conventional man of my acquaintance.”
+
+Notwithstanding this stern sneer, a practiced general like Mr.
+Brancepeth felt he had won the day. All his guests would disperse and
+tell the world that they had dined with him and met St. Aldegonde,
+and to-morrow there would be a blazoned paragraph in the journals
+commemorating the event, and written as if by a herald. What did a
+little disturb his hospitable mind was that St. Aldegonde literally
+tasted nothing. He did not care so much for his occasionally leaning on
+the table with both his elbows, but that he should pass by every dish
+was distressing. So Mr. Brancepeth whispered to his own valet—a fine
+gentleman, who stood by his master’s chair and attended on no one else,
+except, when requisite, his master’s immediate neighbor—and desired him
+to suggest to St. Aldegonde whether the side-table might not provide,
+under the difficulties, some sustenance. St. Aldegonde seemed quite
+gratified by the attention, and said he should like to have some cold
+meat. Now, that was the only thing the side-table, bounteous as was its
+disposition, could not provide. All the joints of the season were named
+in vain, and pies and preparations of many climes. But nothing would
+satisfy St. Aldegonde but cold meat.
+
+“Well, now I shall begin my dinner,” he said to Pinto, when he was at
+length served. “What surprises me most in you is your English. There is
+not a man who speaks such good English as you do.”
+
+“English is an expressive language,” said Mr. Pinto, “but not difficult
+to master. Its range is limited. It consists, as far as I can observe,
+of four words: ‘nice,’ ‘jolly,’ ‘charming,’ and ‘bore;’ and some
+grammarians add ‘fond.’”
+
+When the guests rose and returned to the saloon, St. Aldegonde was in
+high spirits, and talked to every one, even to the Duke of Brecon, whom
+he considerately reminded of his defeat in the morning, adding that from
+what he had seen of his grace’s guns he had no opinion of them, and that
+he did not believe that breech-loaders suited pigeon-shooting.
+
+Finally, when he bade farewell to his host, St. Aldegonde assured him
+that he “never in his life made so good a dinner, and that Pinto had
+never been so rich.”
+
+When the party broke up, the majority of the guests went, sooner or
+later, to a ball that was given this evening by Lady St. Jerome. Others,
+who never went to balls, looked forward with refined satisfaction to a
+night of unbroken tobacco. St. Aldegonde went to play whist at the house
+of a lady who lived out of town. “I like the drive home,” he said; “the
+morning air is so refreshing when one has lost one’s money.”
+
+A ball at St. Jerome House was a rare event, but one highly appreciated.
+It was a grand mansion, with a real suite of state apartments, including
+a genuine ballroom in the Venetian style, and lighted with chandeliers
+of rock-crystal. Lady St. Jerome was a woman of taste and splendor and
+romance, who could do justice to the scene and occasion. Even Lord St.
+Jerome, quiet as he seemed, in these matters was popular with young men.
+It was known that Lord St. Jerome gave, at his ball suppers, the same
+champagne that he gave at his dinners, and that was of the highest
+class. In short, a patriot. We talk with wondering execration of the
+great poisoners of past ages, the Borgias, the inventor of aqua tofana,
+and the amiable Marchioness de Brinvilliers; but Pinto was of opinion
+that there were more social poisoners about in the present day than in
+the darkest, and the most demoralized periods, and then none of them are
+punished; which is so strange, he would add, as they are all found out.
+
+Lady St. Jerome received Lothair, as Pinto said, with extreme unction.
+She looked in his eyes, she retained his hand, she said that what she
+had heard had made her so happy. And then, when he was retiring, she
+beckoned him back and said she must have some tea, and, taking his arm,
+they walked away together. “I have so much to tell you,” she said,
+“and every thing is so interesting. I think we are on the eve of great
+events. The monsignore told me your heart was with us. It must be. They
+are your own thoughts, your own wishes. We are realizing your own
+ideal. I think next Sunday will be remembered as a great day in English
+history; the commencement of a movement that may save every thing. The
+monsignore, I know, has told you all.”
+
+Not exactly; the Oxford visit had deranged a little the plans of the
+monsignore, but he had partially communicated the vast scheme. It
+seems there was a new society to be instituted for the restoration of
+Christendom. The change of name from Christendom to Europe had proved a
+failure and a disastrous one. “And what wonder?” said Lady St. Jerome.
+“Europe is not even a quarter of the globe, as the philosophers
+pretended it was. There is already a fifth division, and probably there
+will be many more, as the philosophers announce it impossible.” The
+cardinal was to inaugurate the institution on Sunday next at the
+Jesuits’ Church, by one of his celebrated sermons. It was to be a
+function of the highest class. All the faithful of consideration were to
+attend, but the attendance was not to be limited to the faithful. Every
+sincere adherent of church principles who was in a state of prayer and
+preparation, was solicited to be present and join in the holy and common
+work of restoring to the Divine Master His kingdom upon earth with its
+rightful name.
+
+It was a brilliant ball. All the “nice” people in London were there. All
+the young men who now will never go to balls were present. This was from
+respect to the high character of Lord St. Jerome. Clare Arundel looked
+divine, dressed in a wondrous white robe garlanded with violets, just
+arrived from Paris, a present from her god-mother, the Duchess of
+Lorrain-Sehulenbourg. On her head a violet-wreath, deep and radiant
+as her eyes, and which admirably contrasted with her dark golden-brown
+hair.
+
+Lothair danced with her, and never admired her more. Her manner toward
+him was changed. It was attractive, even alluring. She smiled on him,
+she addressed him in tones of sympathy, even of tenderness. She seemed
+interested in all he was doing; she flattered him by a mode which is
+said to be irresistible to a man, by talking only of himself. When
+the dance had finished, he offered to attend her to the tea-room. She
+accepted the invitation even with cordiality.
+
+“I think I must have some tea,” she said, “and I like to go with my
+kinsman.”
+
+Just before supper was announced, Lady St. Jerome told Lothair, to his
+surprise, that he was to attend Miss Arundel to the great ceremony. “It
+is Clare’s ball,” said Lady St. Jerome, “given in her honor, and you are
+to take care of her.”
+
+“I am more than honored,” said Lothair. “But does Miss Arundel wish it,
+for, to tell you the truth, I thought I had rather abused her indulgence
+this evening?”
+
+“Of course she wishes it,” said Lady St. Jerome. “Who should lead
+her out on such an occasion—her own ball—than the nearest and dearest
+relation she has in the world, except ourselves?”
+
+Lothair made no reply to this unanswerable logic, but was as surprised
+as he was gratified. He recalled the hour when the kinship was, at the
+best, but coldly recognized, the inscrutable haughtiness, even distrust,
+with which Miss Arundel listened to the exposition of his views and
+feelings, and the contrast which her past mood presented to her present
+brilliant sympathy and cordial greeting. But he yielded to the magic of
+the flowing hour. Miss Arundel, seemed, indeed, quite a changed being
+to-night, full of vivacity, fancy, feeling—almost fun. She was witty,
+and humorous, and joyous, and fascinating. As he fed her with cates as
+delicate as her lips, and manufactured for her dainty beverages which
+would not outrage their purity, Lothair, at last, could not refrain from
+intimating his sense of her unusual but charming joyousness.
+
+“No,” she said, turning round with animation, “my natural disposition,
+always repressed, because I have felt overwhelmed by the desolation of
+the world. But now I have hope; I have more than hope, I have joy. I
+feel sure this idea of the restoration of Christendom comes from Heaven.
+It has restored me to myself, and has given me a sense of happiness in
+this life which I never could contemplate. But what is the climax of my
+joy is, that you, after all my own blood, and one in whose career I have
+ever felt the deepest interest, should be ordained to lay, as it were,
+the first stone of this temple of divine love.”
+
+It was break of day when Lothair jumped into his brougham. “Thank
+Heaves,” he exclaimed, “it is at last Friday!”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 29 There is something very pleasant in a summer suburban ride
+in the valley of the Thames. London transforms itself into bustling
+Knightsbridge, and airy Brompton, brightly and gracefully, lingers
+cheerfully in the long, miscellaneous, well-watered King’s-road, and
+only says farewell when you come to an abounding river and a picturesque
+bridge. The boats were bright upon the waters when Lothair crossed it,
+and his dark chestnut barb, proud of its resplendent form, curveted with
+joy when it reached a green common, studded occasionally with a group
+of pines and well bedecked with gorse. After this he pursued the public
+road for a couple of miles until he observed on his left hand a gate
+on which was written “private road,” and here he stopped. The gate was
+locked, but, when Lothair assured the keeper that he was about to visit
+Belmont, he was permitted to enter.
+
+He entered a green and winding lane, fringed with tall elms, and dim
+with fragrant shade, and, after proceeding about half a mile, came to a
+long, low-built lodge, with a thatched and shelving roof, and surrounded
+by a rustic colonnade covered with honeysuckle. Passing through the gate
+at hand, he found himself in a road winding through gently-undulating
+banks of exquisite turf, studded with rare shrubs, and, occasionally,
+rarer trees. Suddenly the confined scene expanded; wide lawns spread
+out before him, shadowed with the dark forms of many huge cedars, and
+blazing with flower-beds of every hue. The house was also apparent, a
+stately mansion of hewn stone, with wings and a portico of Corinthian
+columns, and backed by deep woods.
+
+This was Belmont, built by a favorite minister of state, to whom a
+grateful and gracious sovereign had granted a slice of a royal park
+whereon to raise a palace and a garden, and find occasionally Tusculan
+repose.
+
+The lady of the mansion was at home, and, though Lothair was quite
+prepared for this, his heart beat. The inner hall was of noble
+proportion, and there were ranged in it many Roman busts, and some
+ancient slabs and altars of marble. These had been collected some
+century ago by the minister; but what immediately struck the eye of
+Lothair were two statues by an American artist, and both of fame, the
+Sybil and the Cleopatra. He had heard of these, but had never seen
+them, and could not refrain from lingering a moment to gaze upon their
+mystical and fascinating beauty.
+
+He proceeded through two spacious and lofty chambers, of which it was
+evident the furniture was new. It was luxurious and rich, and full of
+taste; but there was no attempt to recall the past in the details; no
+cabinets and clocks of French kings, or tables of French queens, no
+chairs of Venetian senators, no candelabra, that had illumined Doges
+of Genoa, no ancient porcelain of rare schools, and ivory carvings and
+choice enamels. The walls were hung with master-pieces of modern art,
+chiefly of the French school, Ingres and Delaroche and Scheffer.
+
+The last saloon led into a room of smaller dimensions, opening on the
+garden, and which Lothair at first thought must be a fernery, it
+seemed so full of choice and expanding specimens of that beautiful and
+multiform plant; but, when his eye had become a little accustomed to the
+scene and to the order of the groups, he perceived they were only the
+refreshing and profuse ornaments of a regularly furnished and inhabited
+apartment. In its centre was a table covered with writing-materials and
+books and some music. There was a chair before the table, so placed as
+if some one had only recently quitted it; a book was open, but turned
+upon its face, with an ivory cutter by its side. It would seem that the
+dweller in the chamber might not be far distant. The servant invited
+Lothair to be seated, and, saying that Mrs. Campian must be in the
+garden, proceeded to inform his mistress of the arrival of a guest.
+
+The room opened on a terrace adorned with statues and orange-trees, and
+descending gently into a garden in the Italian style, in the centre
+of which was a marble fountain of many figures. The grounds were not
+extensive, but they were only separated from the royal park by a wire
+fence, so that the scene seemed alike rich and illimitable. On the
+boundary was a summer-house in the shape of a classic temple, one of
+those pavilions of pleasure which nobles loved to raise in the last
+century.
+
+As Lothair beheld the scene with gratification, the servant reappeared
+on the step of the terrace and invited him to descend. Guiding him
+through the garden, the servant retired as Lothair recognized Mrs.
+Campian approaching them.
+
+She gave her hand to Lothair and welcomed him cordially but with
+serenity. They mutually exchanged hopes that their return to town had
+been agreeable. Lothair could not refrain from expressing how pleased he
+was with Belmont.
+
+“I am glad you approve of our hired home,” said Theodora; “I think we
+were fortunate in finding one that suits our tastes and habits. We love
+pictures and statues and trees and flowers, and yet we love our friends,
+and our friends are people who live in cities.”
+
+“I think I saw two statues to-day of which I have often heard,” said
+Lothair.
+
+“The Sibyl and Cleopatra! Yes Colonel Campian is rather proud of
+possessing them. He collects only modern art, for which I believe there
+is a great future, though some of our friends think it is yet in its
+cradle.”
+
+“I am very sorry to say,” said Lothair, “that I know very little about
+art, or indeed any thing else, but I admire what is beautiful. I know
+something about architecture, at least church architecture.”
+
+“Well, religion has produced some of our finest buildings,” said
+Theodora; “there is no question of that; and as long as they are adapted
+to what takes place in them they are admirable. The fault I find in
+modern churches in this country is, that there is little relation
+between the ceremonies and the structure. Nobody seems now conscious
+that every true architectural form has a purpose. But I think the climax
+of confused ideas is capped when dissenting chapels are built like
+cathedrals.”
+
+“Ah! to build a cathedral!” exclaimed Lothair, “that is a great
+enterprise. I wish I might show you some day some drawings I have of a
+projected cathedral.”
+
+“A projected cathedral!” said Theodora. “Well, I must confess to you I
+never could comprehend the idea of a Protestant cathedral.”
+
+“But I am not quite sure,” said Lothair, blushing and agitated, “that it
+will be a Protestant cathedral. I have not made up my mind about that.”
+
+Theodora glanced at him, unobserved, with her wonderful gray eyes; a
+sort of supernatural light seemed to shoot from beneath their long dark
+lashes and read his inmost nature. They were all this time returning, as
+she had suggested, to the house. Rather suddenly she said, “By-the-by,
+as you are so fond of art, I ought to have asked you whether you would
+like to see a work by the sculptor of Cleopatra, which arrived when we
+were at Oxford. We have placed it on a pedestal in the temple. It is the
+Genius of Freedom. I may say I was assisting at its inauguration when
+your name was announced to me.”
+
+Lothair caught at this proposal, and they turned and approached the
+temple. Some workmen were leaving the building as they entered, and one
+or two lingered.
+
+Upon a pedestal of porphyry rose the statue of a female in marble.
+Though veiled with drapery which might have become the Goddess of
+Modesty, admirable art permitted the contour of the perfect form to be
+traced. The feet were without sandals, and the undulating breadth of
+one shoulder, where the drapery was festooned, remained uncovered. One
+expected with such a shape some divine visage. That was not wanting;
+but humanity was asserted in the transcendent brow, which beamed with
+sublime thought and profound enthusiasm.
+
+Some would have sighed that such beings could only be pictured in a
+poet’s or an artist’s dream, but Lothair felt that what he beheld with
+rapture was no ideal creation, and that he was in the presence of the
+inspiring original.
+
+“It is too like!” he murmured.
+
+“It is the most successful recurrence to the true principles of art in
+modern sculpture,” said a gentleman on his right hand.
+
+This person was a young man, though more than ten years older than
+Lothair. His appearance was striking. Above the middle height, his form,
+athletic though lithe and symmetrical, was crowned by a countenance
+aquiline but delicate, and from many circumstances of a remarkable
+radiancy. The lustre of his complexion, the fire of his eye, and his
+chestnut hair in profuse curls, contributed much to this dazzling
+effect. A thick but small mustache did not conceal his curved lip or the
+scornful pride of his distended nostril, and his beard, close but not
+long, did not veil the singular beauty of his mouth. It was an arrogant
+face, daring and vivacious, yet weighted with an expression of deep and
+haughty thought.
+
+The costume of this gentleman was rich and picturesque. Such
+extravagance of form and color is sometimes encountered in the
+adventurous toilet of a country house, but rarely experienced in what
+might still be looked upon as a morning visit in the metropolis.
+
+“You know Mr. Phoebus?” asked a low, clear voice, and turning round
+Lothair was presented to a person so famous that even Lothair had heard
+of him.
+
+Mr. Phoebus was the most successful, not to say the most eminent,
+painter of the age. He was the descendant of a noble family of Gascony
+that had emigrated to England from France in the reign of Louis XIV.
+Unquestionably they had mixed their blood frequently during the interval
+and the vicissitudes of their various life; but, in Gaston Phoebus,
+Nature, as is sometimes her wont, had chosen to reproduce exactly the
+original type. He was the Gascon noble of the sixteenth century, with
+all his brilliancy, bravery, and boastfulness, equally vain, arrogant,
+and eccentric, accomplished in all the daring or the graceful pursuits
+of man, yet nursed in the philosophy of our times.
+
+“It is presumption in my talking about such things,” said Lothair; “but
+might I venture to ask what you may consider the true principles of
+art?”
+
+“ARYAN principles,” said Mr. Phoebus; “not merely the study of Nature,
+but of beautiful Nature; the art of design in a country inhabited by
+a first-rate race, and where the laws, the manners, the customs, are
+calculated to maintain the health and beauty of a first-rate race. In
+a greater or less degree, these conditions obtained from the age of
+Pericles to the age of Hadrian in pure Aryan communities, but Semitism
+began then to prevail, and ultimately triumphed. Semitism has destroyed
+art; it taught man to despise his own body, and the essence of art is to
+honor the human frame.”
+
+“I am afraid I ought not to talk about such things,” said Lothair; “but,
+if by Semitism you mean religion, surely the Italian painters inspired
+by Semitism did something.”
+
+“Great things,” said Mr. Phoebus—“some of the greatest. Semitism gave
+them subjects, but the Renaissance gave them Aryan art, and it gave that
+art to a purely Aryan race. But Semitism rallied in the shape of the
+Reformation, and swept all away. When Leo the Tenth was pope, popery was
+pagan; popery is now Christian, and art is extinct.”
+
+“I cannot enter into such controversies,” said Lothair. “Every day I
+feel more and more I am extremely ignorant.”
+
+“Do not regret it,” said Mr. Phoebus. “What you call ignorance is your
+strength. By ignorance you mean a want of knowledge of books. Books are
+fatal; they are the curse of the human race. Nine-tenths of existing
+books are nonsense, and the clever books are the refutation of that
+nonsense. The greatest misfortune that ever befell man was the invention
+of printing. Printing has destroyed education. Art is a great thing, and
+Science is a great thing; but all that art and science can reveal can
+be taught by man and by his attributes—his voice, his hand, his eye. The
+essence of education is the education of the body. Beauty and health
+are the chief sources of happiness. Men should live in the air; their
+exercises should be regular, varied, scientific. To render his body
+strong and supple is the first duty of man. He should develop and
+completely master the whole muscular system. What I admire in the order
+to which you belong is that they do live in the air; that they excel in
+athletic sports; that they can only speak one language; and that they
+never read. This is not a complete education, but it is the highest
+education since the Greek.”
+
+“What you say I feel encouraging,” said Lothair, repressing a smile,
+“for I myself live very much in the air, and am fond of all sports;
+but I confess I am often ashamed of being so poor a linguist, and was
+seriously thinking that I ought to read.”
+
+“No doubt every man should combine an intellectual with a physical
+training,” replied Mr. Phoebus; “but the popular conception of the means
+is radically wrong. Youth should attend lectures on art and science by
+the most illustrious professors, and should converse together afterward
+on what they have heard. They should learn to talk; it is a rare
+accomplishment, and extremely healthy. They should have music always at
+their meals. The theatre, entirely remodelled and reformed, and, under a
+minister of state, should be an important element of education. I should
+not object to the recitation of lyric poetry. That is enough. I would
+not have a book in the house, or even see a newspaper.”
+
+“These are Aryan principles?” said Lothair.
+
+“They are,” said Mr. Phoebus; “and of such principles, I believe,
+a great revival is at hand. We shall both live to see another
+Renaissance.”
+
+“And our artist here,” said Lothair, pointing to the statue, “you are of
+opinion that he is asserting these principles?”
+
+“Yes; because he has produced the Aryan form by studying the Aryan form.
+Phidias never had a finer model, and he has not been unequal to it.”
+
+“I fancied,” said Lothair, in a lower and inquiring tone, though Mrs.
+Campian had some time before glided out of the pavilion, and was giving
+directions to the workmen—“I fancied I had heard that Mrs. Campian was a
+Roman.”
+
+“The Romans were Greeks,” said Mr. Phoebus, “and in this instance the
+Phidian type came out. It has not been thrown away. I believe Theodora
+has inspired as many painters and sculptors as any Aryan goddess. I look
+upon her as such, for I know nothing more divine.”
+
+“I fear the Phidian type is very rare,” said Lothair.
+
+“In nature and in art there must always be surpassing instances,” said
+Mr. Phoebus. “It is a law, and a wise one; but, depend upon it, so
+strong and perfect a type as the original Aryan must be yet abundant
+among the millions, and may be developed. But for this you want great
+changes in your laws. It is the first duty of a state to attend to the
+frame and health of the subject. The Spartans understood this. They
+permitted no marriage the probable consequences of which might be a
+feeble progeny; they even took measures to secure a vigorous one. The
+Romans doomed the deformed to immediate destruction. The union of the
+races concerns the welfare of the commonwealth much too nearly to
+be intrusted to individual arrangement. The fate of a nation will
+ultimately depend upon the strength and health of the population. Both
+France and England should look to this; they have cause. As for our
+mighty engines of war in the hands of a puny race, it will be the old
+story of the lower empire and the Greek fire. Laws should be passed
+to secure all this, and some day they will be. But nothing can be done
+until the Aryan races are extricated from Semitism.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 30 Lothair returned to town in a not altogether satisfactory
+state of mind. He was not serene or content. On the contrary, he was
+rather agitated and perplexed. He could not say he regretted his visit.
+He had seen her, and he had seen her to great advantage. He had seen
+much too that was pleasing, and had heard also many things that, if not
+pleasing, were certainly full of interest. And yet, when he cantered
+back over the common, the world somehow did not seem to him so bright
+and exhilarating as in the ambling morn. Was it because she was not
+alone? And yet why should he expect she should be alone? She had many
+friends, and she was as accessible to them as to himself. And yet a
+conversation with her, as in the gardens of Blenheim, would have been
+delightful, and he had rather counted on it. Nevertheless, it was a
+great thing to know men like Mr. Phoebus, and hear their views on the
+nature of things. Lothair was very young, and was more thoughtful than
+studious. His education hitherto had been, according to Mr. Phoebus, on
+the right principle, and chiefly in the open air; but he was intelligent
+and susceptible, and in the atmosphere of Oxford, now stirred with many
+thoughts, he had imbibed some particles of knowledge respecting the
+primeval races which had permitted him to follow the conversation of Mr.
+Phoebus not absolutely in a state of hopeless perplexity. He determined
+to confer with Father Coleman on the Aryan race and the genius of
+Semitism. As he returned through the park, he observed the duchess, and
+Lady Corisande in their barouche, resting for a moment in the shade,
+with Lord Carisbrooke on one side and the Duke of Brecon on the other.
+
+As he was dressing for dinner, constantly brooding on one thought, the
+cause of his feeling of disappointment occurred to him. He had hoped
+in this visit to have established some basis of intimacy, and to have
+ascertained his prospect and his means of occasionally seeing her. But
+he had done nothing of the kind. He could not well call again at Belmont
+under a week, but even then Mr. Phoebus or some one else might be there.
+The world seemed dark. He wished he had never gone to Oxford. However
+a man may plan his life, he is the creature of circumstances. The
+unforeseen happens and upsets every thing. We are mere puppets.
+
+He sat next to an agreeable woman at dinner, who gave him an interesting
+account of a new singer she had heard the night before at the opera—a
+fair Scandinavian, fresh as a lily and sweet as a nightingale.
+
+“I was resolved to go and hear her,” said the lady; “my sister Feodore,
+at Paris, had written to me so much about her. Do you know, I have never
+been to the opera for an age! That alone was quite a treat to me. I
+never go to the opera, nor to the play, nor to any thing else. Society
+has become so large and so exacting, that I have found out one never
+gets any amusement.”
+
+“Do you know, I never was at the opera?” said Lothair.
+
+“I am not at all surprised; and when you go—which I suppose you will
+some day—what will most strike you is, that you will not see a single
+person you ever saw in your life.”
+
+“Strange!”
+
+“Yes; it shows what a mass of wealth and taste and refinement there is
+in this wonderful metropolis of ours, quite irrespective of the circles
+in which we move, and which we once thought entirely engrossed them.”
+
+After the ladies had retired, Bertram, who dined at the same house,
+moved up to him; and Hugo Bohun came over and took the vacant seat on
+his other side.
+
+“What have you been doing with yourself?” said Hugo. “We have not seen
+you for a week.”
+
+“I went down to Oxford about some horses,” said Lothair.
+
+“Fancy going down to Oxford about some horses in the heart of the
+season,” said Hugo. “I believe you are selling us, and that, as the
+Scorpion announces, you are going to be married.”
+
+“To whom?” said Lothair.
+
+“Ah! that is the point. It is a dark horse at present, and we want you
+to tell us.”
+
+“Why do not you marry, Hugo?” said Bertram.
+
+“I respect the institution,” said Hugo, “which is admitting something in
+these days; and I have always thought that every woman should marry, and
+no man.”
+
+“It makes a woman and it mars a man, you think?” said Lothair.
+
+“But I do not exactly see how your view would work practically,” said
+Bertram.
+
+“Well my view is a social problem,” said Hugo, “and social problems are
+the fashion at present. It would be solved through the exceptions,
+which prove the principle. In the first place, there are your swells who
+cannot avoid the halter—you are booked when you are born; and then there
+are moderate men like myself, who have their weak moments. I would
+not answer for myself if I could find an affectionate family with good
+shooting and first-rate claret.”
+
+“There must be many families with such conditions,” said Lothair.
+
+Hugo shook his head. “You try. Sometimes the wine is good and the
+shooting bad; sometimes the reverse; sometimes both are excellent, but
+then the tempers and the manners are equally bad.”
+
+“I vote we three do something to-morrow,” said Bertram.
+
+“What shall it be?” said Hugo.
+
+“I vote we row down to Richmond at sunset and dine, and then drive our
+teams up by moonlight. What say you, Lothair?”
+
+“I cannot, I am engaged. I am engaged to go to the opera.”
+
+“Fancy going to the opera in this sweltering weather!” exclaimed
+Bertram.
+
+“He must be going to be married,” said Hugo.
+
+And yet on the following evening, though the weather was quite as sultry
+and he was not going to be married, to the opera Lothair went. While the
+agreeable lady the day before was dilating at dinner on this once famous
+entertainment, Lothair remembered that a certain person went there
+every Saturday evening, and he resolved that he should at least have the
+satisfaction of seeing her.
+
+It was altogether a new scene for Lothair, and, being much affected by
+music, he found the general influence so fascinating that some little
+time elapsed before he was sufficiently master of himself to recur to
+the principal purpose of his presence. His box was on the first tier,
+where he could observe very generally and yet himself be sufficiently
+screened. As an astronomer surveys the starry heavens until his
+searching sight reaches the desired planet, so Lothair’s scrutinizing
+vision wandered till his eye at length lighted on the wished-for orb.
+In the circle above his own, opposite to him but nearer the stage, he
+recognized the Campians. She had a star upon her forehead, as when he
+first met her some six months ago; it seemed an age.
+
+Now what should he do? He was quite unlearned in the social habits of
+an opera-house. He was not aware that he had the privilege of paying the
+lady a visit in her box, and, had he been so, he was really so shy in
+little things that he never could have summoned resolution to open the
+door of his own box and request an attendant to show him that of Mrs.
+Campian. He had contrived to get to the opera for the first time in his
+life, and the effort seemed to have exhausted his social enterprise. So
+he remained still, with his glass fixed very constantly on Mrs. Campian,
+and occasionally giving himself up to the scene. The performance did not
+sustain the first impression. There were rival prima-donnas, and they
+indulged in competitive screams; the choruses were coarse, and
+the orchestra much too noisy. But the audience were absorbed or
+enthusiastic. We may be a musical nation, but our taste would seem to
+require some refinement.
+
+There was a stir in Mrs. Campian’s box: a gentleman entered and seated
+himself. Lothair concluded he was an invited guest, and envied him. In
+about a quarter of an hour the gentleman bowed and retired, and another
+person came in, and one whom Lothair recognized as a young man who had
+been sitting during the first act in a stall beneath him. The system of
+paying visits at the opera then flashed upon his intelligence, as some
+discovery in science upon a painful observer. Why should he not pay a
+visit too? But how to do it? At last he was bold enough to open the door
+of his own box and go forth, but he could find no attendant, and some
+persons passing his open door, and nearly appropriating his lodge, in a
+fit of that nervous embarrassment which attends inexperience in little
+things, he secured his rights by returning baffled to his post.
+
+There had been a change in Mrs. Campian’s box in the interval. Colonel
+Campian had quitted it, and Mr. Phoebus occupied his place. Whether it
+were disappointment at his own failure or some other cause, Lothair
+felt annoyed. He was hot and cold by turns; felt awkward and blundering;
+fancied people were looking at him; that in some inexplicable sense he
+was ridiculous; wished he had never gone to the opera.
+
+As time, and considerable time, elapsed, he became even miserable. Mr.
+Phoebus never moved, and Mrs. Campian frequently conversed with him.
+More than one visitor had in the interval paid their respects to the
+lady, but Mr. Phoebus never moved. They did not stay, perhaps because
+Mr. Phoebus never moved.
+
+Lothair never liked that fellow from the first. Sympathy and antipathy
+share our being as day and darkness share our lives. Lothair had felt
+an antipathy for Mr. Phoebus the moment he saw him. He had arrived at
+Belmont yesterday before Lothair, and he had outstayed him. These might
+be Arian principles, but they were not the principles of good-breeding.
+
+Lothair determined to go home, and never to come to the opera again. He
+opened the door of his box with firmness, and slammed it with courage;
+he had quite lost his shyness, was indeed ready to run a muck with
+any one who crossed him. The slamming of the door summoned a scudding
+attendant from a distant post, who with breathless devotion inquired
+whether Lothair wanted any thing.
+
+“Yes, I want you to show me the way to Mrs. Campian’s box.”
+
+“Tier above, No. 22,” said the box-keeper.
+
+“Ay, ay; but conduct me to it,” said Lothair, and he presented the man
+with an overpowering honorarium.
+
+“Certainly, my lord,” said the attendant.
+
+“He knows me,” thought Lothair; but it was not so. When the British
+nation is at once grateful and enthusiastic, they always call you “my
+lord.”
+
+But in his progress, to “No. 22, tier above,” all his valor evaporated,
+and when the box-door was opened he felt very much like a convict on the
+verge of execution; he changed color, his legs tottered, his heart beat,
+and he made his bow with a confused vision. The serenity of Theodora
+somewhat reassured him, and he seated himself, and even saluted Mr.
+Phoebus.
+
+The conversation was vapid and conventional—remarks about the opera and
+its performers—even the heat of the weather was mentioned. Lothair had
+come, and he had nothing to say. Mrs. Campian seemed much interested
+in the performance; so, if he had had any thing to say, there was no
+opportunity of expressing it. She had not appeared to be so engrossed
+with the music before his arrival. In the mean time that Phoebus would
+not move; a quarter of an hour elapsed, and that Phoebus would not move.
+Lothair could not stand it any longer; he rose and bowed.
+
+“Are you going?” said Theodora. “Colonel Campian will be here in a
+moment; he will be quite grieved not to see you.”
+
+But Lothair was inflexible. “Perhaps,” she added, “we may see you
+to-morrow night?”
+
+“Never,” said Lothair to himself, as he clinched his teeth; “my visit to
+Belmont was my first and my last. The dream is over.”
+
+He hurried to a club in which he had been recently initiated, and of
+which the chief purpose is to prove to mankind that night to a wise man
+has its resources as well as gaudy day. Here striplings mature their
+minds in the mysteries of whist, and stimulate their intelligence by
+playing at stakes which would make their seniors look pale; here matches
+are made; and odds are settled, and the cares or enterprises of life
+are soothed or stimulated by fragrant cheroots or beakers of Badminton.
+Here, in the society of the listless and freakish St. Aldegonde, and
+Hugo Bohun, and Bertram, and other congenial spirits, Lothair consigned
+to oblivion the rival churches of Christendom, the Aryan race, and the
+genius of Semitism.
+
+It was an hour past dawn when he strolled home. London is often
+beautiful in summer at that hour, the architectural lines clear and
+defined in the smokeless atmosphere, and ever and anon a fragrant gale
+from gardened balconies wafted in the blue air. Nothing is stirring
+except wagons of strawberries and asparagus, and no one visible except
+a policeman or a member of Parliament returning from a late division,
+where they have settled some great question that need never have been
+asked. Eve has its spell of calmness and consolation, but dawn brings
+hope and joy.
+
+But not to Lothair. Young, sanguine, and susceptible, he had, for a
+moment, yielded to the excitement of the recent scene, but with his
+senses stilled by the morning air, and free from the influence of
+Bertram’s ready sympathy, and Hugo Bohun’s gay comments on human life,
+and all the wild and amusing caprice, and daring wilfulness, and grand
+affectation, that distinguish and inspire a circle of patrician youth,
+there came over him the consciousness that to him something dark had
+occurred, something bitter and disappointing and humiliating, and that
+the breaking morn would not bring to him a day so bright and hopeful as
+his former ones.
+
+At first he fell into profound slumber: it was the inevitable result of
+the Badminton and the late hour. There was a certain degree of physical
+exhaustion which commanded repose. But the slumber was not long, and his
+first feeling, for it could not be called thought, was that some great
+misfortune had occurred to him; and then the thought following the
+feeling brought up the form of the hated Phoebus. After that he had no
+real sleep, but a sort of occasional and feverish doze with intervals
+of infinite distress, waking always to a consciousness of inexpressible
+mortification and despair.
+
+About one o’clock, relinquishing all hope of real and refreshing
+slumber, he rang his bell, and his valet appearing informed him that
+Father Coleman had called, and the monsignore had called, and that now
+the cardinal’s secretary had just called, but the valet had announced
+that his lord was indisposed. There was also a letter from Lady St.
+Jerome. This news brought a new train of feeling. Lothair remembered
+that this was the day of the great ecclesiastical function, under the
+personal auspices of the cardinal, at which indeed Lothair hid never
+positively promised to assist, his presence at which he had sometimes
+thought they pressed unreasonably, not to say even indelicately, but
+at which he had perhaps led them, not without cause, to believe that he
+would be present. Of late the monsignore had assumed that Lothair had
+promised to attend it.
+
+Why should he not? The world was all vanity. Never did he feel more
+convinced than at this moment of the truth of his conclusion, that if
+religion were a real thing, man should live for it alone; but then came
+the question of the Churches. He could not bring himself without a
+pang to contemplate a secession from the Church of his fathers. He took
+refuge in the wild but beautiful thought of a reconciliation between
+Rome and England. If the consecration of the whole of his fortune to
+that end could assist in effecting the purpose, he would cheerfully make
+the sacrifice. He would then go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre,
+and probably conclude his days in a hermitage on Mount Athos.
+
+In the mean time he rose, and, invigorated by his bath, his thoughts
+became in a slight degree more mundane. They recurred to the events of
+the last few days of his life, but in a spirit of self-reproach and of
+conscious vanity and weakness. Why, he had not known her a week! This
+was Sunday morning, and last Sunday he had attended St. Mary’s and
+offered up his earnest supplications for the unity of Christendom.
+That was then his sovereign hope and thought. Singular that a casual
+acquaintance with a stranger, a look, a glance, a word, a nothing,
+should have so disturbed his spirit and distracted his mind.
+
+And yet—
+
+And then he fell into an easy-chair, with a hair-brush in either hand,
+and conjured up in reverie all that had passed since that wondrous morn
+when he addressed her by the road-side, until the last dark hour when
+they parted—and forever. There was not a word she had uttered to him, or
+to any one else, that he did not recall; not a glance, not a gesture—her
+dress, her countenance, her voice, her hair. And what scenes had all
+this passed in! What refined and stately loveliness! Blenheim, and
+Oxford, and Belmont! They became her. Ah! why could not life consist
+of the perpetual society of such delightful people in such delightful
+places?
+
+His valet entered and informed him that the monsignore had returned, and
+would not be denied. Lothair roused himself from his delicious reverie,
+and his countenance became anxious and disquieted. He would have
+struggled against the intrusion, and was murmuring resistance to his
+hopeless attendant, who shook his head, when the monsignore glided into
+the room without permission, as the valet disappeared.
+
+It was a wonderful performance: the monsignore had at the same time to
+make a reconnoissance and to take up a position—to find out what Lothair
+intended to do, and yet to act and speak as if he was acquainted with
+those intentions, and was not only aware of, but approved them. He
+seemed hurried and yet tranquil, almost breathless with solicitude and
+yet conscious of some satisfactory consummation. His tones were at all
+times hushed, but to-day he spoke in a whisper, though a whisper of
+emphasis, and the dark eyes of his delicate aristocratic visage peered
+into Lothair, even when he was making a remark which seemed to require
+no scrutiny.
+
+“It is one of the most important days for England that have happened in
+our time,” said the monsignore. “Lady St. Jerome thinks of nothing else.
+All our nobility will be there—the best blood in England—and some others
+who sympathize with the unity of the Church, the real question. Nothing
+has ever gratified the cardinal more than your intended presence. He
+sent to you this morning. He would have called himself, bat he has much
+to go through today. His eminence said to me: ‘It is exactly what I
+want. Whatever way be our differences, and they are really slight, what
+I want is to show to the world that the sons of the Church will unite
+for the cause of Divine truth. It is the only course that can save
+society.’ When Lady St. Jerome told him that you were coming this
+evening, his eminence was so affected that—”
+
+“But I never said I was coming this evening,” said Lothair, rather
+dryly, and resolved to struggle, “either to Lady St. Jerome or to any
+one else. I said I would think of it.”
+
+“But for a Christian to think of duty is to perform it,” said the
+monsignore. “To be ignorant of a duty is a sin, but to be aware of duty,
+and not to fulfil it, is heinous.”
+
+“But is it a duty?” said Lothair, rather doggedly.
+
+“What! to serve God and save society? Do you doubt it? Have you read the
+‘Declaration of Geneva?’ They have declared war against the Church,
+the state, and the domestic principle. All the great truths and laws
+on which the family reposes are denounced. Have you seen Garibaldi’s
+letter? When it was read, and spoke of the religion of God being
+propagated throughout the world, there was a universal cry of ‘No, no!
+no religion!’ But the religion of God was soon so explained as to allay
+all their fears. It is the religion of science. Instead of Adam, our
+ancestry is traced to the most grotesque of creatures, thought is
+phosphorus, the soul complex nerves, and our moral sense a secretion of
+sugar. Do you want these views in England? Rest assured they are coming.
+And how are we to contend against them? Only by Divine truth. And where
+is Divine truth? In the Church of Christ—in the gospel of order, peace,
+and purity.”
+
+Lothair rose, and paced the room with his eyes on the ground.
+
+“I wish I had been born in the middle ages,” he exclaimed, “or on the
+shores of the Sea of Galilee, or in some other planet: anywhere, or at
+any time, but in this country and in this age!”
+
+“That thought is not worthy of you, my lord,” said Catesby. “It is a
+great privilege to live in this country and in this age. It is a
+great privilege, in the mighty contest between the good and the evil
+principle, to combat for the righteous. They stand face to face now, as
+they have stood before. There is Christianity, which, by revealing the
+truth, has limited the license of human reason; there is that human
+reason which resists revelation as a bondage—which insists upon being
+atheistical, or polytheistical, or pantheistical—which looks upon the
+requirements of obedience, justice, truth, and purity, as limitations
+of human freedom. It is to the Church that God has committed the custody
+and execution of His truth and law. The Church, as witness, teacher, and
+judge, contradicts and offends the spirit of license to the quick. This
+is why it is hated; this is why it is to be destroyed, and why they
+are preparing a future of rebellion, tyranny, falsehood, and degrading
+debauchery. The Church alone can save us, and you are asked to
+supplicate the Almighty to-night, under circumstances of deep hope, to
+favor the union of churchmen, and save the human race from the impending
+deluge.”
+
+Lothair threw himself again into his seat and sighed. “I am rather
+indisposed today, my dear monsignore, which is unusual with me, and
+scarcely equal to such a theme, doubtless of the deepest interest to
+me and to all. I myself wish, as you well know, that all mankind were
+praying under the same roof. I shall continue in seclusion this morning.
+Perhaps you will permit me to think over what you have said with so much
+beauty and force.”
+
+“I had forgotten that I had a letter to deliver to you,” said Catesby;
+and he drew from his breast-pocket a note which he handed to Lothair,
+who opened it quite unconscious of the piercing and even excited
+observation of his companion.
+
+Lothair read the letter with a changing countenance, and then he read
+it again and blushed deeply. The letter was from Miss Arundel. After a
+slight pause, without looking up, he said, “Nine o’clock is the hour, I
+believe.”
+
+“Yes,” said the monsignore rather eagerly, “but, were I you, I would be
+earlier than that. I would order my carnage at eight. If you will permit
+me, I will order it for you. You are not quite well. It will save you
+some little trouble, people coming into the room and all that, and the
+cardinal will be there by eight o’clock.”
+
+“Thank you,” said Lothair; “have the kindness then, my dear monsignore,
+to order my brougham for me at half-past eight and just say that I can
+see no one. Adieu!”
+
+And the priest glided away.
+
+Lothair remained the whole morning in a most troubled state, pacing his
+rooms, leaning sometimes with his arm upon the mantel-piece, and his
+face buried in his arm, and often he sighed. About half-past five he
+rang for his valet and dressed, and in another hour he broke his fast—a
+little soup, a cutlet, and a glass or two of claret. And then he looked
+at his watch; and he looked at his watch every five minutes for the next
+hour.
+
+He was in deep reverie, when the servant announced that his carriage was
+ready. He started as from a dream, then pressed his hand to his eyes,
+and kept it there for some moments, and then, exclaiming, “Jacta est
+alea,” he descended the stairs.
+
+“Where to, my lord?” inquired the servant when he had entered the
+carriage.
+
+Lothair seemed to hesitate, and then he said, “To Belmont.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 31 “Belmont is the only house I know that is properly lighted,”
+said Mr. Phoebus, and he looked with complacent criticism round the
+brilliant saloons. “I would not visit any one who had gas in his house;
+but even in palaces I find lamps—it is too dreadful. When they came here
+first, there was an immense chandelier suspended in each of these rooms,
+pulling down the ceilings, dwarfing the apartments, leaving the guests
+all in darkness, and throwing all the light on the roof. The chandelier
+is the great abomination of furniture; it makes a noble apartment look
+small. And then they say you cannot light rooms without chandeliers!
+Look at these—need any thing be more brilliant? And all the light in the
+right place—on those who are in the chamber. All light should come from
+the side of a room, and if you choose to have candelabra like these you
+can always secure sufficient.”
+
+Theodora was seated on a sofa, in conversation with a lady of
+distinguished mien and with the countenance of a Roman empress. There
+were various groups in the room, standing or seated. Colonel Campian was
+attending a lady to the piano where a celebrity presided, a gentleman
+with cropped head and a long black beard. The lady was of extraordinary
+beauty—one of those faces one encounters in Asia Minor, rich, glowing,
+with dark fringed eyes of tremulous lustre; a figure scarcely less
+striking, of voluptuous symmetry. Her toilet was exquisite—perhaps a
+little too splendid for the occasion, but abstractedly of fine taste—and
+she held, as she sang, a vast bouquet entirely of white stove-flowers.
+The voice was as sweet as the stephanopolis, and the execution
+faultless. It seemed the perfection of chamber-singing—no shrieks and no
+screams, none of those agonizing experiments which result from the fatal
+competition of rival prima-donnas.
+
+She was singing when Lothair was ushered in. Theodora rose and greeted
+him with friendliness. Her glance was that of gratification at his
+arrival, but the performance prevented any conversation save a few
+kind remarks interchanged in a hashed tone. Colonel Campian came up: he
+seemed quite delighted at renewing his acquaintance with Lothair, and
+began to talk rather too loudly, which made some of the gentlemen
+near the piano turn round with glances of wondering reproach. This
+embarrassed his newly-arrived guest, who in his distress caught the bow
+of a lady who recognized him, and whom he instantly remembered as Mrs.
+Putney Giles. There was a vacant chair by her side, and he was glad to
+occupy it.
+
+“Who is that lady?” inquired Lothair of his companion, when the singing
+ceased.
+
+“That is Madame Phoebus,” said Mrs. Giles.
+
+“Madame Phoebus!” exclaimed Lothair, with an unconscious feeling of some
+relief. “She is a very beautiful woman. Who was she?”
+
+“She is a Cantacuzene, a daughter of the famous Greek merchant. The
+Cantcuzenes, you know, are great people, descendants of the Greek
+emperors. Her uncle is prince of Samos. Mr. Cantacuzene was very much
+opposed to the match, but I think quite wrong. Mr. Phoebus is a most
+distinguished man, and the alliance is of the happiest. Never was such
+mutual devotion.”
+
+“I am not surprised,” said Lothair, wonderfully relieved.
+
+“Her sister Euphrosyne is in the room,” continued Mrs. Giles, “the most
+extraordinary resemblance to her. There is just the difference between
+the matron and the maiden; that is all. They are nearly of the same age,
+and before the marriage might have been mistaken for each other.
+The most charming thing in the world is to hear the two sisters sing
+together. I hope they may to-night. I know the family very well. It was
+Mrs. Cantacuzene who introduced me to Theodora. You know it is quite en
+règle to call her Theodora. All the men call her Theodora; ‘the divine
+Theodora’ is, I believe, the right thing.”
+
+“And do you call her Theodora?” asked Lothair, rather dryly.
+
+“Why, no,” said Mrs. Giles, a little confused. “We are not intimate, at
+least not very, Ms. Campian has been at my house, and I have been here
+two et three times; not so often as I could wish, for Mr. Giles, you
+see, does not like servants and horses to be used on Sundays—and no more
+do I—and on weekdays he is too much engaged or too tired to come out
+this distance; so you see—”
+
+The singing had ceased, and Theodora approached them. Addressing
+Lothair, she said: “The Princess of Tivoli wishes that you should be
+presented to her.”
+
+The Princess of Tivoli was a Roman dame of one of the most illustrious
+houses, but who now lived at Paris. She had in her time taken an active
+part in Italian politics, and had sacrificed to the cause to which she
+was devoted the larger part of a large fortune. What had been spared,
+however, permitted her to live in the French capital with elegance, if
+not with splendor; and her saloon was the gathering roof, in Paris,
+of almost every one who was celebrated for genius or accomplishments.
+Though reputed to be haughty and capricious, she entertained for
+Theodora an even passionate friendship, and now visited England only to
+see her.
+
+“Madame Campian has been telling me of all the kind things you did for
+her at Oxford,” said the princess. “Some day you must show me Oxford,
+but it must be next year. I very much admire the free university life.
+Tell me now, at Oxford you still have the Protestant religion?”
+
+Lothair ventured to bow assent.
+
+“Ah! that is well,” continued the princess. “I advise you to keep it. If
+we had only had the Protestant religion in Italy, things would have
+been very different. You are fortunate in this country in having
+the Protestant religion and a real nobility. Tell me now, in your
+constitution, if the father sits in the Upper Chamber, the son sits in
+the Lower House—that I know; but is there any majorat at attached to his
+seat?”
+
+“Not at present.”
+
+“You sit in the Lower House, of course?”
+
+“I am not old enough to sit in either House,” said Lothair, “but when I
+am of age, which I shall be when I have the honor of showing Oxford
+to your highness, I must sit in the Upper House, for I have not the
+blessing of a living father.”
+
+“Ah! that is a great thing in your country,” exclaimed the princess, “a
+man being his own master at so early an age.”
+
+“I thought it was a ‘heritage of woe,’” said Lothair.
+
+“No, no,” said the princess; “the only tolerable thing in life is
+action, and action is feeble without youth. What if you do not obtain
+your immediate object?—you always think you will, and the detail of the
+adventure is full of rapture. And thus it is the blunders of youth are
+preferable to the triumphs of manhood, or the successes of old age.”
+
+“Well, it will be a consolation for me to remember this when I am in a
+scrape,” said Lothair.
+
+“Oh! you have many, many scrapes awaiting you,” said the princess.
+“You may look forward to at least ten years of blunders—that is,
+illusions—that is, happiness. Fortunate young man!”
+
+Theodora had, without appearing to intend it, relinquished her seat
+to Lothair, who continued his conversation with the princess, whom he
+liked, but who, he was sorry to hear, was about to leave England, and
+immediately—that very night. “Yes,” she said, “it is my last act of
+devotion. You know, in my country we have saints and shrines. All
+Italians, they say, are fond, are superstitious; my pilgrimage is to
+Theodora. I must come and worship her once a year.”
+
+A gentleman bowed lowly to the princess, who returned his salute with
+pleased alacrity. “Do you know who that is?” said the princess to
+Lothair. “That is Baron Gozelius, one of our great reputations. He must
+have just arrived. I will present you to him; it is always agreeable to
+know a great man,” she added—“at least Goethe says so!”
+
+The philosopher, at her invitation, took a chair opposite the sofa.
+Though a profound man, he had all the vivacity and passion which are
+generally supposed to be peculiar to the superficial. He had remarkable
+conversational power, which he never spared. Lothair was captivated by
+his eloquence, his striking observations, his warmth, and the flashing
+of his southern eye.
+
+“Baron Gozelius agrees with your celebrated pastor, Dr. Cumming,” said
+Theodora, with a tinge of demure sarcasm, “and believes that the end of
+the world is at hand.”
+
+“And for the same reasons?” inquired Lothair.
+
+“Not exactly,” said Theodora, “but in this instance science and
+revelation have arrived at the same result, and that is what all
+desire.”
+
+“All that I said was,” said Gozelius, “that the action of the sun had
+become so irregular that I thought the chances were in favor of the
+destruction of our planet. At least, if I were a public office, I would
+not insure it.”
+
+“Yet the risk would not be very great under those circumstances,” said
+Theodora.
+
+“The destruction of this worlds foretold,” said Lothair; “the stars
+are to fall from the sky; but while I credit, I cannot bring my mind to
+comprehend, such a catastrophe.”
+
+“I have seen a world created and a world destroyed,” said Gozelius. “The
+last was flickering ten years, and it went out as I was watching it.”
+
+“And the first?” inquired Lothair, anxiously.
+
+“Disturbed space for half a century—a great pregnancy. William Herschel
+told me it would come when I was a boy, and I cruised for it through
+two-thirds of my life. It came at last, and it repaid me.”
+
+There was a stir. Euphrosyne was going to sing with her sister. They
+swept by Lothair in their progress to the instrument, like the passage
+of sultanas to some kiosk on the Bosporus. It seemed to him that he had
+never beheld any thing so resplendent. The air was perfumed by their
+movement and the rustling of their wondrous robes. “They must be of the
+Aryan race,” thought Lothair, “though not of the Phidian type.” They
+sang a Greek air, and their sweet and touching voices blended with
+exquisite harmony. Every one was silent in the room, because every one
+was entranced. Then they gave their friends some patriotic lay which
+required chorus, the sisters, in turn, singing a stanza. Mr. Phoebus
+arranged the chorus in a moment, and there clustered round the piano
+al number of gentlemen almost as good-looking and as picturesque as
+himself. Then, while Madame Phoebus was singing, Euphrosyne suddenly,
+and with quickness, moved away and approached Theodora, and whispered
+something to her, but Theodora slightly shook her head, and seemed to
+decline.
+
+Euphrosyne regained the piano, whispered something to Colonel Campian,
+who was one of the chorus, and then commenced her own part. Colonel
+Campian crossed the room and spoke to Theodora, who instantly, without
+the slightest demur, joined her friends. Lothair felt agitated, as
+he could not doubt Theodora was going to sing. And so it was; when
+Euphrosyne had finished, and the chorus she had inspired had died away,
+there rose a deep contralto sound, which, though without effort, seemed
+to Lothair the most thrilling tone he had ever listened to. Deeper and
+richer, and richer and deeper, it seemed to become, as it wound with
+exquisite facility through a symphony of delicious sound, until it ended
+in a passionate burst, which made Lothair’s heart beat so tumultuously
+that for a moment he thought he should be overpowered.
+
+“I never heard any thing so fine in my life,” said Lothair to the French
+philosopher.
+
+“Ah! if you had heard that woman sing the Marseillaise, as I did once,
+to three thousand people, then you would know what was fine. Not one of
+us who would not have died on the spot for her!”
+
+The concert was over. The Princess of Tivoli had risen to say farewell.
+She stood apart with Theodora, holding both her hands, and speaking with
+earnestness. Then she pressed her lips to Theodora’s forehead, and said,
+“Adieu, my best beloved; the spring will return.”
+
+The princess had disappeared, and Madame Phoebus came up to say
+good-night to her hostess.
+
+“It is such a delicious night,” said Theodora, “that I have ordered our
+strawberries-and-cream on the terrace. You must not go.”
+
+And so she invited them all to the terrace. There was not a breath
+of air, the garden was flooded with moonlight, in which the fountain
+glittered, and the atmosphere was as sweet as it was warm.
+
+“I think the moon will melt the ice to-night,” said Theodora, as she led
+Madame Phoebus to a table covered with that innocent refreshment in many
+forms, and pyramids of strawberries, and gentle drinks which the fancy
+of America could alone devise.
+
+“I wonder we did not pass the whole evening on the terrace,” said
+Lothair.
+
+“One must sing in a room,” said Euphrosyne, “or the nightingales would
+eclipse us.”
+
+Lothair looked quickly at the speaker, and caught the glance of a
+peculiar countenance—mockery blended with Ionian splendor.
+
+“I think strawberries-and-cream the most popular of all food,” said
+Madame Phoebus, as some touched her beautiful lips.
+
+“Yes; and one is not ashamed of eating it,” said Theodora.
+
+Soon there was that stir which precedes the breaking up of an assembly.
+Mrs. Giles and some others had to return to town. Madame Phoebus and
+Euphrosyne were near neighbors at Roehampton, but their carriage had
+been for some time waiting. Mr. Phoebus did not accompany them. He chose
+to walk home on such a night, and descended into the garden with his
+remaining friends.
+
+“They are going to smoke,” said Theodora. “Is it your habit?”
+
+“Not yet.”
+
+“I do not dislike it in the air and at a distance; but I banish them the
+terrace. I think smoking must be a great consolation to a soldier;” and,
+as she spoke, she moved, and, without formally inviting him, he found
+himself walking by her side.
+
+Rather abruptly he said, “You wore last night at the opera the same
+ornament as on the first time I had the pleasure meeting you.”
+
+She looked at him with a smile, and a little surprised. “My solitary
+trinket; I fear you will never see any other.”
+
+“But you do not despise trinkets?” said Lothair.
+
+“Oh no; they are very well. Once I was decked with jewels and ropes of
+pearls, like Titian’s Queen of Cyprus. I sometimes regret my pearls.
+There is a reserve about pearls which I like—something soft and dim. But
+they are all gone, and I ought not to regret them, for they went in a
+good cause. I kept the star, because it was given to me by a hero; and
+once we flattered ourselves it was a symbol.”
+
+“I wish I were a hero!” said Lothair.
+
+“You may yet prove one.”
+
+“And if I do, may I give you a star?”
+
+“If it be symbolical.”
+
+“But of what?”
+
+“Of an heroic purpose.”
+
+“But what is an heroic purpose?” exclaimed Lothair. “Instead of being
+here to-night, I ought, perhaps, to have been present at a religious
+function of the highest and deepest import, which might have influenced
+my destiny, and led to something heroic. But my mind is uncertain and
+unsettled. I speak to you without reserve, for my heart always entirely
+opens to you, and I have a sort of unlimited confidence in your
+judgment. Besides, I have never forgotten what you said at Oxford about
+religion—that you could not conceive society without religion. It is
+what I feel myself, and most strongly; and yet there never was a period
+when religion was so assailed. There is no doubt the atheists are
+bolder, are more completely organized, both as to intellectual and even
+physical force, than ever was known. I have heard that from the highest
+authority. For my own part, I think I am prepared to die for Divine
+truth. I have examined myself severely, but I do not think I should
+falter. Indeed, can there be for man a nobler duty than to be the
+champion of God? But then the question of the churches interferes. If
+there were only one church, I could see my way. Without a church, there
+can be no true religion, because otherwise you have no security for the
+truth. I am a member of the Church of England, and when I was at Oxford
+I thought the Anglican view might be sustained. But, of late, I have
+given ray mind deeply to these matters, for, after all, they are the
+only matters a man should think of; and, I confess to you, the claim of
+Rome to orthodoxy seems to me irresistible.”
+
+“You make no distinction, then, between religion and orthodoxy?” said
+Theodora.
+
+“Certainly I make no difference.”
+
+“And yet, what is orthodox at Dover is not orthodox at Calais or Ostend.
+I should be sorry to think that, because there was no orthodoxy in
+Belgium or France, there was no religion.”
+
+“Yes,” said Lothair, “I think I see what you mean.”
+
+“Then again, if we go further,” continued Theodora, “there is the whole
+of the East; that certainly is not orthodox, according to your views.
+You may not agree with all or any of their opinions, but you could
+scarcely maintain that, as communities, they are irreligious.”
+
+“Well, you could not, certainly,” said Lothair.
+
+“So you see,” said Theodora, “what is called orthodoxy has very little
+to do with religion; and a person may be very religious without holding
+the same dogmas as yourself, or, as some think, without holding any.”
+
+“According to you, then,” said Lothair, “the Anglican view might be
+maintained.”
+
+“I do not know what the Anglican view is,” said Theodora. “I do not
+belong to the Roman or to the Anglican Church.”
+
+“And yet, you are very religious,” said Lothair.
+
+“I hope so; I try to be so; and, when I fail in any duty, it is not the
+fault of my religion. I never deceive myself into that; I know it is my
+own fault.”
+
+There was a pause; but they walked on. The soft splendor of the scene
+and all its accessories, the moonlight, and the fragrance, and the
+falling waters, wonderfully bewitched the spirit of the young Lothair.
+
+“There is nothing I would not tell you,” he suddenly exclaimed, turning
+to Theodora, “and sometimes I think there is nothing you would not tell
+me. Tell me, then, I entreat you, what is your religion?”
+
+“The true religion, I think,” said Theodora. “I worship in a church
+where I believe God dwells, and dwells for my guidance and my good—my
+conscience.”
+
+“Your conscience may be divine,” said Lothair, “and I believe it is; but
+the consciences of other persons are not divine, and what is to
+guide them, and what is to prevent or to mitigate the evil they would
+perpetrate?”
+
+“I have never heard from priests,” said Theodora, “any truth which my
+conscience had not revealed to me. They use different language from what
+I use, but I find, after a time, that we mean the thing. What I call
+time they call eternity; when they describe heaven, they give a picture
+of earth; and beings whom they style divine, they invest with all the
+attributes of humanity.”
+
+“And yet is it not true,” said Lothair, “that—”
+
+But, at this moment, there were the sounds of merriment and of
+approaching footsteps; the form of Mr. Phoebus appeared ascending the
+steps of the terrace, followed by others. The smokers had fulfilled
+their task. There were farewells, and bows, and good-nights. Lothair had
+to retire with the others, and, as he threw himself into his brougham,
+he exclaimed: “I perceive that life is not so simple an affair as I once
+supposed.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 32 When the stranger, who had proved so opportune an ally
+to Lothair at the Fenian meeting, separated from his companion, he
+proceeded in the direction of Pentonville, and, after pursuing his way
+through a number of obscure streets, but quiet, decent, and monotonous,
+he stopped at a small house in a row of many residences, yet all of
+them, in, form, size, color, and general character, so identical, that
+the number on the door could alone assure the visitor that he was not in
+error when he sounded the knocker.
+
+“Ah! is it you, Captain Bruges?” said the smiling and blushing maiden
+who answered to his summons. “We have not seen you for a long time.”
+
+“Well, you look as kind and as pretty as ever, Jenny,” said the captain,
+“and how is my friend?”
+
+“Well,” said the damsel, and she shrugged her shoulders, “he mopes. I’m
+very glad you have come back, captain, for he sees very few now, and is
+always writing. I cannot bear that writing; if he would only go and take
+a good walk, I am sure he would be better.”
+
+“There is something in that,” said Captain Bruges. “And is he at home,
+and will he see me?”
+
+“Oh! he is always at home to you, captain; but I will just run up and
+tell him you are here. You know it is long since we have seen you,
+captain—coming on half a year, I think.”
+
+“Time flies, Jenny. Go, my good girl, and I will wait below.”
+
+“In the parlor, if you please, Captain Bruges. It is to let now. It is
+more than a mouth since the doctor left us. That was a loss, for, as
+long as the doctor was here, he always had some one to speak with.”
+
+So Captain Bruges entered the little dining-room with its mahogany
+table, and half a dozen chairs, and cellaret, and over the fireplace a
+portrait of Garibaldi, which had been left as a legacy to the landlady
+by her late lodger, Dr. Tresorio.
+
+The captain threw a quick glance at the print, and then, falling into
+reverie, with his hands crossed behind him, paced the little chamber,
+and was soon lost in thoughts which made him unconscious how long had
+elapsed when the maiden summoned him.
+
+Following her, and ascending the stair-case, he was ushered into the
+front room of the first floor, and there came forward to meet him a man
+rather below the middle height, but of a symmetrical and imposing mien.
+His face was grave, not to say sad; thought, not time, had partially
+silvered the clustering of his raven hair; but intellectual power
+reigned in his wide brow, while determination was the character of the
+rest of his countenance, under great control, yet apparently, from the
+dark flashing of his eye, not incompatible with fanaticism.
+
+“General,” he exclaimed, “your presence always reanimates me. I shall at
+least have some news on which I rely. Your visit is sudden—sudden things
+are often happy ones. Is there any thing stirring in the promised land?
+Speak, speak! You have a thousand things to say, and I have a thousand
+ears.”
+
+“My dear Mirandola,” replied the visitor, “I will take leave to call
+into council a friend whose presence is always profitable.”
+
+So saying, he took out a cigar-case, and offered it to his companion.
+
+“We have smoked together in palaces,” said Mirandola, accepting the
+proffer with a delicate white hand.
+
+“But not these cigars,” replied the general. “They are superb, my only
+reward for all my transatlantic work, and sometimes I think a sufficient
+one.”
+
+“And Jenny shall give us a capital cup of coffee,” said Mirandola; “it
+is the only hospitality that I can offer my friends. Give me a light, my
+general; and now, how are things?”
+
+“Well, at the first glance, very bad; the French have left Rome, and we
+are not in it.”
+
+“Well, that is an infamy not of today or yesterday,” replied Mirandola,
+“though not less an infamy. We talked over this six months ago, when
+you were over here about something else, and from that moment unto the
+present I have with unceasing effort labored to erase this stigma from
+the human consciousness, but with no success. Men are changed; public
+spirit is extinct; the deeds of ‘48 are to the present generations as
+incomprehensible as the Punic wars, or the feats of Marius against the
+Cimbri. What we want are the most natural things in the world, and easy
+of attainment because they are natural. We want our metropolis,
+our native frontiers, and true liberty. Instead of these, we have
+compromises, conventions, provincial jealousies, and French prefects.
+It is disgusting, heart-rending; sometimes I fear my own energies are
+waning. My health is wretched; writing and speaking are decidedly bad
+for me, and I pass my life in writing and speaking. Toward evening I
+feel utterly exhausted, and am sometimes, which I thought I never could
+be, the victim of despondency. The loss of the doctor was a severe blow,
+but they hurried him out of the place. The man of Paris would never rest
+till he was gone. I was myself thinking of once more trying Switzerland,
+but the obstacles are great; and, in truth, I was at the darkest moment
+when Jenny brought me the light of your name.”
+
+The general, who had bivouacked on a group of small chairs, his leg on
+one, his elbow on another, took his cigar from his mouth and delivered
+himself of a volume of smoke, and then said dryly: “Things may not be so
+bad as they seem, comrade. Your efforts have not been without fruit.
+I have traced them in many quarters, and, indeed, it is about their
+possible consequences that I have come over to consult with you.”
+
+“Idle words, I know, never escape those lips,” said Mirandola; “speak
+on.”
+
+“Well,” said the general, “you see that people are a little exhausted
+by the efforts of last year; and it must be confessed that no slight
+results were accomplished. The freedom of Venice—”
+
+“A French intrigue,” exclaimed Mirandola. “The freedom of Venice is the
+price of the slavery of Rome. I heard of it with disgust.”
+
+“Well, we do not differ much on that head,” said the general. “I am not
+a Roman as you are, but I view Rome, with reference to the object of
+my life, with feelings not less ardent and absorbing than yourself, who
+would wish to see it again the empress of the world. I am a soldier, and
+love war, and, left to myself, would care little perhaps for what form
+of government I combated, provided the army was constituted on the
+principles of fraternity and equality; but the passion of my life, to
+which I have sacrificed military position, and perhaps,” he added in
+a lower tone, “perhaps even military fame, has been to destroy
+priestcraft, and, so long as the pope rules in Rome, it will be
+supreme.”
+
+“We have struck him down once,” said Mirandola.
+
+“And I hope we shall again, and forever,” said the general, “and it
+is about that I would speak. You are in error in supposing that your
+friends do not sympathize with you, or that their answers are dilatory
+or evasive. There is much astir; the old spirit is not extinct, but
+the difficulties are greater than in former days when we had only the
+Austrians to encounter, and we cannot afford to make another failure.”
+
+“There could be no failure if we were clear and determined. There must
+be a hundred thousand men who would die for our metropolis, our natural
+frontiers, and true liberty. The mass of the pseudo-Italian army must
+be with us. As for foreign interference, its repetition seems to me
+impossible. The brotherhood in the different countries, if well guided,
+could alone prevent it. There should be at once a manifesto addressed to
+the peoples. They have become absorbed in money-grubbing and what they
+call industry. The external life of a nation is its most important one.
+A nation, as an individual, has duties to fulfil appointed by God and
+His moral law; the individual toward his family, his town, his country;
+the nation toward the country of countries, humanity—the outward world.
+I firmly believe that we fail and renounce the religious and divine
+element of our life whenever we betray or neglect those duties. The
+internal activity of a nation is important and sacred because it
+prepares the instrument for its appointed task. It is mere egotism if
+it converges toward itself, degrading and doomed to expiation—as will
+be the fate of this country in which we now dwell,” added Mirandola in
+a hushed voice. “England had a mission; it had belief, and it had power.
+It announced itself the representative of religious, commercial, and
+political freedom, and yet, when it came to action, it allowed Denmark
+to be crushed by Austria and Prussia, and, in the most nefarious
+transaction of modern times, uttered the approving shriek of ‘Perish
+Savoy!’”
+
+“My dear Mirandola,” said the general, trimming his cigar, “there is no
+living man who appreciates your genius and your worth more than
+myself; perhaps I might say there is no living man who has had equal
+opportunities of estimating them. You formed the mind of our country;
+you kindled and kept alive the sacred flame when all was gloom, and
+all were without heart. Such prodigious devotion, so much resource
+and pertinacity and patience, such unbroken spirit, were never before
+exhibited by man; and, whatever may be said by your enemies, I know that
+in the greatest hour of action you proved equal to it; and yet at this
+moment, when your friends are again stirring, and there is a hope of
+spring, I am bound to tell you that there are only two persons in the
+world who can effect the revolution, and you are not one of them.”
+
+“I am ardent, my general, perhaps too sanguine, but I have no self-love,
+at least none when the interests of the great cause are at stake. Tell
+me, then, their names, and count, if required, on my cooperation.”
+
+“Garibaldi and Mary-Anne.”
+
+“A Polchinello and a Bayadere!” exclaimed Mirandola, and, springing from
+his seat, he impatiently paced the room.
+
+“And yet,” continued the general calmly, “there is no manner of doubt
+that Garibaldi is the only name that could collect ten thousand men
+at any given point in Italy; while in France, though her influence
+is mythical, the name of Mary-Anne is a name of magic. Though never
+mentioned, it is never forgotten. And the slightest allusion to it among
+the initiated will open every heart. There are more secret societies
+in France at this moment than at any period since ‘85, though you hear
+nothing of them; and they believe in Mary-Anne, and in nothing else.”
+
+“You have been at Caprera?” said Mirandola.
+
+“I have been at Caprera.”
+
+“And what did he say?”
+
+“He will do nothing without the sanction of the Savoyard.”
+
+“He wants to get wounded in his other foot,” said Mirandola, with savage
+sarcasm. “Will he never weary of being betrayed?”
+
+“I found him calm and sanguine,” said the general.
+
+“What of the woman?”
+
+“Garibaldi will not move without the Savoyard, and Mary-Anne will not
+move without Garibaldi; that is the situation.”
+
+“Have you seen her?”
+
+“Not yet; I have been to Caprera, and I have come over to see her and
+you. Italy is ready for the move, and is only waiting for the great man.
+He will not act without the Savoyard; he believes in him. I will not be
+skeptical. There are difficulties enough without imagining any. We have
+no money, and all our sources of supply are drained; but we have the
+inspiration of a sacred cause, we have you—we may gain others—and, at
+any rate, the French are no longer at Rome.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 33 “The Goodwood Cup, my lord—the Doncaster. This pair
+of flagons for his highness the Khedive—something quite new—yes,
+parcel-gilt, the only style now—it gives relief to design—yes, by Monti,
+a great man, hardly inferior to Flaxman, if at all. Flaxman worked for
+Rundell and Bridge in the old days—one of the principal causes of
+their success. Your lordship’s gold service was supplied by Rundell and
+Bridge. Very fine service indeed, much by Flaxman—nothing of that kind
+seen now.”
+
+“I never did see it,” said Lothair. He was replying to Mr. Ruby, a
+celebrated jeweller and goldsmith, in a celebrated street, who had
+saluted him when he had entered the shop, and called the attention of
+Lothair to a group of treasures of art.
+
+“Strange,” said Mr. Ruby smiling. “It is in the next room, if your
+lordship would like to see it. I think your lordship should see your
+gold service. Mr. Putney Giles ordered it here to be examined and put in
+order.”
+
+“I should like to see it very much,” said Lothair, “though I came to
+speak to you about something else.”
+
+And so Lothair, following Mr. Ruby into an inner apartment, had the
+gratification, for the first time, of seeing his own service of gold
+plate laid out in completeness, and which had been for some time
+exhibited to the daily admiration of that favored portion of the English
+people who frequent the brilliant and glowing counters of Mr. Ruby.
+
+Not that Lothair was embarrassed by their presence at this moment. The
+hour of their arrival had not yet come. Business had not long commenced
+when Lothair entered the shop, somewhat to the surprise of its master.
+Those who know Bond Street only in the blaze of fashionable hours can
+form but an imperfect conception of its matutinal charm when it is
+still shady and fresh—when there are no carriages, rarely a cart,
+and passers-by gliding about on real business. One feels as in some
+Continental city. Then there are time and opportunity to look at the
+shops; and there is no street in the world that can furnish such a
+collection, filled with so many objects of beauty, curiosity, and
+interest. The jewellers and goldsmiths and dealers in rare furniture,
+porcelain, and cabinets, and French pictures, have long fixed upon Bond
+Street as their favorite quarter, and are not chary of displaying their
+treasures; though it may be a question whether some of the magazines
+of fancy food—delicacies culled from all the climes and regions of the
+globe—particularly at the matin hour, may not, in their picturesque
+variety, be the most attractive. The palm, perhaps, would be given to
+the fish-mongers, with their exuberant exhibitions, grouped with skill,
+startling often with strange forms, dazzling with prismatic tints, and
+breathing the invigorating redolence of the sea.
+
+“Well, I like the service,” said Lothair, “and am glad, as you tell
+me, that its fashion has come round again, because there will now be no
+necessity for ordering a new one. I do not myself much care for plate.
+I like flowers and porcelain on a table, and I like to see the guests.
+However, I suppose it is all right, and I must use it. It was not about
+plate that I called; I wanted to speak to you about pearls.”
+
+“Ah!” said Mr. Ruby, and his face brightened; and, ushering Lothair to
+some glass cases, he at the same time provided his customer with a seat.
+
+“Something like that?” said Mr. Ruby, who by this time had slid into
+his proper side of the counter, and was unlocking the glass cases;
+“something like that?” and he placed before Lothair a string of pretty
+pearls with a diamond clasp. “With the earrings, twenty-five hundred,”
+he added; and then, observing that Lothair did not seem enchanted, he
+said, “This is something quite new,” and he carelessly pushed toward
+Lothair a magnificent necklace of turquoises and brilliants.
+
+It was impossible not to admire it—the arrangement was so novel and yet
+of such good taste; but, though its price was double that of the pearl
+necklace, Mr. Ruby did not seem to wish to force attention to it, for he
+put in Lothair’s hands almost immediately the finest emerald necklace in
+the world, and set in a style that was perfectly ravishing.
+
+“The setting is from the Campana collection,” said Mr. Ruby. “They
+certainly understood things in those days, but I can say that, so far as
+mere workmanship is concerned, this quite equals them. I have made one
+for the empress. Here is a black pearl, very rare, pear-shape, and set
+in Golconda diamonds—two thousand guineas—it might be suspended to
+a necklace, or worn as a locket. This is pretty,” and he offered to
+Lothair a gigantic sapphire in brilliants and in the form of a bracelet.
+
+“The finest sapphire I know is in this ring,” added Mr. Ruby, and he
+introduced his visitor to a tray of precious rings. “I have a pearl
+bracelet here that your lordship might like to see,” and he placed
+before Lothair a case of fifty bracelets, vying with each other in
+splendor.
+
+“But what I want,” said Lothair, “are pearls.”
+
+“I understand,” said Mr. Ruby. “This is a curious thing,” and he took
+out a paper packet. “There!” he said, opening it and throwing it
+before Lothair so carelessly that some of the stones ran over the glass
+covering of the counter. “There, that is a thing, not to be seen every
+day—packet of diamonds, bought of an Indian prince, and sent by us to
+be cut and polished at Amsterdam—nothing can be done in that way except
+there—and just returned—nothing very remarkable as to size, but all of
+high quality—some fine stones—that for example,” and he touched one
+with the long nail of his little finger; “that is worth seven hundred
+guineas, the whole packet worth perhaps ten thousand pounds.”
+
+“Very interesting,” said Lothair, “but what I want are pearls. That
+necklace which you have shown me is like the necklace of a doll. I
+want pearls, such as you see them in Italian pictures—Titians and
+Giorgiones—such as a Queen of Cyprus would wear. I want ropes of
+pearls.”
+
+“Ah!” said Mr. Ruby, “I know what your lordship means. Lady Bideford
+had something of that kind. She very much deceived us—always told us
+her necklace must be sold at her death, and she had very bad health. We
+waited, but when she went, poor lady, it was claimed by the heir, and
+is in chancery at this very moment. The Justinianis have ropes of
+pearls—Madame Justiniani of Paris, I have been told, gives a rope to
+every one of her children when they marry—but there is no expectation of
+a Justiniani parting with any thing. Pearls are troublesome property,
+my lord. They require great care; they want both air and exercise; they
+must be worn frequently; you cannot lock them up. The Duchess of Havant
+has the finest pearls in this country, and I told her grace, ‘Wear them
+whenever you can; wear them at breakfast,’ and her grace follows my
+advice—she does wear them at breakfast. I go down to Havant Castle every
+year to see her grace’s pearls, and I wipe every one of them myself,
+and let them lie on a sunny bank in the garden, in a westerly wind, for
+hours and days together. Their complexion would have been ruined had it
+not been for this treatment. Pearls are like girls, my lord—they require
+quite as much attention.”
+
+“Then you cannot give me what I want?” said Lothair.
+
+“Well, I can, and I cannot,” said Mr. Ruby. “I am in a difficulty.
+I have in this house exactly what your lordship requires, but I have
+offered them to Lord Topaz, and I have not received his answer. We have
+instructions to inform his lordship of every very precious jewel that we
+obtain, and give him the preference as a purchaser. Nevertheless, there
+is no one I could more desire to oblige than your lordship—your lordship
+has every claim upon us, and I should be truly glad to find these pearls
+in your lordship’s possession if I could only see my way. Perhaps your
+lordship would like to look at them?”
+
+“Certainly, but pray do not leave me here alone with all these
+treasures,” said Lothair, as Mr. Ruby was quitting the apartment.
+
+“Oh! my lord, with you!”
+
+“Yes, that is all very well; but, if any thing is missed hereafter, it
+will always be remembered that these jewels were in my possession, and
+I was alone. I highly object to it.” But Mr. Ruby had vanished, and did
+not immediately reappear. In the mean time it was impossible for Lothair
+to move: he was alone, and surrounded with precious necklaces, and
+glittering rings, and gorgeous bracelets, with loose diamonds running
+over the counter. It was not a kind or an amount of property that
+Lothair, relinquishing the trust, could satisfactorily deliver to a
+shopman. The shopman, however honest, might be suddenly tempted by
+Satan, and take the next train to Liverpool. He felt therefore relieved
+when Mr. Ruby reentered the room, breathless, with a velvet casket. “I
+beg pardon, my lord, a thousand pardons, but I thought I would just
+run over to Lord Topaz, only in the square close by. His lordship is
+at Madrid, the only city one cannot depend on communications with by
+telegraph. Spaniards strange people, very prejudiced, take all sorts of
+fancies in their head. Besides, Lord Topaz has more pearls than he can
+know what to do with, and I should like your lordship to see these,” and
+he opened the casket.
+
+“Exactly what I want,” exclaimed Lothair; “these must be the very pearls
+the Queen of Cyprus wore. What is their price?”
+
+“They are from Genoa, and belonged to a doge,” said Mr. Ruby; “your
+lordship shall have them for the sum we gave for them. There shall be no
+profit on the transaction, and we shall be proud of it. We gave for them
+four thousand guineas.”
+
+“I will take them with me,” said Lothair, who was afraid, if he left
+them behind, Lord Topaz might arrive in the interval.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 34 Lothair had returned home from his last visit to Belmont
+agitated by many thoughts, but, generally speaking, deeply musing over
+its mistress. Considerable speculation on religion, the churches, the
+solar system, the cosmical order, the purpose of creation, and the
+destiny of man, was maintained in his too rapid progress from Roehampton
+to his Belgravian hotel; but the association of ideas always terminated
+the consideration of every topic by a wondering and deeply interesting
+inquiry when he should see her again. And here, in order to simplify
+this narrative, we will at once chronicle the solution of this grave
+question. On the afternoon of the next day, Lothair mounted his horse
+with the intention of calling on Lady St. Jerome, and perhaps some other
+persons, but it is curious to observe that he soon found himself on the
+road to Roehampton, where he was in due time paying a visit to Theodora.
+But what is more remarkable is that the same result occurred every day
+afterward. Regularly every day he paid a visit to Belmont. Nor was
+this all; very often he paid two visits, for he remembered that in the
+evening Theodora was always at home. Lothair used to hurry to town from
+his morning visit, dine at some great house, which satisfied the demands
+of society, and then drive down to Roehampton. The guests of the evening
+saloon, when they witnessed the high ceremony of Lothair’s manner, which
+was natural to him, when he entered, and the welcome of Theodora, could
+hardly believe that a few hours only had elapsed since their separation.
+
+And what was the manner of Theodora to him when they were alone?
+Precisely as before. She never seemed in the least surprised that he
+called on her every day, or even twice a day. Sometimes she was alone,
+frequently she had companions, but she was always the same, always
+appeared gratified at his arrival, and always extended to him the same
+welcome, graceful and genial, but without a spark of coquetry. Yet
+she did not affect to conceal that she took a certain interest in him,
+because she was careful to introduce him to distinguished men, and would
+say, “You should know him, he is master of such a subject. You will
+hear things that you ought to know.” But all this in a sincere and
+straightforward manner. Theodora had not the slightest affectation; she
+was always natural, though a little reserved. But this reserve appeared
+to be the result of modesty, rather than of any desire of concealment.
+When they were alone, though always calm, she would talk with freedom
+and vivacity; but in the presence of others she rather led to their
+display, and encouraged them, often with a certain degree of adroit
+simplicity, to descant on topics which interested them or of which they
+were competent to treat. Alone with Lothair, and they were often alone,
+though she herself never obtruded the serious subjects round which he
+was always fluttering, she never avoided them, and without involving
+herself in elaborate arguments, or degenerating into conversational
+controversy, she had a habit of asking a question, or expressing
+a sentiment, which greatly affected his feelings or perplexed his
+opinions.
+
+Had not the season been long waning, this change in the life of Lothair
+must have been noticed, and its cause ultimately discovered. But the
+social critics cease to be observant toward the end of July. All the
+world then are thinking of themselves, and have no time to speculate on
+the fate and fortunes of their neighbors. The campaign is too near its
+close; the balance of the season must soon be struck, the great book of
+society made. In a few weeks, even in a few days, what long and subtle
+plans shattered or triumphant!—what prizes gained or missed!—what
+baffled hopes, and what broken hearts! The baffled hopes must go to
+Cowes, and the broken hearts to Baden. There were some great ladies who
+did remark that Lothair was seldom seen at balls; and Hugo Bohun, who
+had been staying at his aunt Lady Gertrude’s villa for change of air,
+did say to Bertram that he had met Lothair twice on Barnes Common, and
+asked Bertram if he knew the reason why. But the fact that Lothair was
+cruising in waters which their craft never entered combined with the
+lateness of the season to baffle all the ingenuity of Hugo Bohun, though
+he generally found out every thing.
+
+The great difficulty which Lothair had to apprehend was with his Roman
+Catholic friends. The system of the monsignori was never to let him be
+out of sight, and his absence from the critical function had not only
+disappointed but alarmed them. But the Jesuits are wise men; they never
+lose their temper. They know when to avoid scenes as well as when to
+make them. Monsignore Catesby called on Lothair as frequently as before,
+and never made the slightest allusion to the miscarriage of their
+expectations. Strange to say, the innocent Lothair, naturally so
+straightforward and so honorable, found himself instinctively, almost it
+might be said unconsciously, defending himself against his invaders with
+some of their own weapons. He still talked about building his cathedral,
+of which, not contented with more plans, he even gave orders that a
+model should be made, and he still received statements on points of
+faith from Father Coleman, on which he made marginal notes and queries.
+Monsignore Catesby was not altogether satisfied. He was suspicious
+of some disturbing cause, but at present it baffled him. Their hopes,
+however, were high; and they had cause to be sanguine. In a month’s time
+or so, Lothair would be in the country to celebrate his majority; his
+guardian the cardinal was to be his guest; the St. Jeromes were invited,
+Monsignore Catesby himself. Here would be opportunity and actors to
+avail themselves of it.
+
+It was a very few days after the first evening visit of Lothair to
+Belmont that he found himself one morning alone with Theodora. She was
+in her bowery boudoir, copying some music for Madame Phoebus, at
+least in the intervals of conversation. That had not been of a grave
+character, but the contrary when Lothair rather abruptly said, “Do you
+agree, Mrs. Campian, with what Mr. Phoebus said the other night, that
+the greatest pain must be the sense of death?”
+
+“Then mankind is generally spared the greatest pain,” she replied, “for
+I apprehend few people are sensible of death—unless indeed,” she added,
+“it be on the field of battle; and there, I am sure, it cannot be
+painful.”
+
+“Not on the field of battle?” asked Lothair, inducing her to proceed.
+
+“Well, I should think for all, on the field of battle, there must be a
+degree of excitement, and of sympathetic excitement, scarcely compatible
+with overwhelming suffering; but, if death were encountered there for a
+great cause, I should rather associate it with rapture than pain.”
+
+“But still a good number of persons must die in their beds and be
+conscious,” said Lothair.
+
+“It may be, though I should doubt it. The witnesses of such a demise are
+never impartial. All I have loved and lost have died upon the field of
+battle; and those who have suffered pain have been those whom they have
+left behind; and that pain,” she added with some emotion, “may perhaps
+deserve the description of Mr. Phoebus.”
+
+Lothair would not pursue the subject, and there was rather an awkward
+pause. Theodora herself broke it, and in a lighter vein, though
+recurring to the same theme, she said with a slight smile: “I am
+scarcely a competent person to consult upon this subject, for, to be
+candid with you, I do not myself believe in death. There is a change,
+and doubtless a great one, painful it may be, certainly very perplexing,
+but I have a profound conviction of my immortality, and I do not
+believe that I shall rest in my grave in saecula saeculorum, only to be
+convinced of it by the last trump.”
+
+“I hope you will not leave this world before I do,” said Lothair, “but,
+if that sorrow be reserved for me, promise that to me, if only once, you
+will reappear.”
+
+“I doubt whether the departed have that power,” said Theodora, “or
+else I think my heroes would have revisited me. I lost a father more
+magnificent than Jove, and two brothers brighter than Apollo, and all of
+them passionately loved me—and yet they have not come; but I shall see
+them—and perhaps soon. So you see, my dear lord,” speaking more briskly,
+and rising rather suddenly from her seat, “that for my part I think it
+best to arrange all that concerns one in this world while one inhabits
+it, and this reminds me that I have a little business to fulfil in which
+you can help me,” and she opened a cabinet and took out a flat antique
+case, and then said, resuming her seat at her table: “Some one, and
+anonymously, has made me a magnificent present; some strings of costly
+pearls. I am greatly embarrassed with them, for I never wear pearls or
+anything else, and I never wish to accept presents. To return them to an
+unknown is out of my power, but it is not impossible that I may some day
+become acquainted with the donor. I wish them to be kept in safety,
+and therefore not by myself, for my life is subject to too great
+vicissitudes. I have therefore placed them in this case, which I shall
+now seal and intrust them to your care, as a friend in whom I have
+entire confidence. See,” she said, lighting a match, and opening the
+case, “here are the pearls—are they not superb?—and here is a note which
+will tell you what to do with them in case of my absence, when you
+open the case, which will not be for a year from this day. There, it is
+locked. I have directed it to you, and I will seal it with my father’s
+seal.”
+
+Lothair was about to speak. “Do not say a word,” she said “this seal is
+a religious ceremony with me.” She was some little time fulfilling
+it, so that the impression might be deep and clear. She looked at it
+earnestly while the wax was cooling, and then she said, “I deliver
+the custody of this to a friend whom I entirely trust. Adieu!” and she
+disappeared.
+
+The amazed Lothair glanced at the seal. It was a single word, “ROMA,”
+and then, utterly mystified, he returned to town with his own present.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 35 Mr. Phoebus had just finished a picture which he had painted
+for the Emperor of Russia. It was to depart immediately from England for
+its northern home, except that his imperial majesty had consented that
+it should be exhibited for a brief space to the people of England. This
+was a condition which Mr. Phoebus had made in the interests of art, and
+as a due homage alike to his own patriotism and celebrity.
+
+There was to be a private inspection of the picture at the studio of the
+artist, and Mr. Phoebus had invited Lothair to attend it. Our friend
+had accordingly, on the appointed day, driven down to Belmont and then
+walked to the residence of Mr. Phoebus with Colonel Campian and his
+wife. It was a short and pretty walk, entirely through the royal park,
+which the occupiers of Belmont had the traditionary privilege thus to
+use.
+
+The residence of Mr. Phoebus was convenient and agreeable, and in
+situation not unlike that of Belmont, being sylvan and sequestered.
+He had himself erected a fine studio, and added it to the original
+building. The flower-garden was bright and curious, and on the lawn was
+a tent of many colors, designed by himself and which might have suited
+some splendid field of chivalry. Upon gilt and painted perches, also,
+there were paroquets and macaws.
+
+Lothair on his arrival found many guests assembled, chiefly on the
+lawn. Mr. Phoebus was highly esteemed, and had distinguished and eminent
+friends, whose constant courtesies the present occasion allowed him
+elegantly to acknowledge. There was a polished and gray-headed noble who
+was the head of the patrons of art in England, whose nod of approbation
+sometimes made the fortune of a young artist, and whose purchase of
+pictures for the nation even the furious cognoscenti of the House of
+Commons dared not question. Some of the finest works of Mr. Phoebus were
+to be found in his gallery; but his lordship admired Madame Phoebus even
+more than her husband’s works, and Euphrosyne as much as her sister.
+It was sometimes thought, among their friends, that this young lady had
+only to decide in order to share the widowed coronet; but Euphrosyne
+laughed at every thing, even her adorers; and, while her witching
+mockery only rendered them more fascinated, it often prevented critical
+declarations.
+
+And Lady Beatrice was there, herself an artist, and full of aesthetical
+enthusiasm. Her hands were beautiful, and she passed her life in
+modelling them. And Cecrops was there, a rich old bachelor, with, it was
+supposed, the finest collection of modern pictures extant. His theory
+was, that a man could not do a wiser thing than invest the whole of his
+fortune in such securities, and it led him to tell his numerous nephews
+and nieces that he should, in all probability, leave his collection to
+the nation.
+
+Clorinda, whose palace was always open to genius, and who delighted
+in the society of men who had discovered planets, excavated primeval
+mounds, painted pictures on new principles, or composed immortal poems
+which no human being could either scan or construe, but which she
+delighted in as “subtle” and full of secret melody, came leaning on the
+arms of a celebrated plenipotentiary, and beaming with sympathy on every
+subject, and with the consciousness of her universal charms.
+
+And the accomplished Sir Francis was there, and several R. A. s of
+eminence, for Phoebus was a true artist, and loved the brotherhood, and
+always placed them in the post of honor.
+
+No language can describe the fascinating costume of Madame Phoebus and
+her glittering sister. “They are habited as sylvans,” the great artist
+deigned to observe, if any of his guests could not refrain from admiring
+the dresses; which he had himself devised. As for the venerable patron
+of art in Britain, he smiled when he met the lady of the house, and
+sighed when he glanced at Euphrosyne; but the first gave him a beautiful
+flower, and the other fastened it in his button-hole. He looked like
+a victim bedecked by the priestesses of some old fane of Hellenic
+loveliness, and proud of his impending fate. What could the Psalmist
+mean in the immortal passage? Three-score-and-ten, at the present day,
+is the period of romantic passions. As for our enamoured sexagenarians,
+they avenge the theories of our cold-hearted youth.
+
+Mr. Phoebus was an eminent host. It delighted him to see people
+pleased, and pleased under his influence. He had a belief, not without
+foundation, that every thing was done better under his roof than under
+that of any other person. The banquet in the air on the present occasion
+could only be done justice to by the courtly painters of the reign
+of Louis XV. Vanloo, and Watteau, and Lancres, would have caught the
+graceful group and the well-arranged colors, and the faces, some pretty,
+some a little affected; the ladies on fantastic chairs of wicker-work,
+gilt and curiously painted; the gentlemen reclining on the turf, or
+bending behind them with watchful care. The little tables all different,
+the soups in delicate cups of Sevres, the wines in golden glass of
+Venice, the ortolans, the Italian confectionery, the endless bouquets,
+were worthy of the soft and invisible music that resounded from the
+pavilion, only varied by the coquettish scream of some macaw, jealous,
+amid all this novelty and excitement, of not being noticed.
+
+“It is a scene of enchantment,” whispered the chief patron of British
+art to Madame Phoebus.
+
+“I always think luncheon in the air rather jolly,” said Madame Phoebus.
+
+“It is perfect romance!” murmured the chief patron of British art to
+Euphrosyne.
+
+“With a due admixture of reality,” she said, helping him to an enormous
+truffle, which she extracted from its napkin. “You know you must eat it
+with butter.”
+
+Lothair was glad to observe that, though in refined society, none
+were present with whom he had any previous acquaintance, for he had an
+instinctive feeling that if Hugo Bohun had been there, or Bertram,
+or the Duke of Brecon, or any ladies with whom he was familiarly
+acquainted, he would scarcely have been able to avail himself of the
+society of Theodora with the perfect freedom which he now enjoyed. They
+would all have been asking who she was, where she came from, how long
+Lothair had known her, all those questions, kind and neighborly, which
+under such circumstances occur. He was in a distinguished circle, but
+one different from that in which he lived. He sat next to Theodora, and
+Mr. Phoebus constantly hovered about them, ever doing something very
+graceful, or saying something very bright. Then he would whisper a word
+to the great Clorinda, who flashed intelligence from her celebrated
+eyes, and then he made a suggestion to the aesthetical Lady Beatrice,
+who immediately fell into enthusiasm and eloquence, and took the
+opportunity of displaying her celebrated hands.
+
+The time had now arrived when they were to repair to the studio and view
+the picture. A curtain was over it, and then a silken rope across the
+chamber, and then some chairs. The subject of the picture was Hero and
+Leander, chosen by the heir of all the Russias himself, during a late
+visit to England.
+
+“A fascinating subject,” said old Cecrops to Mr. Phoebus, “but not a
+very original one.”
+
+“The originality of a subject is in its treatment,” was the reply.
+
+The theme, in the present instance, was certainly not conventionally
+treated. When the curtain was withdrawn, they beheld a figure of
+life-like size, exhibiting in undisguised completeness the perfection of
+the female form, and yet the painter had so skilfully availed himself
+of the shadowy and mystic hour, and of some gauze-like drapery, which
+veiled without concealing his design, that the chastest eye might gaze
+on his heroine with impunity. The splendor of her upstretched arms held
+high the beacon-light, which thew a glare upon the sublime anxiety of
+her countenance, while all the tumult of the Hellespont, the waves, the
+scudding sky, the opposite shore revealed by a blood-red flash, were
+touched by the hand of a master who had never failed.
+
+The applause was a genuine verdict, and the company after a time began
+to disperse about the house and gardens. A small circle remained,
+and, passing the silken rope, approached and narrowly scrutinized the
+picture. Among these were Theodora and Lothair, the chief patron of
+British art, an R. A. or two, Clorinda, and Lady Beatrice.
+
+Mr. Phoebus, who left the studio but had now returned, did not disturb
+them. After a while he approached the group. His air was elate, and was
+redeemed only from arrogance by the intellect of his brow. The circle
+started a little as they heard his voice, for they had been unaware of
+his presence.
+
+“To-morrow,” he said, “the critics will commence. You know who the
+critics are? The men who have failed in literature and art.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 36 The lodge-gate of Belmont was opening as Lothair one morning
+approached it; a Hansom cab came forth, and in it was a person whose
+countenance was strongly marked on the memory of Lothair. It was that of
+his unknown friend at the Fenian meeting. Lothair instantly recognized
+and cordially saluted him, and his greeting, though hurriedly, was not
+ungraciously returned; but the vehicle did not stop. Lothair called
+to the driver to halt; but the driver, on the contrary, stimulated his
+steed, and in the winding lane was soon out of sight.
+
+Theodora was not immediately visible. She was neither in her usual
+apartment nor in her garden; but it was only perhaps because Lothair was
+so full of his own impressions from his recent encounter at the lodge,
+that he did not observe that the demeanor of Mrs. Campian, when she
+appeared, was hardly marked by her habitual serenity. She entered the
+room hurriedly and spoke with quickness.
+
+“Pray,” exclaimed Lothair, rather eagerly, “do tell me the name of the
+gentleman who has just called here.”
+
+Theodora changed color, looked distressed, and was silent; unobserved,
+however, by Lothair, who, absorbed by his own highly-excited curiosity,
+proceeded to explain why he presumed to press for the information. “I
+am under great obligations to that person; I am not sure I may not say I
+owe him my life, but certainly an extrication from great dander and very
+embarrassing danger too. I never saw him but once, and he would not give
+me his name, and scarcely would accept my thanks. I wanted to stop his
+cab to-day, but it was impossible. He literally galloped off.”
+
+“He is a foreigner,” said Mrs Campian, who had recovered herself; “he
+was a particular friend of my dear father; and when he visits England,
+which he does occasionally, he calls to see us.”
+
+“Ah!” said Lothair, “I hope I shall soon have an opportunity of
+expressing to him my gratitude.”
+
+“It was so like him not to give his name and to shrink from
+thanks,” said Mrs. Campian. “He never enters society, and makes no
+acquaintances.”
+
+“I am sorry for that,” said Lothair, “for it is not only that he served
+me, but I was much taken with him, and felt that he was a person I
+should like to cultivate.”
+
+“Yes, Captain Bruges is a remarkable man,” said Theodora; “he is not one
+to be forgotten.”
+
+“Captain Bruges. That, then, is his name?”
+
+“He is known by the name of Captain Bruges,” said Theodora, and she
+hesitated; and then speaking more quickly she added: “I cannot sanction,
+I cannot bear, any deception between you and this roof. Bruges is not
+his real name, nor is the title he assumes his real rank. He is not
+to be known, and not to be spoken of. He is one, and one of the most
+eminent, of the great family of sufferers in this world, but sufferers
+for a divine cause. I myself have been direly stricken in this struggle.
+When I remember the departed, it is not always easy to bear the thought.
+I keep it at the bottom of my heart; but this visit to-day has too
+terribly revived every thing. It is well that you only are here to
+witness my suffering, but you will not have to witness it again, for we
+will never again speak of these matters.”
+
+Lothair was much touched: his good heart and his good taste alike
+dissuaded him from attempting commonplace consolation. He ventured to
+take her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Dear lady!” he murmured, and
+he led her to a seat. “I fear my foolish tattle has added to pain which
+I would gladly bear for you.”
+
+They talked about nothings: about a new horse which Colonel Campian had
+just purchased, and which he wanted to show to Lothair; an old opera
+revived, but which sounded rather flat; something amusing that somebody
+had said, and something absurd which somebody had done. And then, when
+the ruffled feeling had been quite composed, and all had been brought
+back to the tenor of their usual pleasant life, Lothair said suddenly
+and rather gayly. “And now, dearest lady, I have a favor to ask. You
+know my majority is to be achieved and to be celebrated next month.
+I hope that yourself and Colonel Campian will honor me by being my
+guests.”
+
+Theodora did not at all look like a lady who had received a social
+attention of the most distinguished class. She looked embarrassed, and
+began to murmur something about Colonel Campian, and their never going
+into society.
+
+“Colonel Campian is going to Scotland, and you are going with him,” said
+Lothair. “I know it, for he told me so, and said he could manage the
+visit to me, if you approved it, quite well. In fact, it will fit in
+with this Scotch visit.”
+
+“There was some talk once about Scotland,” said Theodora, “but that was
+a long time ago. Many things have happened since then. I do not think
+the Scotch visit is by any means so settled as you think.”
+
+“But, however that may be decided,” said Lothair, “there can be no
+reason why you should not come to me.”
+
+“It is presumptuous in me, a foreigner, to speak of such matters,” said
+Theodora; “but I fancy that, in such celebrations as you contemplate,
+there is, or there should be, some qualification of blood or family
+connection for becoming your guests. We should be there quite strangers,
+and in everybody’s way, checking the local and domestic abandon which I
+should suppose is one of the charms of such meetings.”
+
+“I have few relations and scarcely a connection,” said Lothair rather
+moodily. “I can only ask friends to celebrate my majority, and there are
+no friends whom I so much regard as those who live at Belmont.”
+
+“It is very kind of you to say that, and to feel it; and I know that you
+would not say it if you did not feel it,” replied Theodora. “But still,
+I think it would be better that we should come to see you at a time when
+you are less engaged; perhaps you will take Colonel Campian down some
+day and give him some shooting.”
+
+“All I can say is that, if you do not come, it will be the darkest,
+instead of the brightest, week in my life,” said Lothair. “In short, I
+feel I could not get through the business; I should be so mortified. I
+cannot restrain my feelings or arrange my countenance. Unless you come,
+the whole affair will be a complete failure, and worse than a failure.”
+
+“Well, I will speak to Colonel Campian about it,” said Theodora, but
+with little animation.
+
+“We will both speak to him about it now,” said Lothair, for the colonel
+at that moment entered the room and greeted Lothair, as was his custom,
+cordially.
+
+“We are settling the visit to Muriel,” said Lothair; “I want to induce
+Mrs. Campian to come down a day or two before the rest, so that we may
+have the benefit of her counsel.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 37 Muriel Tower crowned a wooded steep, part of a wild, and
+winding, and sylvan valley, at the bottom of which rushed a foaming
+stream. On the other side of the castle the scene, though extensive, was
+not less striking, and was essentially romantic. A vast park spread in
+all directions beyond the limit of the eye, and with much variety of
+character—ornate near the mansion, and choicely timbered; in other
+parts glens and spreading dolls, masses of black pines and savage woods;
+everywhere, sometimes glittering, and sometimes sullen, glimpses of the
+largest natural lake that inland England boasts, Muriel Mere, and in the
+extreme distance moors, and the first crest of mountains. The park, too,
+was full of life, for there were not only herds of red and fallow
+deer, but, in its more secret haunts, wandered a race of wild-cattle,
+extremely savage, white and dove-colored, and said to be of the time of
+the Romans.
+
+It was not without emotion that Lothair beheld the chief seat of his
+race. It was not the first time he had visited it. He had a clear and
+painful recollection of a brief, hurried, unkind glimpse caught of it
+in his very earliest boyhood. His uncle had taken him there by some
+inconvenient cross-railroad, to avail themselves of which they had risen
+in the dark on a March morning, and in an east wind. When they arrived
+at their station they had hired an open fly drawn by a single horse,
+and, when they had thus at last reached the uninhabited Towers, they
+entered by the offices, where Lothair was placed in the steward’s room,
+by a smoky fire, given something to eat, and told that he might walk
+about and amuse himself, provided he did not go out of sight of the
+castle, while his uncle and the steward mounted their horses and rode
+over the estate; leaving Lothair for hours without companions, and
+returning just in time, in a shivering twilight, to clutch him up, as it
+were, by the nape of the neck, twist him back again into the one-horse
+fly, and regain the railroad; his uncle praising himself the whole time
+for the satisfactory and business-like manner in which he had planned
+and completed the edition.
+
+What a contrast to present circumstances! Although Lothair had wished,
+and thought he had secured, that his arrival at Muriel should be quite
+private, and even unknown, and that all ceremonies and celebrations
+should be postponed for a few days, during which he hoped to become a
+little more familiar with his home, the secret could not be kept, and
+the county would not tolerate this reserve. He was met at the station by
+five hundred horsemen, all well mounted, and some of them gentlemen
+of high degree, who insisted upon accompanying him to his gates. His
+carriage passed under triumphal arches, and choirs of enthusiastic
+children; waving parochial banners, hymned his auspicious approach.
+
+At the park gates his cavalcade quitted him with that delicacy of
+feeling which always distinguishes Englishmen, however rough their
+habit. As their attendance was self-invited, they would not intrude upon
+his home.
+
+“Your lordship will have enough to do to-day, without being troubled
+with us,” said their leader, as he shook hands with Lothair.
+
+But Lothair would not part with them thus. With the inspiring
+recollection of his speech at the Fenian meeting, Lothair was not afraid
+of rising in his barouche and addressing them. What he said was said
+very well and it was addressed to a people who, though the shyest in
+the world, have a passion for public speaking, than which no achievement
+more tests reserve. It was something to be a great peer and a great
+proprietor, and to be young and singularly well-favored; but to be able
+to make a speech, and such a good one, such cordial words in so strong
+and musical a voice—all felt at once they were in the presence of the
+natural leader of the county. The enthusiasm of the hunting-field burst
+forth. They gave him three ringing cheers, and jostled their horses
+forward, that they might grasp his hand.
+
+The park gates were open, and the postillions dashed along through
+scenes of loveliness on which Lothair would fain have lingered, but be
+consoled himself with the recollection that he should probably have an
+opportunity of seeing them again. Sometimes his carriage seemed in
+the heart of an ancient forest; sometimes the deer, startled at his
+approach, were scudding over expanding lawns; then his course wound by
+the margin of a sinuous lake with green islands and golden gondolas;
+and then, after advancing through stately avenues, he arrived at
+mighty gates of wondrous workmanship, that once had been the boast of a
+celebrated convent on the Danube, but which, in the days of revolutions,
+had reached England, and had been obtained by the grandfather of Lothair
+to guard the choice demesne that was the vicinage of his castle.
+
+When we remember that Lothair, notwithstanding his rank and vast
+wealth, had never, from the nature of things, been the master of an
+establishment, it must be admitted that the present occasion was a
+little trying for his nerves. The whole household of the Towers were
+arrayed and arranged in groups on the steps of the chief entrance. The
+steward of the estate, who had been one of the cavalcade, had galloped
+on before, and he was, of course, the leading spirit, and extended
+his arm to his lord as Lothair descended from his carriage. The
+house-steward, the chief butler, the head-gardener, the chief of the
+kitchen, the head-keeper, the head-forester, and grooms of the stud and
+of the chambers, formed one group behind the housekeeper, a grave and
+distinguished-looking female, who courtesied like the old court; half
+a dozen powdered gentlemen, glowing, in crimson liveries, indicated
+the presence of my lord’s footmen; while the rest of the household,
+considerable in numbers, were arranged in two groups, according to their
+sex, and at a respectful distance.
+
+What struck Lothair—who was always thinking, and who had no
+inconsiderable fund of humor in his sweet and innocent nature—was the
+wonderful circumstance that, after so long an interval of neglect
+and abeyance, he should find himself the master of so complete and
+consummate a household.
+
+“Castles and parks,” he thought, “I had a right to count on, and,
+perhaps, even pictures, but how I came to possess such a work of art
+as my groom of the chambers, who seems as respectfully haughty, and as
+calmly grateful, as if he were at Brentham itself, and whose coat must
+have been made in Saville Row, quite bewilders me.”
+
+But Lothair, though he appreciated Putney Giles, had not yet formed a
+full conception of the resource and all-accomplished providence of that
+wondrous man, acting under the inspiration of the consummate Apollonia.
+
+Passing through the entrance-hall, a lofty chamber, though otherwise of
+moderate dimensions, Lothair was ushered into his armory, a gallery two
+hundred feet long, with suits of complete mail ranged on each side,
+and the walls otherwise covered with rare and curious weapons. It was
+impossible, even for the master of this collection, to suppress the
+delight and the surprise with which he beheld the scene. We must
+remember, in his excuse, that he beheld it for the first time.
+
+The armory led to a large and lofty octagonal chamber, highly decorated,
+in the centre of which was the tomb of Lothair’s grandfather. He had
+raised it in his lifetime. The tomb was of alabaster surrounded by
+a railing of pure gold, and crowned with a recumbent figure of the
+deceased in his coronet—a fanciful man, who lived in solitude, building
+castles and making gardens.
+
+What charmed Lothair most as he proceeded were the number of courts and
+quadrangles in the castle, all of bright and fantastic architecture, and
+each of which was a garden, glowing with brilliant colors, and gay with
+the voice of fountains or the forms of gorgeous birds. Our young friend
+did not soon weary in his progress; even the suggestions of the steward,
+that his lordship’s luncheon was at command, did not restrain him.
+Ballrooms, and baronial halls, and long libraries with curiously-stained
+windows, and suites of dazzling saloons, where he beheld the original
+portraits of his parents, of which he had miniatures—he saw them
+all, and was pleased, and interested. But what most struck and even
+astonished him was the habitable air which pervaded the whole of this
+enormous structure; too rare even when families habitually reside in
+such dwellings; but almost inconceivable, when it was to be remembered
+that more than a generation had passed without a human being living in
+these splendid chambers, scarcely a human word being spoken in them.
+There was not a refinement of modern furniture that was wanting; even
+the tables were covered with the choicest publications of the day.
+
+“Mr. Putney Giles proposes to arrive here to-morrow,” said the steward.
+“He thought your lordship would like to be a day or two alone.”
+
+“He is the most sensible man I know,” said Lothair; “he always does the
+right thing. I think I will have my luncheon now, Mr. Harvey, and I will
+go over the cellars to-morrow.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 38 Yes; Lothair wished to be alone. He had naturally a love
+of solitude, but the events of the last few hours lent an additional
+inducement to meditation. He was impressed, in a manner and degree not
+before experienced, with the greatness of his inheritance. His worldly
+position, until to-day, had been an abstraction. After all, he had only
+been one of a crowd, which he resembled. But the sight of this proud and
+abounding territory, and the unexpected encounter with his neighbors,
+brought to him a sense of power and of responsibility. He shrank from
+neither. The world seemed opening to him with all its delights, and
+with him duty was one. He was also sensible of the beautiful, and the
+surrounding forms of nature and art charmed him. Let us not forget that
+extreme youth and perfect health were ingredients not wanting in the
+spell any more than power or wealth. Was it, then, complete? Not without
+the influence of woman.
+
+To that gentle yet mystical sway the spirit of Lothair had yielded.
+What was the precise character of his feelings to Theodora—what were his
+hopes, or views—he had hitherto had neither the time nor the inclination
+to make certain. The present was so delightful, and the enjoyment of her
+society had been so constant and complete, that he had ever driven
+the future from his consideration. Had the conduct of Theodora been
+different, had she deigned to practise on his affections, appealed to
+his sensibility, stimulated or piqued his vanity, it might have been
+otherwise. In the distraction of his heart, or the disturbance of his
+temper, he might have arrived at conclusions, and even expressed them,
+incompatible with the exquisite and even sublime friendship, which
+had so strangely and beautifully arisen, like a palace in a dream, and
+absorbed his being. Although their acquaintance could hardly be numbered
+by months, there was no living person of whom he had seen so much, or to
+whom he had opened his heart and mind with such profuse ingenuousness.
+Nor on her part, though apparently shrinking from egotism, had there
+ever been any intellectual reserve. On the contrary, although never
+authoritative, and, even when touching on her convictions, suggesting
+rather than dictating them, Lothair could not but feel that, during
+the happy period he had passed in her society, not only his taste had
+refined but his mind had considerably opened; his views had become
+larger, his sympathies had expanded; he considered with charity things
+and even persons from whom a year ago he would have recoiled with alarm
+or aversion.
+
+The time during which Theodora had been his companion was the happiest
+period of his life. It was more than that; he could conceive no felicity
+greater, and all that he desired was that it should endure. Since they
+first met, scarcely four-and-twenty hours had passed without his being
+in her presence; and now, notwithstanding the novelty and the variety of
+the objects around him and the vast, and urgent, and personal interest
+which they involve he felt a want which meeting her, or the daily
+prospect of meeting her, could alone supply. Her voice lingered in his
+ear; he gazed upon a countenance invisible to others; and he scarcely
+saw or did any thing without almost unconsciously associating with it
+her opinion or approbation.
+
+Well, then, the spell was complete. The fitfulness or melancholy which
+so often is the doom of youth, however otherwise favored, who do not
+love, was not the condition, capricious or desponding, of Lothair. In
+him combined all the accidents and feelings which enchant existence.
+
+He had been rambling in the solitudes of his park, and had thrown
+himself on the green shadow of a stately tree, his cheek resting on his
+arm, and lost in reverie amid the deep and sultry silence. Wealthy and
+young, noble and full of noble thoughts, with the inspiration of health,
+surrounded by the beautiful, and his heart softened by feelings as
+exquisite, Lothair, nevertheless, could not refrain from pondering over
+the mystery of that life which seemed destined to bring to him only
+delight.
+
+“Life would be perfect,” he at length exclaimed, “if it would only
+last.” But it will not last; and what then? He could not reconcile
+interest in this life with the conviction of another, and an eternal
+one. It seemed to him that, with such a conviction, man could have only
+one thought and one occupation—the future, and preparation for it. With
+such a conviction, what they called reality appeared to him more vain
+and nebulous than the scones and sights of sleep. And he had that
+conviction; at least he had it once. Had he it now? Yes; he had it now,
+but modified, perhaps, in detail. He was not so confident as he was a
+few months ago, that he could be ushered by a Jesuit from his deathbed
+to the society of St. Michael and all the angels. There might be long
+processes of initiation—intermediate states of higher probation and
+refinement. There might be a horrible and apathetic pause. When millions
+of ages appeared to be necessary to mature the crust of a rather
+insignificant planet, it might be presumption in man to assume that his
+soul, though immortal, was to reach its final destination regardless of
+all the influences of space and time.
+
+And the philosophers and distinguished men of science with whom of late
+he had frequently enjoyed the opportunity of becoming acquainted, what
+were their views? They differed among themselves: did any of them agree
+with him? How they accounted for every thing except the only point
+on which man requires revelation! Chance, necessity, atomic theories,
+nebular hypotheses, development, evolution, the origin of worlds, human
+ancestry—here were high topics, on none of which was there lack of
+argument; and, in a certain sense, of evidence; and what then? There
+must be design. The reasoning and the research of all philosophy could
+not be valid against that conviction. If there were no design, why,
+it would all be nonsense; and he could not believe in nonsense. And if
+there were design, there must be intelligence; and if intelligence,
+pure intelligence; and pure intelligence was inconsistent with
+any disposition but perfect good. But between the all-wise and the
+all-benevolent and man, according to the new philosophers, no relations
+were to be any longer acknowledged. They renounce in despair the
+possibility of bringing man into connection with that First Cause which
+they can neither explain nor deny. But man requires that there shall be
+direct relations between the created and the Creator; and that in those
+relations he should find a solution of the perplexities of existence.
+The brain that teems with illimitable thought, will never recognize
+as his creator any power of Nature, however irresistible, that is not
+gifted with consciousness. Atheism may be consistent with fine taste,
+and fine taste under certain conditions may for a time regulate a
+polished society; but ethics with atheism are impossible; and without
+ethics no human order can be strong or permanent.
+
+The Church comes forward, and, without equivocation, offers to establish
+direct relations between God and man. Philosophy denies its title, and
+disputes its power. Why? Because they are founded on the supernatural.
+What is the supernatural? Can there be any thing more miraculous
+than the existence of man and the world?—any thing more literally
+supernatural than the origin of things? The Church explains what no one
+else pretends to explain, and which, every one agrees, it is of first
+moment should be made clear.
+
+The clouds of a summer eve were glowing in the creative and flickering
+blaze of the vanished sun, that had passed like a monarch from the
+admiring sight, yet left his pomp behind. The golden and amber vapors
+fell into forms that to the eye of the musing Lothair depicted the
+objects of his frequent meditation. There seemed to rise in the horizon
+the dome and campaniles and lofty aisles of some celestial fane, such as
+he had often more than dreamed of raising to the revealed author of life
+and death. Altars arose and sacred shrines, and delicate chantries and
+fretted spires; now the flashing phantom of heavenly choirs, and then
+the dim response of cowled and earthly cenobites:
+
+“These are black Vesper’s pageants!”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 39 Lothair was quite glad to see Mr. Putney Giles. That
+gentleman indeed was a universal favorite. He was intelligent,
+acquainted with every thing except theology and metaphysics, to oblige,
+a little to patronize, never made difficulties, and always overcame
+them. His bright blue eyes, open forehead, and sunny face, indicated a
+man fall of resources, and with a temper of natural sweetness.
+
+The lawyer and his noble client had a great deal of business to
+transact. Lothair was to know his position in detail preparatory to
+releasing his guardians from their responsibilities, and assuming the
+management of his own affairs. Mr. Putney Giles was a first-rate man
+of business. With all his pleasant, easy manner, he was precise and
+methodical, and was not content that his client should be less master
+of his own affairs than his lawyer. The mornings passed over a table
+covered with dispatch boxes and piles of ticketed and banded papers, and
+then they looked after the workmen who were preparing for the impending
+festivals, or rode over the estate.
+
+“That is our weak point,” said Mr. Putney Giles, pointing to a distant
+part of the valley. “We ought to have both sides of the valley. Your
+lordship will have to consider whether you can devote the two hundred
+thousand pounds of the second and extinct trust to a better purpose than
+in obtaining that estate.”
+
+Lothair had always destined that particular sum for the cathedral, the
+raising of which was to have been the first achievement of his majority;
+but he did not reply.
+
+In a few days the guests began to arrive, but gradually. The duke and
+duchess and Lady Corisande came the first, and were one day alone with
+Lothair, for Mr. Putney Giles had departed to fetch Apollonia.
+
+Lothair was unaffectedly gratified at not only receiving his friends at
+his own castle, but under these circumstances of intimacy. They had
+been the first persons who had been kind to him, and he really loved the
+whole family. They arrived rather late, but he would show them to their
+rooms—and they were choice ones—himself, and then they dined together
+in the small green dining-room. Nothing could be more graceful or
+more cordial than the whole affair. The duchess seemed to beam with
+affectionate pleasure as Lothair fulfilled his duties as their host;
+the duke praised the claret, and he seldom praised any thing; while Lady
+Corisande only regretted that the impending twilight had prevented her
+from seeing the beautiful country, and expressed lively interest in the
+morrow’s inspection of the castle and domain. Sometimes her eyes met
+those of Lothair, and she was so happy that she unconsciously smiled.
+
+“And-to-morrow,” said Lothair, “I am delighted to say, we shall have to
+ourselves; at least all the morning. We will see the castle first, and
+then, after luncheon, we will drive about everywhere.”
+
+“Everywhere,” said Corisande.
+
+“It was very nice your asking us first, and alone,” said the duchess.
+
+“It was very nice in your coming, dear duchess,” said Lothair, “and most
+kind—as you ever are to me.”
+
+“Duke of Brecon is coming to you on Thursday,” said the duke; “he told
+me so at White’s.”
+
+“Perhaps you would like to know, duchess, whom you are going to meet,”
+said Lothair.
+
+“I should much like to hear. Pray tell us.”
+
+“It is a rather formidable array,” said Lothair, and he took out a
+paper. “First, there are all the notables of the county. I do not know
+any of them personally, so I wrote to each of them a letter, as well as
+sending them a formal invitation. I thought that was right.”
+
+“Quite right,” said the duchess. “Nothing could be more proper.”
+
+“Well, the first person, of course, is the lord-lieutenant. He is
+coming.”
+
+“By-the-by, let me see, who is your lord-lieutenant?” said the duke.
+
+“Lord Agramont.”
+
+“To be sure. I was at college with him; a very good fellow; but I have
+never met him since, except once at Boodle’s; and I never saw a man so
+red and gray, and I remember him such a good-looking fellow! He must
+have lived immensely in the country, and never thought of his person,”
+said the duke in a tone of pity, and playing with his mustache.
+
+“Is there a Lady Agramont?” inquired the duchess.
+
+“Oh, yes! and she also honors me with her presence,” said Lothair.
+
+“And who was Lady Agramont?”
+
+“Oh! his cousin,” said the duke. “The Agramonts always marry their
+cousins. His father did the same thing. They are so shy. It is a family
+that never was in society, and never will be. I was at Agramont Castle
+once when I was at college, and I never shall forget it. We used to
+sit down forty or fifty every day to dinner, entirely maiden aunts and
+clergymen, and that sort of thing. However, I shall be truly glad to see
+Agramont again, for, notwithstanding all these disadvantages, he is a
+thoroughly good fellow.”
+
+“Then there is the high-sheriff,” continued Lothair; “and both the
+county members and their wives; and Mrs. High-Sheriff too. I believe
+there is some tremendous question respecting the precedency of this
+lady. There is no doubt that, in the county, the high-sheriff takes
+precedence of every one, even of the lord-lieutenant; but how about his
+wife? Perhaps your grace could aid me? Mr. Putney Giles said he would
+write about it to the Heralds’ College.”
+
+“I should give her the benefit of any doubt,” said the duchess.
+
+“And then our bishop is coming;” said Lothair.
+
+“Oh! I am so glad you have asked the bishop,” said Lady Corisande.
+
+“There could be no doubt about it,” said Lothair.
+
+“I do not know how his lordship will get on with one of my guardians,
+the cardinal; but his eminence is not here in a priestly character; and,
+as for that, there is less chance of his differing with the cardinal
+than with my other guardian Lord Culloden, who is a member of the Free
+Kirk.”
+
+“Is Lord Culloden coming?” said the duchess.
+
+“Yes, and with two daughters, Flora and Grizell. I remember my cousins,
+good-natured little girls; but Mr. Putney Giles tells me that the
+shortest is six feet high.”
+
+“I think we shall have a very amusing party,” said the duchess.
+
+“You know all the others,” said Lothair. “No, by-the-by, there is the
+dean of my college coming, and Monsignore Catesby, a great friend of the
+St. Jeromes.”
+
+Lady Corisande looked grave.
+
+“The St. Jeromes will be here to-morrow,” continued Lothair, “and the
+Montairys and the St. Aldegondes. I have half an idea that Bertram
+and Carisbrooke and Hugo Bohun will be here to-night—Duke of Brecon
+on Thursday; and that, I think, is all, except an American lady and
+gentleman, whom, I think, you will like—great friends of mine; I knew
+them this year at Oxford, and the were very kind to me. He is a man of
+considerable fortune; they have lived at Paris a good deal.”
+
+“I have known Americans who lived at Paris,” said the duke; “very good
+sort of people, and no end of money some of them.”
+
+“I believe Colonel Campian has large estates in the South,” said
+Lothair; “but, though really I have no right to speak of his affairs, he
+must have suffered very much.”
+
+“Well, he has the consolation of suffering in a good cause,” said
+the duke. “I shall be happy to make his acquaintance. I look upon an
+American gentleman with large estates in the South as a real aristocrat;
+and; whether he gets his rents, or whatever his returns may be, or not,
+I should always treat him with respect.”
+
+“I have heard the American women are very pretty,” said Lady Corisande.
+
+“Mrs. Campian is very distinguished,” said Lothair; “but I think she was
+an Italian.”
+
+“They promise to be an interesting addition to our party,” said the
+duchess, and she rose.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 40 There never was any thing so successful as the arrangements
+of the next day. After breakfast they inspected the castle, and in the
+easiest manner, without form and without hurry, resting occasionally in
+a gallery or a saloon, never examining a cabinet, and only looking at a
+picture now and then. Generally speaking, nothing is more fatiguing than
+the survey of a great house; but this enterprise was conducted with
+so much tact and consideration, and much which they had to see was so
+beautiful and novel, that every one was interested, and remained quite
+fresh for their subsequent exertions. “And then the duke is so much
+amused,” said the duchess to her daughter, delighted at the unusual
+excitement of the handsome, but somewhat too serene, partner of her
+life.
+
+After luncheon they visited the gardens, which had been formed in a
+sylvan valley, enclosed with gilded gates. The creator of this paradise
+had been favored by Nature, and had availed himself of this opportunity.
+The contrast between the parterres, blazing with color, and the sylvan
+background, the undulating paths over romantic heights, the fanes and
+the fountains, the glittering statues, and the Babylonian terraces,
+formed a whole, much of which was beautiful, and all of which was
+striking and singular.
+
+“Perhaps too many temples,” said Lothair; “but this ancestor of mine had
+some imagination.”
+
+A carriage met them on the other side of the valley, and then they soon
+entered the park.
+
+“I am almost as much a stranger here as yourself, dear duchess,” said
+Lothair; “but I have seen some parts which, I think, will please you.”
+And they commenced a drive of varying, but unceasing, beauty.
+
+“I hope I see the wild-cattle,” said Lady Corisande.
+
+Lady Corisande saw the wild-cattle, and many other things, which
+gratified and charmed her. It was a long drive, even of hours, and yet
+no one was, for a moment, wearied.
+
+“What a delightful day!” Lady Corisande exclaimed in her mother’s
+dressing-room. “I have never seen any place so beautiful.”
+
+“I agree with you,” said the duchess; “but what pleases me most are his
+manners. They were always kind and natural; but they are so polished—so
+exactly what they ought to be; and he always says the right thing. I
+never knew any one who had so matured.”
+
+“Yes; it is very little more than a year since he came to us at
+Brentham,” said Lady Corisande, thoughtfully. “Certainly he has greatly
+changed. I remember he could hardly open his lips; and now I think him
+very agreeable.”
+
+“He is more than that,” said the duchess; “he is interesting.”
+
+“Yes,” said Lady Corisande; “he is interesting.”
+
+“What delights me,” said the duchess, “is to see his enjoyment of his
+position. He seems to take such an interest in every thing. It makes me
+happy to see him so happy.”
+
+“Well, I hardly know,” said Lady Corisande, “about that. There is
+something occasionally about his expression which I should hardly
+describe as indicative of happiness or content. It would be ungrateful
+to describe one as distrait, who seems to watch all one wants, and hangs
+on every word; and yet—especially as we returned, and when we were all
+of us a little silent—there was a remarkable abstraction about him; I
+caught it once or twice before, earlier in the day; his mind seemed in
+another place, and anxiously.”
+
+“He has a great deal to think of,” said the duchess.
+
+“I fear it is that dreadful Monsignore Catesby,” said Lady Corisande,
+with a sigh.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 41 The arrival of the guests was arranged with judgment. The
+personal friends came first; the formal visitors were invited only for
+the day before the public ceremonies commenced. No more dinners in small
+green dining-rooms. While the duchess was dressing, Bertha St. Aldegonde
+and Victoria Montairy, who had just arrived, came in to give her a rapid
+embrace while their own toilets were unpacking.
+
+“Granville, has come, mamma; I did not think that he would till the last
+moment. He said he was so afraid of being bored. There is a large party
+by this train; the St. Jeromes, Bertram, Mr. Bohun, Lord Carisbrooke,
+and some others we do not know.”
+
+The cardinal had been expected to-day, but he had telegraphed that his
+arrival must be postponed in consequence: of business until the morrow,
+which day had been previously fixed for the arrival of his fellow
+guardian and trustee, the Earl of Culloden, and his daughters, the
+Ladies Flora and Grizell Falkirk. Monsignore Catesby had, however,
+arrived by this train, and the persons “whom they did not know,” the
+Campians.
+
+Lothair waited on Colonel Campian immediately and welcomed him, but he
+did not see Theodora. Still he had inquired after her, and left her
+a message, and hoped that she would take some tea; and thus, as he
+flattered himself, broken a little the strangeness of their meeting
+under his roof; but, notwithstanding all this, when she really entered
+the drawing-room he was seized with such a palpitation of the heart that
+for a moment he thought he should be unequal to the situation. But the
+serenity of Theodora reassured him. The Campians came in late, and all
+eyes were upon them. Lothair presented Theodora to the duchess, who,
+being prepared for the occasion, said exactly the right thing in the
+best manner, and invited Mrs. Campian to sit by her, and then, Theodora
+being launched, Lothair whispered something to the duke, who nodded,
+and the colonel was introduced to his grace. The duke, always polite
+but generally cold, was more than courteous—he was cordial; he seemed
+to enjoy the opportunity of expressing his high consideration for a
+gentleman of the Southern States.
+
+So the first step was over; Lothair recovered himself; the palpitation
+subsided; and the world still went on. The Campians had made a good
+start, and the favorable impression hourly increased. At dinner
+Theodora sat between Lord St. Jerome and Bertram, and talked more to the
+middle-aged peer than to the distinguished youth, who would willingly
+have engrossed her attention. All mothers admire such discretion,
+especially in a young and beautiful married woman, so the verdict of the
+evening among the great ladies was, that Theodora was distinguished, and
+that all she said or did was in good taste. On the plea of her being
+a foreigner, she was at once admitted into a certain degree of social
+intimacy. Had she had the misfortune of being native-born and had
+flirted with Bertram, she would probably, particularly with so much
+beauty, have been looked upon as “a horrid woman,” and have been
+relegated for amusement, during her visit, to the attentions of the dark
+sex. But, strange to say, the social success of Colonel Campian was not
+less eminent than that of his distinguished wife. The character which
+the duke gave of him commanded universal sympathy. “You know he is a
+gentleman,” said the duke; “he is not a Yankee. People make the greatest
+mistakes about these things. He is a gentleman of the South; they have
+no property, but land; and I am told his territory was immense. He
+always lived at Paris, and in the highest style—disgusted, of course,
+with his own country. It is not unlikely he may have lost his estates
+now; but that makes no difference to me. I shall treat him, and all
+Southern gentlemen, as our fathers treated the emigrant nobility of
+France.”
+
+“Hugo,” said St. Aldegonde to Mr. Bohun, “I wish you would tell Bertha
+to come to me. I want her. She is talking to a lot of women at the other
+end of the room, and, if I go to her, I am afraid they will get hold of
+me.”
+
+The future duchess, who lived only to humor her lord, was at his side in
+an instant. “You wanted me, Granville?”
+
+“Yes; you know I was afraid, Bertha, I should be bored here. I am not
+bored. I like this American fellow. He understands the only two subjects
+which interest me; horses and tobacco.”
+
+“I am charmed, Granville, that you are not bored; I told mamma that you
+were very much afraid you would be.”
+
+“Yes; but I tell you what, Bertha, I cannot stand any of the ceremonies.
+I shall go before they begin. Why cannot Lothair be content with
+receiving his friends in a quiet way? It is all humbug about the county.
+If he wants to do something for the county, he can build a wing to the
+infirmary, or something of that sort, and not bore us with speeches and
+fireworks. It is a sort of thing I cannot stand.”
+
+“And you shall not, dear Granville. The moment you are bored, you shall
+go. Only you are not bored at present.”
+
+“Not at present; but I expected to be.”
+
+“Yes; so I told mamma; but that makes the present more delightful.”
+
+The St. Jeromes were going to Italy and immediately. Their departure had
+only been postponed in order that they might be present at the majority
+of Lothair. Miss Arundel had at length succeeded in her great object.
+They were to pass the winter at Rome. Lord St. Jerome was quite pleased
+at having made the acquaintance at dinner of a Roman lady, who spoke
+English so perfectly; and Lady St. Jerome, who in consequence fastened
+upon Theodora, was getting into ecstasies, which would have been
+embarrassing had not her new acquaintance skilfully checked her.
+
+“We must be satisfied that we both admire Rome,” said Mrs. Campian,
+“though we admire it for different reasons. Although a Roman, I am not a
+Roman Catholic; and Colonel Campian’s views on Italian affairs generally
+would, I fear, not entirely agree with Lord St. Jerome’s.”
+
+“Naturally,” said Lady St. Jerome, gracefully dropping the subject, and
+remembering that Colonel Campian was a citizen of the United States,
+which accounted in her apprehension for his peculiar opinions.
+
+Lothair, who had been watching his opportunity the whole evening,
+approached Theodora. He meant to have expressed his hope that she was
+not wearied by her journey, but instead of that he said, “Your presence
+here makes me inexpressibly happy.”
+
+“I think everybody seems happy to be your guest,” she replied,
+parrying, as was her custom, with a slight kind smile, and a low, sweet,
+unembarrassed voice, any personal allusion from Lothair of unusual
+energy or ardor.
+
+“I wanted to meet you at the station to-day,” he continued, “but there
+were so many people coming, that—” and he hesitated.
+
+“It would really have been more embarrassing to us than to yourself,”
+she said. “Nothing could be better than all the arrangements.”
+
+“I sent my own brougham to you,” said Lothair. “I hope there was no
+mistake about it.”
+
+“None: your servant gave us your kind message; and as for the carriage,
+it was too delightful. Colonel Campian was so; pleased with it, that he
+has promised to give me one, with your permission, exactly the same.”
+
+“I wish you would accept the one you used to-day.”
+
+“You are too magnificent; you really must try to forget, with us,
+that you are the lord of Muriel Towers. But I will willingly use your
+carriages as much as you please, for I caught glimpses of beauty to-day
+in our progress from the station that made me anxious to explore your
+delightful domain.”
+
+There was a slight burst of merriment from a distant part of the room,
+and everybody looked around. Colonel Campian had been telling a story to
+a group formed of the duke, St. Aldegonde, and Mr. Bohun.
+
+“Best story I ever heard In my life,” exclaimed St. Aldegonde, who
+prided himself, when he did laugh, which was rare, on laughing loud. But
+even the duke tittered, and Hugo Bohun smiled.
+
+“I am glad to see the colonel get on so well with every one,” said
+Lothair; “I was afraid he might have been bored.”
+
+“He does not know what that means,” said Theodora; “and he is so natural
+and so sweet-tempered, and so intelligent, that it seems to me he always
+is popular.”
+
+“Do you think that will be a match?” said Monsignore Catesby to Miss
+Arundel.
+
+“Well, I rather believe in the Duke of Brecon,” she replied. They
+were referring to Lord Carisbrooke, who appeared to be devoted to Lady
+Corisande. “Do you admire the American lady?”
+
+“Who is an Italian, they tell me, though she does not look like one.
+What do you think of her?” said the monsignore, evading, as was his
+custom, a direct reply.
+
+“Well, I think she is very distinguished: unusual. I wonder where our
+host became acquainted with them? Do you know?”
+
+“Not yet: but I dare say Mr. Bohun can tell us;” and he addressed that
+gentleman accordingly as he was passing by.
+
+“Not the most remote idea,” said Mr. Bohun. “You know the colonel is not
+a Yankee; he is a tremendous swell. The duke says, with more land than
+he has.”
+
+“He seems an agreeable person,” said Miss Arundel.
+
+“Well, he tell anecdotes; he has just been telling one; Granville likes
+anecdotes; they amuse him, and he likes to be amused: that is all he
+cares about. I hate anecdotes, and I always get away when conversation
+falls into, what Pinto calls, its anecdotage.”
+
+“You do not like to be amused?”
+
+“Not too much; I like to be interested.”
+
+“Well,” said Miss Arundel, “so long as a person can talk agreeably, I am
+satisfied. I think to talk well a rare gift; quite as rare as singing;
+and yet you expect every one to be able to talk, and very few to be able
+to sing.”
+
+“There are amusing people who do not interest,” said the monsignore,
+“and interesting people who do not amuse. What I like is an agreeable
+person.”
+
+“My idea of an agreeable person,” said Hugo Bohun, “is a person who
+agrees with me.”
+
+“Talking of singing, something is going to happen,” said Miss Arundel.
+
+A note was heard; a celebrated professor had entered the room and was
+seated at the piano, which he had just touched. There was a general
+and unconscious hush, and the countenance of Lord St. Aldegonde wore
+a rueful expression. But affairs turned out better than could be
+anticipated. A young and pretty girl, dressed in white, with a gigantic
+sash of dazzling beauty, played upon the violin with a grace, and
+sentimental and marvellous skill, and passionate expression, worthy of
+St. Cecilia. She was a Hungarian lady, and this was her English
+debut. Everybody praised her, and every body was pleased; and Lord
+St. Aldegonde, instead of being bored, took a wondrous rose out of his
+button-hole and presented it to her.
+
+The performance only lasted half an hour, and then the ladies began to
+think of their bowers. Lady St. Aldegonde, before she quit the room, was
+in earnest conversation with her lord.
+
+“I have arranged all that you wished, Granville,” she said, speaking
+rapidly and holding a candlestick. “We are to see the castle to-morrow,
+and the gardens and the parks and every thing else, but you are not to
+be bored at all, and not to lose your shooting. The moors are sixteen
+miles off, but our host says, with an omnibus and a good team—and he
+will give you a first-rate one—you can do it in an hour and ten minutes,
+certainly an hour and a quarter; and you are to make your own party in
+the smoking-room to-night, and take a capital luncheon with you.”
+
+“All right: I shall ask the Yankee; and I should like to take that
+Hungarian girl too, if she would only fiddle to us at luncheon.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 42 Next day the cardinal, with his secretary and his chaplain,
+arrived. Monsignore Catesby received his eminence at the station
+and knelt and kissed his hand as he stepped from the carriage. The
+monsignore had wonderfully manoeuvred that the whole of the household
+should have been marshalled to receive this prince of the Church, and
+perhaps have performed the same ceremony: no religious recognition, he
+assured them, in the least degree involved, only an act of not unusual
+respect to a foreign prince; but considering that the bishop of the
+diocese and his suite were that day expected, to say nothing of the
+Presbyterian guardian, probably arriving by the same train, Lothair
+would not be persuaded to sanction any ceremony whatever. Lady St.
+Jerome and Miss Arundel, however, did their best to compensate for this
+omission with reverences which a posture-master might have envied, and
+certainly would not have surpassed. They seemed to sink into the earth,
+and then slowly and supernaturally to emerge. The bishop had been at
+college with the cardinal and intimate with him, though they now met for
+the first time since his secession—a not uninteresting rencounter. The
+bishop was high-church, and would not himself have made a bad cardinal,
+being polished and plausible, well-lettered, yet quite a man of the
+world. He was fond of society, and justified his taste in this respect
+by the flattering belief that by his presence he was extending the
+power of the Church; certainly favoring an ambition which could not
+be described as being moderate. The bishop had no abstract prejudice
+against gentlemen who wore red hats, and under ordinary circumstances
+would have welcomed his brother churchman with unaffected cordiality,
+not to say sympathy; but in the present instance, however gracious his
+mien and honeyed his expressions, he only looked upon the cardinal as a
+dangerous rival, intent upon clutching from his fold the most precious
+of his flock, and he had long looked to this occasion as the one which
+might decide the spiritual welfare and career of Lothair. The odds were
+not to be despised. There were two monsignores in the room besides the
+cardinal, but the bishop was a man of contrivance and resolution, not
+easily disheartened or defeated. Nor was he without allies. He did not
+count much on the university don, who was to arrive on the morrow in the
+shape of the head of an Oxford house, though he was a don of magnitude.
+This eminent personage had already let Lothair slip from his influence.
+But the bishop had a subtle counsellor in his chaplain, who wore as
+good a cassock as any monsignore, and he brought with him also a trusty
+archdeacon in a purple coat, whose countenance was quite entitled to a
+place in the Acta Sanctorum.
+
+It was amusing to observe the elaborate courtesy and more than Christian
+kindness which the rival prelates and their official followers extended
+to each other. But under all this unction on both sides were unceasing
+observation, and a vigilance that never flagged; and on both sides there
+was an uneasy but irresistible conviction that they were on the eve of
+one of the decisive battles of the social world. Lord Culloden also at
+length appeared with his daughters, Ladies Flora and Grizell. They were
+quite as tall as Mr. Putney Giles had reported, but very pretty, with
+radiant complexions, sunny blue eyes, and flaxen looks. Their dimples
+and white shoulders and small feet and hands were much admired. Mr.
+Giles also returned with Apollonia, and, at length, also appeared the
+rival of Lord Carisbrooke, his grace of Brecon.
+
+Lothair had passed a happy morning, for he had contrived, without
+difficulty, to be the companion of Theodora during the greater part of
+it. As the duchess and Lady Corisande had already inspected the castle,
+they disappeared after breakfast to write letters; and, when the
+after-luncheon expedition took place, Lothair allotted them to the care
+of Lord Carisbrooke, and himself became the companion of Lady St. Jerome
+and Theodora.
+
+Notwithstanding all his efforts in the smoking-room, St. Aldegonde had
+only been able to induce Colonel Campian to be his companion in the
+shooting expedition, and the colonel fell into the lure only through
+his carelessness and good-nature. He much doubted the discretion of
+his decision as he listened to Lord St. Aldegonde’s reasons for the
+expedition, in their rapid journey to the moors.
+
+“I do not suppose,” he said, “we shall have any good sport; but when
+you are in Scotland, and come to me, as I hope you will, I will give you
+something you will like. But it is a great thing to get off seeing the
+Towers, and the gardens, and all that sort of thing. Nothing bores me so
+much as going over a man’s house. Besides, we get rid of the women.”
+
+The meeting between the two guardians did not promise to be as pleasant
+as that between the bishop and the cardinal, but the crusty Lord
+Culloden was scarcely a match for the social dexterity of his eminence.
+The cardinal, crossing the room, with winning ceremony approached and
+addressed his colleague.
+
+“We can have no more controversies, my lord, for our reign is over;”
+and he extended a delicate hand, which the surprised peer touched with a
+huge finger.
+
+“Yes; it all depends on himself now,” replied Lord Culloden, with a grim
+smile; “and I hope he will not make a fool of himself.”
+
+“What have you got for us to-night?” inquired Lothair of Mr. Giles, as
+the gentlemen rose from the dining-table.
+
+Mr. Giles said he would consult his wife, but Lothair observing he would
+himself undertake that office, when he entered the saloon, addressed
+Apollonia. Nothing could be more skilful than the manner in which Mrs.
+Giles, in this party, assumed precisely the position which equally
+became her and suited her own views; at the same time the somewhat
+humble friend, but the trusted counsellor, of the Towers, she disarmed
+envy and conciliated consideration. Never obtrusive, yet always prompt
+and prepared with unfailing resource, and gifted apparently, with
+universal talents, she soon became the recognized medium by which every
+thing was suggested or arranged; and before eight-and-forty hours had
+passed she was described by duchesses and their daughters as that “dear
+Mrs. Giles.”
+
+“Monsieur Raphael and his sister came down in the train with us,” said
+Mrs. Giles to Lothair; “the rest of the troupe will not be here until
+to-morrow; but they told me they could give you a perfect proverbe if
+your lordship would like it; and the Spanish conjuror is here; but I
+rather think, from what I gather, that the young ladies would like a
+dance.”
+
+“I do not much fancy acting the moment these great churchmen have
+arrived, and with cardinals and bishops I would rather not have dances
+the first-night. I almost wish we had kept the Hungarian lady for this
+evening.”
+
+“Shall I send for her? She is ready.”
+
+“The repetition would be too soon, and would show a great poverty of
+resources,” said Lothair, smiling; “what we want is some singing.”
+
+“Mardoni ought to have been here to-day,” said Mrs. Giles; “but he never
+keeps his engagements.”
+
+“I think our amateur materials are rather rich,” said Lothair.
+
+“There is Mrs. Campian,” said Apollonia in a low voice; but Lothair
+shook his head.
+
+“But, perhaps, if others set her the example,” he added, after a pause;
+“Lady Corisande is first rate, and all her sisters sing; I will go and
+consult the duchess.”
+
+There was soon a stir in the room. Lady St. Aldegonde and her sisters
+approached the piano, at which was seated the eminent professor. A note
+was heard, and there was silence. The execution was exquisite; and,
+indeed, there are few things more dainty than the blended voices of
+three women. No one seemed to appreciate the performance more than
+Mrs. Campian, who, greatly attracted by what was taking place, turned a
+careless ear, even to the honeyed sentences of no less a personage than
+the lord-bishop.
+
+After an interval Lady Corisande was handed to the piano by Lothair.
+She was in fine voice, and sang with wonderful effect. Mrs. Campian, who
+seemed much interested, softly rose, and stole to the outward circle of
+the group which had gathered round the instrument. When the sounds had
+ceased, amid the general applause her voice of admiration was heard.
+The duchess approached her, evidently prompted by the general wish, and
+expressed her hope that Mrs. Campian would now favor them. It was not
+becoming to refuse when others had contributed so freely to the
+general entertainment, but Theodora was anxious not to place herself in
+competition with those who had preceded her. Looking over a volume
+of music, she suggested to Lady Corisande a duet, in which the
+peculiarities of their two voices, which in character were quite
+different, one being a soprano and the other a contralto, might be
+displayed. And very seldom, in a private chamber, had any thing of so
+high a class been heard. Not a lip moved except those of the singers,
+so complete was the fascination, till the conclusion elicited a burst of
+irresistible applause.
+
+“In imagination I am throwing endless bouquets,” said Hugo Bohun.
+
+“I wish we could induce her to give us a recitation from Alfieri,” said
+Mrs. Putney Giles in a whisper to Lady St. Aldegonde. “I heard it once:
+it was the finest thing I ever listened to.”
+
+“But cannot we?” said Lady St. Aldegonde.
+
+Apollonia shook her head. “She is extremely reserved. I am quite
+surprised that she sang; but she could not well refuse after your
+ladyship and your sisters had been so kind.”
+
+“But if the Lord of the Towers asks her,” suggested Lady St. Aldegonde.
+
+“No, no,” said Mrs. Giles, “that would not do; nor would he. He knows
+she dislikes it. A word from Colonel Campian, and the thing would be
+settled; but it is rather absurd to invoke the authority of a husband
+for so light a matter.”
+
+“I should like so much to hear her,” said Lady St. Aldegonde. “I think I
+will ask her myself. I will go and speak to mamma.”
+
+There was much whispering and consulting in the room, but unnoticed, as
+general conversation had now been resumed. The duchess sent for Lothair,
+and conferred with him; but Lothair seemed to shake his head. Then
+her grace rose and approached Colonel Campian, who was talking to Lord
+Culloden, and then the duchess and Lady St. Aldegonde went to Mrs.
+Campian. Then, after a short time, Lady St. Aldegonde rose and fetched
+Lothair.
+
+“Her grace tells me,” said Theodora, “that Colonel Campian wishes me to
+give a recitation. I cannot believe that such a performance can ever be
+generally interesting, especially in a foreign language, and I confess
+that I would rather not exhibit. But I do not like to be churlish when
+all are so amiable and compliant, and her grace tells me that it cannot
+well be postponed, for this is the last quiet night we shall have. What
+I want is a screen, and I must be a moment alone, before I venture on
+these enterprises. I require it to create the ideal presence.”
+
+Lothair and Bertram arranged the screen, the duchess and Lady St.
+Aldegonde glided about, and tranquilly intimated what was going to
+occur, so that, without effort, there was in a moment complete silence
+and general expectation. Almost unnoticed Mrs. Campian had disappeared,
+whispering a word as she passed to the eminent conductor, who was
+still seated at the piano. The company had almost unconsciously grouped
+themselves in the form of a theatre, the gentlemen generally standing
+behind the ladies who were seated. There were some bars of solemn music,
+and then, to an audience not less nervous than herself, Theodora came
+forward as Electra in that beautiful appeal to Clytemnestra, where she
+veils her mother’s guilt even while she intimates her more than terrible
+suspicion of its existence, and makes one last desperate appeal of
+pathetic duty in order to save her parent and her fated house:
+
+     “O amata madre,
+      Che fai?  Non credo io, no, che ardente fiamma
+      Il cor ti avvampi.”
+
+The ineffable grace of her action, simple without redundancy, her
+exquisite elocution, her deep yet controlled passion, and the magic of
+a voice thrilling even in a whisper—this form of Phidias with the genius
+of Sophocles—entirely enraptured a fastidious audience. When she ceased,
+there was an outburst of profound and unaffected appreciation; and Lord
+St. Aldegonde, who had listened in a sort of ecstasy, rushed forward,
+with a countenance as serious as the theme, to offer his thanks and
+express his admiration.
+
+And then they gathered round her—all these charming women and some of
+these admiring men—as she would have resumed her seat, and entreated her
+once more—only once more—to favor them. She caught the adoring glance of
+the lord of the Towers, and her eyes seemed to inquire what she should
+do. “There will be many strangers here to-morrow,” said Lothair, “and
+next week all the world. This is a delight only for the initiated,” and
+he entreated her to gratify them.
+
+“It shall be Alfieri’s ode to America, then,” said Theodora, “if you
+please.”
+
+“She is a Roman, I believe,” said Lady St. Jerome to his eminence, “but
+not, alas! a child of the Church. Indeed, I fear her views generally are
+advanced,” and she shook her head.
+
+“At present,” said the cardinal, “this roof and this visit may influence
+her. I should like to see such powers engaged in the cause of God.”
+
+The cardinal was an entire believer in female influence, and a
+considerable believer in his influence over females; and he had good
+cause for his convictions. The catalogue of his proselytes was numerous
+and distinguished. He had not only converted a duchess and several
+countesses, but he had gathered into his fold a real Mary Magdalen. In
+the height of her beauty and her fame, the most distinguished member
+of the demi-monde had suddenly thrown up her golden whip and jingling
+reins, and cast herself at the feet of the cardinal. He had a right,
+therefore, to be confident; and, while his exquisite taste and
+consummate cultivation rendered it impossible that he should not have
+been deeply gratified by the performance of Theodora, he was really the
+whole time considering the best means by which such charms and powers
+could be enlisted in the cause of the Church.
+
+After the ladies had retired, the gentlemen talked for a few minutes
+over the interesting occurrence of the evening.
+
+“Do you know,” said the bishop to the duke and some surrounding
+auditors, “fine as was the Electra, I preferred the ode to the tragedy?
+There was a tumult of her brow, especially in the address to Liberty,
+that was sublime—quite a Moenad look.”
+
+“What do you think of it, Carry?” said St. Aldegonde to Lord
+Carisbrooke.
+
+“Brecon says she puts him in mind of Ristori.”
+
+“She is not in the least like Ristori, or any one else,” said St.
+Aldegonde. “I never heard, I never saw any one like her. I’ll tell you
+what—you must take care what you say about her in the smoking-room, for
+her husband will be there, and an excellent fellow too. We went together
+to the moors this morning, and he did not bore me in the least. Only, if
+I had known as much about his wife as I do now, I would have stayed at
+home, and passed my morning with the women.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 43 St. Aldegonde loved to preside over the mysteries of the
+smoking-room. There, enveloped in his Egyptian robe, occasionally
+blurting out some careless or headstrong paradox to provoke discussion
+among others, which would amuse himself, rioting in a Rabelaisan
+anecdote, and listening with critical delight to endless memoirs of
+horses and prima-donnas, St. Aldegonde was never bored. Sometimes,
+too, when he could get hold of an eminent traveller, or some individual
+distinguished for special knowledge, St. Aldegonde would draw him out
+with skill; himself displaying an acquaintance with the particular
+topic which often surprised his habitual companions, for St. Aldegonde
+professed never to read; but he had no ordinary abilities, and an
+original turn of mind and habit of life, which threw him in the way of
+unusual persons of all classes; from whom he imbibed or extracted a
+vast variety of queer, always amusing, and not altogether useless
+information.
+
+“Lothair has only one weakness,” he said to Colonel Campian as the
+ladies disappeared; “he does not smoke. Carry, you will come?”
+
+“Well, I do not think I shall to-night,” said Lord Carisbrooke. Lady
+Corisande, it appears, particularly disapproved of smoking.
+
+“Hum!” said St. Aldegonde; “Duke of Brecon, I know, will come, and Hugo
+and Bertram. My brother Montairy would give his ears to come, but is
+afraid of his wife; and then there is the monsignore, a most capital
+fellow, who knows every thing.”
+
+There were other gatherings, before the midnight bell struck at the
+Towers, which discussed important affairs, though they might not sit
+so late as the smoking-party. Lady St. Aldegonde had a reception in her
+room as well as her lord. There the silent observation of the evening
+found avenging expression in sparkling criticism, and the summer
+lightning, though it generally blazed with harmless brilliancy,
+occasionally assumed a more arrowy character. The gentlemen of the
+smoking-room have it not all their own way quite as much as they think.
+If, indeed, a new school of Athens were to be pictured, the sages and
+the students might be represented in exquisite dressing-gowns, with
+slippers rarer than the lost one of Cinderella, and brandishing
+beautiful brushes over tresses still more fair. Then is the time when
+characters are never more finely drawn, or difficult social questions
+more accurately solved; knowledge without reasoning and truth without
+logic—the triumph of intuition! But we must not profane the mysteries of
+Bona Dea.
+
+The archdeacon and the chaplain had also been in council with the bishop
+in his dressing-room, who, while he dismissed them with his benison,
+repeated his apparently satisfactory assurance that something would
+happen “the first thing after breakfast.”
+
+Lothair did not smoke, but he did not sleep. He was absorbed by the
+thought of Theodora. He could not but be conscious, and so far he was
+pleased by the consciousness, that she was as fascinating to others as
+to himself. What then? Even with the splendid novelty of his majestic
+home, and all the excitement of such an incident in his life, and
+the immediate prospect of their again meeting, he had felt, and even
+acutely, their separation. Whether it were the admiration of her by
+others which proved his own just appreciation, or whether it were the
+unobtrusive display of exquisite accomplishments, which, with all their
+intimacy, she had never forced on his notice—whatever the cause,
+her hold upon his heart and life, powerful as it was before, had
+strengthened. Lothair could not conceive existence tolerable without
+her constant presence; and with her constant presence existence would
+be rapture. It had come to that. All his musings, all his profound
+investigation and high resolve, all his sublime speculations on God and
+man, and life, and immortality, and the origin of things, and religious
+truth, ended in an engrossing state of feeling, which could be denoted
+in that form and in no other.
+
+What, then, was his future? It seemed dark and distressing. Her constant
+presence his only happiness; her constant presence impossible. He seemed
+on an abyss.
+
+In eight-and-forty hours or so one of the chief provinces of England
+would be blazing with the celebration of his legal accession to his high
+estate. If any one in the queen’s dominions had to be fixed upon as the
+most fortunate and happiest of her subjects, it might well be Lothair.
+If happiness depend on lofty station, his ancient and hereditary rank
+was of the highest; if, as there seems no doubt, the chief source of
+felicity in this country is wealth, his vast possessions and accumulated
+treasure could not easily be rivalled, while he had a matchless
+advantage over those who pass, or waste, their gray and withered lives
+in acquiring millions, in his consummate and healthy youth. He had
+bright abilities, and a brighter heart. And yet the unknown truth was,
+that this favored being, on the eve of this critical event, was pacing
+his chamber agitated and infinitely disquieted, and struggling with
+circumstances and feelings over which alike he seemed to have no
+control, and which seemed to have been evoked without the exercise of
+his own will, or that of any other person.
+
+“I do not think I can blame myself,” he said; “and I am sure I cannot
+blame her. And yet—”
+
+He opened his window and looked upon the moonlit garden, which filled
+the fanciful quadrangle. The light of the fountain seemed to fascinate
+his eye, and the music of its fall soothed him into reverie. The
+distressful images that had gathered round his heart gradually vanished,
+and all that remained to him was the reality of his happiness. Her
+beauty and her grace, the sweet stillness of her searching intellect,
+and the refined pathos of her disposition, only occurred to him, and he
+dwelt on them with spell-bound joy.
+
+The great clock of the Towers sounded two.
+
+“Ah!” said Lothair, “I must try to sleep. I have got to see the bishop
+to-morrow morning. I wonder what he wants?”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 44 The bishop was particularly playful on the morrow at
+breakfast. Though his face beamed with Christian kindness, there was
+a twinkle in his eye which seemed not entirely superior to mundane
+self-complacency, even to a sense of earthly merriment. His seraphic
+raillery elicited sympathetic applause from the ladies, especially from
+the daughters of the house of Brentham, who laughed occasionally,
+even before his angelic jokes were well launched. His lambent flashes
+sometimes even played over the cardinal, whose cerulean armor,
+nevertheless, remained always unscathed. Monsignore Chidioch, however,
+who would once unnecessarily rush to the aid of his chief, was tumbled
+over by the bishop with relentless gayety, to the infinite delight of
+Lady Corisande, who only wished it had been that dreadful Monsignore
+Catesby. But, though less demonstrative, apparently not the least
+devout, of his lordship’s votaries, were the Lady Flora and the
+Lady Grizell. These young gentlewomen, though apparently gifted with
+appetites becoming their ample, but far from graceless, forms, contrived
+to satisfy all the wants of nature without taking their charmed vision
+for a moment off the prelate, or losing a word which escaped his
+consecrated lips. Sometimes even they ventured to smile, and then they
+looked at their father and sighed. It was evident, notwithstanding their
+appetites and their splendid complexions, which would have become the
+Aurora of Guido, that these young ladies had some secret sorrow
+which required a confidante. Their visit to Muriel Towers was their
+introduction to society, for the eldest had only just attained sweet
+seventeen. Young ladies under these circumstances always fall in love,
+but with their own sex. Lady Flora and Lady Grizell both fell in love
+with Lady Corisande, and before the morning had passed away she had
+become their friend and counsellor, and the object of their devoted
+adoration. It seems that their secret sorrow had its origin in that
+mysterious religious sentiment which agitates or affects every class
+and condition of man, and which creates or destroys states, though
+philosophers are daily assuring us “that there is nothing in it.” The
+daughters of the Earl of Culloden could not stand any longer the Free
+Kirk, of which their austere parent was a fiery votary. It seems that
+they had been secretly converted to the Episcopal Church of Scotland by
+a governess, who pretended to be a daughter of the Covenant, but who was
+really a niece of the primus, and, as Lord Culloden accurately observed,
+when he ignominiously dismissed her, “a Jesuit in disguise.” From that
+moment there had been no peace in his house. His handsome and gigantic
+daughters, who had hitherto been all meekness, and who had obeyed him as
+they would a tyrant father of the feudal ages, were resolute, and would
+not compromise their souls. They humbly expressed their desire to enter
+a convent, or to become at least sisters of mercy. Lord Culloden raged
+and raved, and delivered himself of cynical taunts, but to no purpose.
+The principle that forms Free Kirks is a strong principle, and takes
+many forms, which the social Polyphemes, who have only one eye, cannot
+perceive. In his desperate confusion, he thought that change of scene
+might be a diversion when things were at the worst, and this was the
+reason that he had, contrary to his original intention, accepted the
+invitation of his ward.
+
+Lady Corisande was exactly the guide the girls required. They sat on
+each side of her, each holding her hand, which they frequently pressed
+to their lips. As her form was slight, though of perfect grace and
+symmetry, the contrast between herself and her worshippers was rather
+startling; but her noble brow, full of thought and purpose, the firmness
+of her chiselled lip, and the rich fire of her glance vindicated her
+post as the leading spirit.
+
+They breakfasted in a room which opened on a gallery, and at the other
+end of the gallery was an apartment similar to the breakfast-room,
+which was the male morning-room, and where the world could find
+the newspapers, or join in half an hour’s talk over the intended
+arrangements of the day. When the breakfast-party broke up, the bishop
+approached Lothair, and looked at him earnestly.
+
+“I am at your lordship’s service,” said Lothair, and they quitted the
+breakfast-room together. Half-way down the gallery they met Monsignore
+Catesby, who had in his hand a number, just arrived, of a newspaper
+which was esteemed an Ultramontane organ. He bowed as he passed them,
+with an air of some exultation, and the bishop and himself exchanged
+significant smiles, which, however, meant different things. Quitting the
+gallery, Lothair led the way to his private apartments; and, opening the
+door, ushered in the bishop.
+
+Now, what was contained in the Ultramontane organ which apparently
+occasioned so much satisfaction to Monsignore Catesby? A deftly drawn-up
+announcement of some important arrangements which had been deeply
+planned. The announcement would be repeated In all the daily papers,
+which were hourly expected. The world was informed that his eminence,
+Cardinal Grandison, now on a visit at Muriel Towers to his ward,
+Lothair, would celebrate high mass on the ensuing Sunday in the city
+which was the episcopal capital of the bishop’s see, and afterward
+preach on the present state of the Church of Christ. As the bishop must
+be absent from his cathedral that day, and had promised to preach in
+the chapel at Muriel, there was something dexterous in thus turning his
+lordship’s flank, and desolating his diocese when he was not present to
+guard it from the fiery dragon. It was also remarked that there would be
+an unusual gathering of the Catholic aristocracy for the occasion. The
+rate of lodgings in the city had risen in consequence. At the end of the
+paragraph it was distinctly contradicted that Lothair had entered the
+Catholic Church. Such a statement was declared to be “premature,” as
+his guardian, the cardinal, would never sanction his taking such a step
+until he was the master of his own actions; the general impression left
+by the whole paragraph being, that the world was not to be astonished if
+the first stop of Lothair, on accomplishing his majority, was to pursue
+the very course which was now daintily described as premature.
+
+At luncheon the whole party were again assembled. The newspapers had
+arrived in the interval, and had been digested. Every one was aware of
+the popish plot, as Hugo Bohun called it. The bishop, however, looked
+serene, and, if not as elate as in the morning, calm and content. He sat
+by the duchess, and spoke to her in a low voice, and with seriousness.
+The monsignore watched every expression.
+
+When the duchess rose, the bishop accompanied her into the recess of a
+window, and she said: “You may depend upon me; I cannot answer for the
+duke. It is not the early rising; he always rises early in the country,
+but he likes to read his letters before he dresses, and that sort of
+thing. I think you had better speak to Lady Corisande yourself.”
+
+What had taken place at the interview of the bishop with Lothair, and
+what had elicited from the duchess an assurance that the prelate
+might depend upon her, generally transpired, in consequence of some
+confidential communications, in the course of the afternoon. It appeared
+that the right reverend lord had impressed, and successfully, on
+Lothair, the paramount duty of commencing the day of his majority by
+assisting in an early celebration of the most sacred rite of the Church.
+This, in the estimation of the bishop, though he had not directly
+alluded to the subject in the interview, but had urged the act on higher
+grounds, would be a triumphant answer to the insidious and calumnious
+paragraphs which had circulated during the last six months, and an
+authentic testimony that Lothair was not going to quit the Church of his
+fathers.
+
+This announcement, however, produced consternation in the opposite
+camp. It seemed to more than neutralize the anticipated effect of the
+programme, and the deftly-conceived paragraph. Monsignore Catesby went
+about whispering that he feared Lothair was going to overdo it; and
+considering what he had to go through on Monday, if it were only for
+considerations of health, an early celebration was inexpedient. He
+tried the duchess—about whom he was beginning to hover a good deal—as he
+fancied she was of an impressible disposition, and gave some promise of
+results; but here the ground had been too forcibly preoccupied: then he
+flew to Lady St. Aldegonde, but he had the mortification of learning,
+from her lips, that she herself contemplated being a communicant at the
+same time. Lady Corisande had been before him. All the energies of that
+young lady were put forth in order that Lothair should be countenanced
+on this solemn occasion. She conveyed to the bishop before dinner the
+results of her exertions.
+
+“You may count on Alberta St. Aldegonde and Victoria Montairy, and, I
+think, Lord Montairy also, if she presses him, which she has promised
+to do. Bertram must kneel by his friend at such a time. I think Lord
+Carisbrooke may: Duke of Brecon, I can say nothing about at present.”
+
+“Lord St. Aldegonde?” said the bishop.
+
+Lady Corisande shook her head.
+
+There had been a conclave in the bishop’s room before dinner, in which
+the interview of the morning was discussed.
+
+“It was successful; scarcely satisfactory,” said the bishop. “He is a
+very clever fellow, and knows a great deal. They have got hold of him,
+and he has all the arguments at his fingers’ ends. When I came to the
+point, he began to demur; I saw what was passing through his mind, and
+I said at once: ‘Your views are high: so are mine: so are those of the
+Church. It is a sacrifice, undoubtedly, in a certain sense. No sound
+theologian would maintain the simplicity of the elements; but that does
+not involve the coarse interpretation of the dark ages.’”
+
+“Good, good,” said the archdeacon; “and what is it your lordship did not
+exactly like?”
+
+“He fenced too much; and he said more than once, and in a manner I did
+not like, that, whatever were his views as to the Church, he thought he
+could on the whole conscientiously partake of this rite as administered
+by the Church of England.”
+
+“Every thing depends on this celebration,” said the chaplain; “after
+that his doubts and difficulties will dispel.”
+
+“We must do our best that he is well supported,” said the archdeacon.
+
+“No fear of that,” said the bishop. “I have spoken to some of our
+friends. We may depend on the duchess and her daughters—all admirable
+women; and they will do what they can with others. It will be a busy
+day, but I have expressed my hope that the heads of the household may be
+able to attend. But the county notables arrive to-day, and I shall make
+it a point with them, especially the lord-lieutenant.”
+
+“It should be known,” said the chaplain. “I will send a memorandum to
+the Guardian.”
+
+“And John Bull,” said the bishop.
+
+The lord-lieutenant and Lady Agramont, and their daughter, Lady Ida
+Alice, arrived to-day; and the high-sheriff, a manufacturer, a great
+liberal who delighted in peers, but whose otherwise perfect felicity
+to-day was a little marred and lessened by the haunting and restless
+fear that Lothair was not duly aware that he took precedence of the
+lord-lieutenant. Then there were Sir Hamlet Clotworthy, the master
+of the hounds, and a capital man of business; and the Honorable Lady
+Clotworthy, a haughty dame who ruled her circle with tremendous airs and
+graces, but who was a little subdued in the empyrean of Muriel Towers.
+The other county member, Mr. Ardenne, was a refined gentleman, and loved
+the arts. He had an ancient pedigree, and knew everybody else’s, which
+was not always pleasant. What he most prided himself on was being the
+hereditary owner of a real deer-park, the only one, he asserted, in the
+county. Other persons had parks which had deer in them, but that was
+quite a different thing. His wife was a pretty woman, and the inspiring
+genius of archeological societies, who loved their annual luncheon
+in her Tudor Halls, and illustrated by their researches the deeds and
+dwellings of her husband’s ancient race.
+
+The clergy of the various parishes on the estate all dined at the Towers
+to-day, in order to pay their respects to their bishop. “Lothair’s
+oecumenical council,” said Hugo Bohun, as he entered the crowded room,
+and looked around him with an air of not ungraceful impertinence. Among
+the clergy was Mr. Smylie, the brother of Apollonia.
+
+A few years ago, Mr. Putney Giles had not unreasonably availed himself
+of the position which he so usefully and so honorably filled, to
+recommend this gentleman to the guardians of Lothair to fill a vacant
+benefice. The Reverend Dionysius Smylie had distinguished himself at
+Trinity College, Dublin, and had gained a Hebrew scholarship there;
+after that he had written a work on the Revelations, which clearly
+settled the long-controverted point whether Rome in the great apocalypse
+was signified by Babylon. The bishop shrugged his shoulders when he
+received Mr. Smylie’s papers, the examining chaplain sighed, and the
+archdeacon groaned. But man is proverbially short-sighted. The doctrine
+of evolution affords no instances so striking as those of sacerdotal
+development. Placed under the favoring conditions of clime and soil,
+the real character of the Reverend Dionysius Smylie gradually, but
+powerfully, developed itself. Where he now ministered, he was attended
+by acolytes, and incensed by thurifers. The shoulders of a fellow
+countryman were alone equal to the burden of the enormous cross which
+preceded him; while his ecclesiastical wardrobe furnished him with many
+colored garments, suited to every season of the year, and every festival
+of the Church.
+
+At first there was indignation, and rumors or prophecies that we should
+soon have another case of perversion, and that Mr. Smylie was going over
+to Rome; but these superficial commentators misapprehended the vigorous
+vanity of the man. “Rome may come to me,” said Mr. Smylie, “and it is
+perhaps the best thing it could do. This is the real Church without
+Romish error.”
+
+The bishop and his reverend stuff, who were at first so much annoyed
+at the preferment of Mr. Smylie, had now, with respect to him, only
+one duty, and that was to restrain his exuberant priestliness; but they
+fulfilled that duty in a kindly and charitable spirit; and, when the
+Reverend Dionysius Smylie was appointed chaplain to Lothair, the
+bishop did not shrug his shoulders, the chaplain did not sigh, nor the
+archdeacon groan.
+
+The party was so considerable to-day that they dined in the great hall.
+When it was announced to Lothair that his lordship’s dinner was served,
+and he offered his arm to his destined companion, he looked around,
+and, then in an audible voice, and with a stateliness becoming such an
+incident, called upon the high-sheriff to lead the duchess to the table.
+Although that eminent personage had been thinking of nothing else for
+days, and during the last half-hour had felt as a man feels, and can
+only feel, who knows that some public function is momentarily about to
+fall to his perilous discharge, he was taken quite aback, changed color,
+and lost his head. But the band of Lothair, who were waiting at the door
+of the apartment to precede the procession to the hall, striking up at
+this moment “The Roast Beef of Old England,” reanimated his heart; and,
+following Lothair, and preceding all the other guests down the gallery,
+and through many chambers, he experienced the proudest moment of a life
+of struggle, ingenuity, vicissitude, and success.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 45 Under all this flowing festivity there was already a current
+of struggle and party passion. Serious thoughts and some anxiety
+occupied the minds of several of the guests, amid the variety of
+proffered dishes and sparkling wines, and the subdued strains of
+delicate music. This disquietude did not touch Lothair. He was happy
+to find himself in his ancestral hall, surrounded by many whom he
+respected, and by some whom he loved. He was an excellent host, which no
+one can be who does not combine a good heart with high breeding.
+
+Theodora was rather far from him, but he could catch her grave, sweet
+countenance at an angle of the table, as she bowed her head to Mr.
+Ardenne, the county member, who was evidently initiating her in all the
+mysteries of deer-parks. The cardinal sat near him, winning over, though
+without apparent effort, the somewhat prejudiced Lady Agramont. His
+eminence could converse with more facility than others, for he dined off
+biscuits and drank only water.
+
+Lord Culloden had taken out Lady St. Jerome, who expended on him all the
+resources of her impassioned tittle-tattle, extracting only grim smiles;
+and Lady Corisande had fallen to the happy lot of the Duke of Brecon;
+according to the fine perception of Clare Arundel—and women are very
+quick in these discoveries—the winning horse. St. Aldegonde had managed
+to tumble in between Lady Flora and Lady Grizell, and seemed immensely
+amused.
+
+The duke inquired of Lothair how many he could dine in his hall.
+
+“We must dine more than two hundred on Monday,” he replied.
+
+“And now, I should think, we have only a third of that number,” said his
+grace. “It will be a tight fit.”
+
+“Mr. Putney Giles has had a drawing made, and every seat apportioned. We
+shall just do it.”
+
+“I fear you will have too busy a day on Monday,” said the cardinal, who
+had caught up the conversation.
+
+“Well, you know, sir, I do not sit up smoking with Lord St. Aldegonde.”
+
+After dinner, Lady Corisande seated herself by Mrs. Campian. “You must
+have thought me very rude,” she said, “to have left you so suddenly at
+tea, when the bishop looked into the room; but he wanted me on a matter
+of the greatest importance. I must, therefore, ask your pardon. You
+naturally would not feel on this matter as we all do, or most of us do,”
+she added with some hesitation; “being—pardon me—a foreigner, and the
+question involving national as well as religious feelings;” and then,
+somewhat hurriedly, but with emotion, she detailed to Theodora all
+that had occurred respecting the early celebration on Monday, and the
+opposition it was receiving from the cardinal and his friends. It was a
+relief to Lady Corisande thus to express all her feelings on a subject
+on which she had been brooding the whole day.
+
+“You mistake,” said Theodora, quietly, when Lady Corisande had finished.
+“I am much interested in what you tell me. I should deplore our friend
+falling under the influence of the Romish priesthood.”
+
+“And yet there is danger of it,” said Lady Corisande, “more than
+danger,” she added in a low but earnest voice. “You do not know what a
+conspiracy is going on, and has been going on for months, to effect this
+end. I tremble.”
+
+“That is the last thing I ever do,” said Theodora, with a faint, sweet
+smile. “I hope, but I never tremble.”
+
+“You have seen the announcement in the newspapers to-day!” said Lady
+Corisande.
+
+“I think, if they were certain of their prey, they would be more
+reserved,” said Theodora.
+
+“There is something in that,” said Lady Corisande, musingly. “You know
+not what a relief it is to me to speak to you on this matter. Mamma
+agrees with me, and so do my sisters; but still they may agree with me
+because they are my mamma and my sisters; but I look upon our nobility
+joining the Church of Rome as the greatest calamity that has ever
+happened to England. Irrespective of all religious considerations, on
+which I will not presume to touch, it is an abnegation of patriotism;
+and in this age, when all things are questioned, a love of our country
+seems to me the one sentiment to cling to.”
+
+“I know no higher sentiment,” said Theodora in a low voice, and yet
+which sounded like the breathing of some divine shrine, and her Athenian
+eye met the fiery glance of Lady Corisande with an expression of noble
+sympathy.
+
+“I am so glad that I spoke to you on this matter,” said Lady Corisande,
+“for there is something in you which encourages me. As you say, if they
+were certain, they would be silent; and yet, from what I hear, their
+hopes are high. You know,” she added in a whisper, “that he has
+absolutely engaged to raise a popish cathedral. My brother, Bertram, has
+seen the model in his rooms.”
+
+“I have known models that were never realized,” said Theodora.
+
+“Ah! you are hopeful; you said you were hopeful. It is a beautiful
+disposition. It is not mine,” she added, with a sigh.
+
+“It should be,” said Theodora; “you were not born to sigh. Sighs should
+be for those who have no country, like myself; not for the daughters of
+England—the beautiful daughters of proud England.”
+
+“But you have your husband’s country, and that is proud and great.”
+
+“I have only one country, and it is not my husband’s; and I have only
+one thought, and it is to set it free.”
+
+“It is a noble one,” said Lady Corisande, “as I am sure are all your
+thoughts. There are the gentlemen; I am sorry they have come. There,”
+she added, as Monsignore Catesby entered the room, “there is his evil
+genius.”
+
+“But you have baffled him,” said Theodora.
+
+“Ah,” said Lady Corisande, with a long-drawn sigh. “Their manoeuvres
+never cease. However, I think Monday must be safe. Would you come?” she
+said, with a serious, searching glance, and in a kind of coaxing murmur.
+
+“I should be an intruder, my dear lady,” said Theodora, declining the
+suggestion; “but, so far as hoping that our friend will never join the
+Church of Rome, you will have ever my ardent wishes.”
+
+Theodora might have added her belief, for Lothair had never concealed
+from her a single thought or act of his life in this respect. She
+knew all and had weighed every thing, and flattered herself that their
+frequent and unreserved conversations had not confirmed his belief
+in the infallibility of the Church of Rome, and perhaps of some other
+things.
+
+It had been settled that there should be dancing this evening—all the
+young ladies had wished it. Lothair danced with Lady Flora Falkirk, and
+her sister, Lady Grizell, was in the same quadrille. They moved about
+like young giraffes in an African forest, but looked bright and happy.
+Lothair liked his cousins; their inexperience and innocence, and the
+simplicity with which they exhibited and expressed their feelings, had
+in them something bewitching. Then the rough remembrance of his old life
+at Falkirk and its contrast with the present scene had in it something
+stimulating. They were his juniors by several years, but they were
+always gentle and kind to him; and sometimes it seemed he was the only
+person whom they, too, had found kind and gentle. He called his
+cousin, too, by her Christian name, and he was amused, standing by this
+beautiful giantess, and calling her Flora. There were other amusing
+circumstances in the quadrille; not the least, Lord St. Aldegonde
+dancing with Mrs. Campian. The wonder of Lady St. Aldegonde was only
+equalled by her delight.
+
+The lord-lieutenant was standing by the duke, in a comer of the saloon,
+observing, not with dissatisfaction, his daughter, Lady Ida Alice,
+dancing with Lothair.
+
+“Do you know this is the first time I ever had the honor of meeting a
+cardinal?” he said.
+
+“And we never expected that it would happen to either of us in this
+country when we were at Christchurch together,” replied the duke.
+
+“Well, I hope every thing is for the best,” said Lord Agramont. “We
+are to have all these gentlemen in our good city of Grandchester,
+to-morrow.”
+
+“So I understand.”
+
+“You read that paragraph in the newspapers? Do you think there is any
+thing in it?”
+
+“About our friend? It would be a great misfortune.”
+
+“The bishop says there is nothing in it,” said the lord-lieutenant.
+
+“Well, he ought to know. I understand he has had some serious
+conversation recently with our friend?”
+
+“Yes; he has spoken to me about it. Are you going to attend the early
+celebration tomorrow? It is not much to my taste; a little new-fangled,
+I think; but I shall go, as they say it will do good.”
+
+“I am glad of that; it is well that he should be impressed at this
+moment with the importance and opinion of his county.”
+
+“Do you know I never saw him before?” said the lord-lieutenant. “He is
+winning.”
+
+“I know no youth,” said the duke, “I would not except my own son, and
+Bertram has never given me an uneasy moment, of whom I have a better
+opinion, both as to heart and head. I should deeply deplore his being
+smashed by a Jesuit.”
+
+The dancing had ceased for a moment; there was a stir; Lord Carisbrooke
+was enlarging, with unusual animation, to an interested group, about
+a new dance at Paris—the new dance. Could they not have it here?
+Unfortunately, he did not know its name, and could not describe its
+figure; but it was something new; quite new; they got it at Paris.
+Princess Metternich dances it. He danced it with her, and she taught it
+him; only he never could explain any thing, and indeed never did exactly
+make it out. “But you danced it with a shawl, and then two ladies hold
+the shawl, and the cavaliers pass under it. In fact, it is the only
+thing; it is the new dance at Paris.”
+
+What a pity that any thing so delightful should be so indefinite
+and perplexing, and indeed impossible, which rendered it still more
+desirable! If Lord Carisbrooke only could have remembered its name, or a
+single step in its figure—it was so tantalizing!
+
+“Do not you think so?” said Hugo Bohun to Mrs. Campian, who was sitting
+apart, listening to Lord St. Aldegonde’s account of his travels in the
+United States, which he was very sorry he ever quitted. And then they
+inquired to what Mr. Bohun referred, and then he told them all that had
+been said.
+
+“I know what he means,” said Mrs. Campian. “It is not a French dance; it
+is a Moorish dance.”
+
+“That woman knows everything, Hugo,” said Lord St. Aldegonde in a solemn
+whisper. And then he called to his wife. “Bertha, Mrs. Campian will tell
+you all about this dance that Carisbrooke is making such a mull of. Now,
+look here, Bertha; you must get the Campians to come to us as soon as
+possible. They are going to Scotland from this place, and there is no
+reason, if you manage it well, why they should not come on to us at
+once. Now, exert yourself.”
+
+“I will do all I can, Granville.”
+
+“It is not French, it is Moorish; it is called the Tangerine,” said
+Theodora to her surrounding votaries. “You begin with a circle.”
+
+“But how are we to dance without the music?” said Lady Montairy.
+
+“Ah! I wish I had known this,” said Theodora, “before dinner, and I
+think I could have dotted down something that would have helped us. But
+let me see,” and she went up to the eminent professor, with whom she was
+well acquainted, and said, “Signor Ricci, it begins so,” and she
+hummed divinely a fantastic air, which, after a few moments’ musing,
+he reproduced; “and then it goes off into what they call in Spain a
+saraband. Is there a shawl in the room?”
+
+“My mother has always a shawl in reserve,” said Bertram, “particularly
+when she pays visits to houses where there are galleries;” and he
+brought back a mantle of Cashmere.
+
+“Now, Signor Ricci,” said Mrs. Campian, and she again hummed an air, and
+moved forward at the same time with brilliant grace, waving at the end
+the shawl.
+
+The expression of her countenance, looking round to Signor Ricci, as she
+was moving on to see whether he had caught her idea, fascinated Lothair.
+
+“It is exactly what I told you,” said Lord Carisbrooke, “and, I can
+assure you, it is the only dance now. I am very glad I remembered it.”
+
+“I see it all,” said Signor Ricci, as Theodora rapidly detailed to him
+the rest of the figure. “And at any rate it will be the Tangerine with
+variations.”
+
+“Let me have the honor of being your partner in this great enterprise,”
+said Lothair; “you are the inspiration of Muriel.”
+
+“Oh! I am very glad I can do any thing, however slight, to please you
+and your friends. I like them all; but particularly Lady Corisande.”
+
+A new dance in a country-house is a festival of frolic grace. The
+incomplete knowledge, and the imperfect execution, are themselves causes
+of merry excitement, in their contrast with the unimpassioned routine
+and almost unconscious practice of traditionary performances. And gay
+and frequent were the bursts of laughter from the bright and airy band
+who were proud to be the scholars of Theodora. The least successful
+among them was perhaps Lord Carisbrooke.
+
+“Princess Metternich must have taught you wrong, Carisbrooke,” said Hugo
+Bohun.
+
+They ended with a waltz, Lothair dancing with Miss Arundel. She accepted
+his offer to take some tea on its conclusion. While they were standing
+at the table, a little withdrawn from the others, and he holding a
+sugar-basin, she said in a low voice, looking on her cup and not at him,
+“the cardinal is vexed about the early celebration; he says it should
+have been at midnight.”
+
+“I am sorry he is vexed,” said Lothair.
+
+“He was going to speak to you himself,” continued Miss Arundel; “but
+he felt a delicacy about it. He had thought that your common feelings
+respecting the Church might have induced you if not to consult, at least
+to converse, with him on the subject; I mean as your guardian.”
+
+“It might have been perhaps as well,” said Lothair; “but I also feel a
+delicacy on these matters.”
+
+“There ought to be none on such matters,” continued Miss Arundel, “when
+every thing is at stake.”
+
+“I do not see that I could have taken any other course than I have
+done,” said.Lothair. “It can hardly be wrong. The bishop’s church views
+are sound.”
+
+“Sound!” said Miss Arundel; “moonshine instead of sunshine.”
+
+“Moonshine would rather suit a midnight than a morning celebration,”
+said Lothair; “would it not?”
+
+“A fair repartee, but we are dealing with a question that cannot be
+settled by jests. See,” she said with great seriousness, putting down
+her cup and taking again his offered arm, “you think you are only
+complying with a form befitting your position and the occasion. You
+deceive yourself. You are hampering your future freedom by this step,
+and they know it. That is why it was planned. It was not necessary;
+nothing can be necessary so pregnant with evil. You might have made, you
+might yet make, a thousand excuses. It is a rite which hardly suits the
+levity of the hour, even with their feelings; but, with your view of its
+real character, it is sacrilege. What is occurring tonight might furnish
+you with scruples?” And she looked up in his face.
+
+“I think you take an exaggerated view of what I contemplate,” said
+Lothair. “Even with your convictions, it may be an imperfect rite; but
+it never can be an injurious one.”
+
+“There can be no compromise on such matters,” said Miss Arundel. “The
+Church knows nothing of imperfect rites. They are all perfect, because
+they are all divine; any deviation from them is heresy, and fatal. My
+convictions on this subject are your convictions; act up to them.”
+
+“I am sure, if thinking of these matters would guide a man right—” said
+Lothair, with a sigh, and he stopped.
+
+“Human thought will never guide you; and very justly, when you have for
+a guide Divine truth. You are now your own master; go at once to its
+fountain-head; go to Rome, and then all your perplexities will vanish,
+and forever.”
+
+“I do not see much prospect of my going to Rome,” said Lothair, “at
+least at present.”
+
+“Well,” said Miss Arundel, “in a few weeks I hope to be there; and if
+so, I hope never to quit it.”
+
+“Do not say that; the future is always unknown.”
+
+“Not yours,” said Miss Arundel. “Whatever you think, you will go to
+Rome. Mark my words. I summon you to meet me at Rome.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 46 There can be little doubt, generally speaking, that it is
+more satisfactory to pass Sunday in the country than in town. There
+is something in the essential stillness of country-life, which blends
+harmoniously with the ordinance of the most divine of our divine laws.
+It is pleasant, too, when the congregation breaks up, to greet one’s
+neighbors; to say kind words to kind faces; to hear some rural news
+profitable to learn, which sometimes enables you to do some good, and
+sometimes prevents others from doing some harm. A quiet, domestic walk,
+too, in the afternoon, has its pleasures; and so numerous and so various
+are the sources of interest in the country, that, though it be Sunday,
+there is no reason why your walk should not have an object.
+
+But Sunday in the country, with your house full of visitors, is too
+often an exception to this general truth. It is a trial. Your guests
+cannot always be at church, and, if they could, would not like it. There
+is nothing to interest or amuse them; no sport; no castles or factories
+to visit; no adventurous expeditions; no gay music in the morn, and no
+light dance in the evening. There is always danger of the day becoming
+a course of heavy meals and stupid walks, for the external scene and all
+teeming circumstances, natural and human, though full of concern to you,
+are to your visitors an insipid blank.
+
+How did Sunday go off at Muriel Towers?
+
+In the first place, there was a special train, which, at an early
+hour, took the cardinal and his suite and the St. Jerome family to
+Grandchester, where they were awaited with profound expectation. But
+the Anglican portion of the guests were not without their share of
+ecclesiastical and spiritual excitement, for the bishop was to preach
+this day in the chapel of the Towers, a fine and capacious sanctuary of
+florid Gothic, and his lordship was a sacerdotal orator of repute.
+
+It had been announced that the breakfast-hour was to be somewhat
+earlier. The ladies in general were punctual, and seemed conscious of
+some great event impending. The Ladies Flora and Grizell entered with,
+each in her hand, a prayer-book of purple velvet, adorned with a decided
+cross, the gift of the primus. Lord Culloden, at the request of Lady
+Corisande, had consented to their hearing the bishop, which he would not
+do himself. He passed his morning in finally examining the guardians’
+accounts, the investigation of which he conducted and concluded, during
+the rest of the day, with Mr. Putney Giles. Mrs. Campian did not leave
+her room. Lord St. Aldegonde came down late, and looked about him with
+an uneasy, ill-humored air.
+
+Whether it were the absence of Theodora, or some other cause, he was
+brusk, ungracious, scowling, and silent, only nodding to the bishop, who
+benignly saluted him, refusing every dish that was offered; then getting
+up, and helping himself at the side-table, making a great noise with the
+carving instruments, and flouncing down his plate when he resumed his
+seat. Nor was his costume correct. All the other gentlemen, though their
+usual morning-dresses were sufficiently fantastic—trunk-hose of every
+form, stockings bright as paroquets, wondrous shirts, and velvet-coats
+of every tint—habited themselves to-day, both as regards form and color,
+in a style indicative of the subdued gravity of their feelings. Lord St.
+Aldegonde had on his shooting-jacket of brown velvet and a pink-shirt
+and no cravat, and his rich brown locks, always, to a certain degree,
+neglected, were peculiarly dishevelled.
+
+Hugo Bohun, who was not afraid of him, and was a high-churchman,
+being, in religion, and in all other matters, always on the side of the
+duchesses, said: “Well, St. Aldegonde, are you going to chapel in that
+dress?” But St. Aldegonde would not answer; he gave a snort, and glanced
+at Hugo, with the eye of a gladiator.
+
+The meal was over. The bishop was standing near the mantel-piece talking
+to the ladies, who were clustered round him; the archdeacon and the
+chaplain and some other clergy a little in the background; Lord St.
+Aldegonde, who, whether there were a fire or not, always stood with
+his back to the fireplace with his hands in his pockets, moved
+discourteously among them, assumed his usual position, and listened,
+as it were, grimly, for a few moments to their talk; then he suddenly
+exclaimed in a loud voice, and with the groan of a rebellious Titan,
+“How I hate Sunday!”
+
+“Granville!” exclaimed Lady St. Aldegonde, turning pale. There was a
+general shudder.
+
+“I mean in a country-house,” said Lord St. Aldegonde. “Of course, I mean
+in a country-house. I do not dislike it when alone, and I do not dislike
+it in London. But Sunday in a country-house is infernal.”
+
+“I think it is now time for us to go,” said the bishop, walking away
+with dignified reserve, and they all dispersed.
+
+The service was choral and intoned; for, although the Rev. Dionysius
+Smylie had not yet had time or opportunity, as was his intention, to
+form and train a choir from the household of the Towers, he had secured
+from his neighboring parish and other sources external and effective aid
+in that respect. The parts of the service were skillfully distributed,
+and rarely were a greater number of priests enlisted in a more imposing
+manner. A good organ was well played; the singing, as usual, a little
+too noisy; there was an anthem and an introit—but no incense, which was
+forbidden by the bishop; and, though there were candles on the altar,
+they were not permitted to be lighted.
+
+The sermon was most successful; the ladies returned with elate and
+animated faces, quite enthusiastic and almost forgetting in their
+satisfaction the terrible outrage of Lord St. Aldegonde. He himself had
+by this time repented of what he had done, and recovered his temper, and
+greeted his wife with a voice and look which indicated to her practised
+senses the favorable change.
+
+“Bertha,” he said, “you know I did not mean any thing personal to the
+bishop in what I said. I do not like bishops; I think there is no use
+in them; but I have no objection to him personally; I think him an
+agreeable man; not at all a bore. Just put it right, Bertha. But I tell
+you what, Bertha, I cannot go to church here. Lord Culloden does not go,
+and he is a very religious man. He is the man I most agree with on these
+matters. I am a free-church man, and there is on end of it. I cannot go
+this afternoon. I do not approve of the whole thing. It is altogether
+against my conscience. What I mean to do, if I can manage it, is to take
+a real long walk with the Campians.”
+
+Mrs. Campian appeared at luncheon. The bishop was attentive to her; even
+cordial. He was resolved she should not feel he was annoyed by her not
+having been a member of his congregation in the morning. Lady Corisande
+too had said to him: “I wish so much you would talk to Mrs. Campian;
+she is a sweet, noble creature, and so clever! I feel that she might be
+brought to view things in the right light.”
+
+“I never know,” said the bishop, “how to deal with these American
+ladies. I never can make out what they believe, or what they disbelieve.
+It is a sort of confusion between Mrs. Beecher Stowe and the Fifth
+Avenue congregation and—Barnum,” he added with a twinkling eye.
+
+The second service was late; the dean preached. The lateness of the hour
+permitted the lord-lieutenant and those guests who had arrived only the
+previous day to look over the castle, or ramble about the gardens. St.
+Aldegonde succeeded in his scheme of a real long walk with the Campians,
+which Lothair, bound to listen to the head of his college, was not
+permitted to share.
+
+In the evening Signor Mardoni, who had arrived, and Madame Isola Bella,
+favored them with what they called sacred music; principally prayers
+from operas and a grand Stabat Mater.
+
+Lord Culloden invited Lothair into a farther saloon, where they might
+speak without disturbing the performers or the audience.
+
+“I’ll just take advantage, my dear boy,” said Lord Culloden, in a tone
+of unusual tenderness, and of Doric accent, “of the absence of these
+gentlemen to have a little quiet conversation with you. Though I have
+not seen so much of you of late as in old days, I take a great interest
+in you, no doubt of that, and I was very pleased to see how good-natured
+you were to the girls. You have romped with them when they were little
+ones. Now, in a few hours, you will be master of a great inheritance,
+and I hope it will profit ye. I have been over the accounts with Mr.
+Giles, and I was pleased to hear that you had made yourself properly
+acquainted with them in detail. Never you sign any paper without reading
+it first, and knowing well what it means. You will have to sign a
+release to us if you be satisfied, and that you may easily be. My poor
+brother-in-law left you as large an income as may be found on this side
+Trent, but I will be bound he would stare if he saw the total of
+the whole of your rent-roll, Lothair. Your affairs have been well
+administered, though I say it who ought not. But it is not my management
+only, or principally, that has done it. It is the progress of the
+country, and you owe the country a good deal, and you should never
+forget you are born to be a protector of its liberties, civil and
+religious. And if the country sticks to free trade, and would enlarge
+its currency, and be firm to the Protestant faith, it will, under Divine
+Providence, continue to progress.
+
+“And here, my boy, I’ll just say a word, in no disagreeable manner,
+about your religious principles. There are a great many stories about,
+and perhaps they are not true, and I am sure I hope they are not. If
+popery were only just the sign of the cross, and music, and censer-pots,
+though I think them all superstitious, I’d be free to leave them alone
+if they would leave me. But popery is a much deeper thing than that,
+Lothair, and our fathers found it out. They could not stand it, and we
+should be a craven crew to stand it now. A man should be master in his
+own house. You will be taking a wife, some day; at least it is to be
+hoped so; and how will you like one of these monsignores to be walking
+into her bedroom, eh; and talking to her alone when he pleases, and
+where he pleases; and when you want to consult your wife, which a wise
+man should often do, to find there is another mind between hers and
+yours? There’s my girls, they are just two young geese, and they have a
+hankering after popery, having had a Jesuit in the house. I do not know
+what has become of the women. They are for going into a convent, and
+they are quite right in that, for if they be papists they will not find
+a husband easily in Scotland, I ween.
+
+“And as for you, my boy, they will be telling you that it is only just
+this and just that, and there’s no great difference, and what not; but
+I tell you that, if once you embrace the scarlet lady, you are a tainted
+corpse. You’ll not be able to order your dinner without a priest, and
+they will ride your best horses without saying with your leave or by
+your leave.”
+
+The concert in time ceased; there was a stir in the room; the Rev.
+Dionysius Smylie moved about mysteriously, and ultimately seemed to make
+an obeisance before the bishop. It was time for prayers.
+
+“Shall you go?” said Lord St. Aldegonde to Mrs. Campian, by whom he was
+sitting.
+
+“I like to pray alone,” she answered.
+
+“As for that,” said Aldegonde, “I am not clear we ought to pray at all,
+either in public or private. It seems very arrogant in us to dictate to
+an all-wise Creator what we desire.”
+
+“I believe in the efficacy of prayer,” said Theodora.
+
+“And I believe in you,” said St. Aldegonde, after a momentary pause.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 47 On the morrow, the early celebration in the chapel was
+numerously attended. The duchess and her daughters, Lady Agramont, and
+Mrs. Ardenne, were among the faithful; but what encouraged and gratified
+the bishop was, that the laymen, on whom he less relied, were numerously
+represented. The lord-lieutenant, Lord Carisbrooke, Lord Montairy,
+Bertram, and Hugo Bohun accompanied Lothair to the altar.
+
+After the celebration, Lothair retired to his private apartments. It
+was arranged that he was to join his assembled friends at noon, when
+he would receive their congratulations, and some deputations from the
+county.
+
+At noon, therefore, preparatively preceded by Mr. Putney Giles,
+whose thought was never asleep, and whose eye was on every thing, the
+guardians, the cardinal, and the Earl of Culloden, waited on Lothair to
+accompany him to his assembled friends, and, as it were, launch him into
+the world.
+
+They were assembled at one end of the chief gallery, and in a circle.
+Although the deputations would have to advance the whole length of the
+chamber, Lothair and his guardians entered from a side apartment. Even
+with this assistance he felt very nervous. There was no lack of feeling,
+and, among many, of deep feeling, on this occasion, but there was an
+equal and a genuine exhibition of ceremony.
+
+The lord-lieutenant was the first person who congratulated Lothair,
+though the high-sheriff had pushed forward for that purpose, but, in his
+awkward precipitation, he got involved with the train of the Hon. Lady
+Clotworthy, who bestowed on him such a withering glance, that he felt
+a routed man, and gave up the attempt. There were many kind and some
+earnest words. Even St. Aldegonde acknowledged the genius of the
+occasion. He was grave, graceful, and dignified, and, addressing
+Lothair by his title, he said, “that he hoped he would meet in life that
+happiness which he felt confident he deserved.” Theodora said nothing,
+though her lips seemed once to move; but she retained for a moment
+Lothair’s hand, and the expression of her countenance touched his
+innermost heart. Lady Corisande beamed with dazzling beauty. Her
+countenance was joyous, radiant; her mien imperial and triumphant. She
+gave her hand with graceful alacrity to Lothair, and said in a hushed
+tone, but every word of which reached his ear, “One of the happiest
+hours of my life was eight o’clock this morning.”
+
+The lord-lieutenant and the county members then retired to the other end
+of the gallery, and ushered in the deputation of the magistracy of the
+county, congratulating their new brother, for Lothair had just
+been appointed to the bench, on his secession to his estates. The
+lord-lieutenant himself read the address, to which Lothair replied with
+a propriety all acknowledged. Then came the address of the mayor and
+corporation of Grandchester, of which city Lothair was hereditary
+high-steward; and then that of his tenantry, which was cordial and
+characteristic. And here many were under the impression that this
+portion of the proceedings would terminate; but it was not so. There had
+been some whispering between the bishop and the archdeacon, and the Rev.
+Dionysius Smylie had, after conference with his superiors, twice left
+the chamber. It seems that the clergy had thought fit to take this
+occasion of congratulating Lothair on his great accession and the
+proportionate duties which it would fall on him to fulfil. The bishop
+approached Lothair and addressed him in a whisper. Lothair seemed
+surprised and a little agitated, but apparently bowed assent. Then the
+bishop and his staff proceeded to the end of the gallery and introduced
+a diocesan deputation, consisting of archdeacons and rural deans, who
+presented to Lothair a most uncompromising address, and begged his
+acceptance of a bible and prayer-book richly bound, and borne by the
+Rev. Dionysius Smylie on a cushion of velvet.
+
+The habitual pallor of the cardinal’s countenance became unusually wan;
+the cheek of Clare Arundel was a crimson flush; Monsignore Catesby
+bit his lip; Theodora looked with curious seriousness, as if she were
+observing the manners of a foreign country; St. Aldegonde snorted, and
+pushed his hand through his hair, which had been arranged in unusual
+order. The great body of those present, unaware that this deputation was
+unexpected, were unmoved.
+
+It was a trial for Lothair, and scarcely a fair one. He was not unequal
+to it, and what he said was esteemed, at the moment, by all parties
+as satisfactory; though the archdeacon, in secret conclave, afterward
+observed that he dwelt more on religion than on the Church, and spoke of
+the Church of Christ and not of the Church of England. He thanked them
+for their present of volumes, which all must reverence or respect.
+
+While all this was taking place within the Towers, vast bodies of people
+were assembling without. Besides the notables of the county and his
+tenantry and their families, which drained all the neighboring villages,
+Lothair had forwarded several thousand tickets to the mayor
+and corporation of Grandchester, for distribution among their
+fellow-townsmen, who were invited to dine at Muriel and partake of the
+festivities of the day, and trains were hourly arriving with their eager
+and happy guests. The gardens were at once open for their unrestricted
+pleasure, but at two o’clock, according to the custom of the county
+under such circumstances, Lothair held what, in fact, was a levée, or
+rather a drawing-room, when every person who possessed a ticket was
+permitted, and even invited and expected, to pass through the whole
+range of the state apartments of Muriel Towers, and at the same time pay
+their respects to, and make the acquaintance of, their lord.
+
+Lothair stood with his chief friends near him, the ladies, however,
+seated, and every one passed—farmers and townsmen and honest folk, down
+to the stokers of the trains from Grandchester, with whose presence
+St. Aldegonde was much pleased, and whom he carefully addressed as they
+passed by.
+
+After this great reception they all dined in pavilions in the park—one
+thousand tenantry by themselves, and at a fixed hour; the miscellaneous
+multitude in a huge crimson tent, very lofty, with many flags, and in
+which was served a banquet that never stopped till sunset, so that in
+time all might be satisfied; the notables and deputations, with the
+guests in the house, lunched in the armory. It was a bright day, and
+there was unceasing music.
+
+In the course of the afternoon Lothair visited the pavilions, where his
+health was proposed, and pledged—in the first by one of his tenants, and
+in the other by a workman, both orators of repute; and he addressed and
+thanked his friends. This immense multitude, orderly and joyous, roamed
+about the parks and gardens, or danced on a platform which the prescient
+experience of Mr. Giles had provided for them in a due locality, and
+whiled away the pleasant hours, in expectation a little feverish of the
+impending fireworks, which, there was a rumor, were to be on a scale
+and in a style of which neither Grandchester nor the county had any
+tradition.
+
+“I remember your words at Blenheim,” said Lothair to Theodora. “You
+cannot say the present party is founded on the principle of exclusion.”
+
+In the mean time, about six o’clock, Lothair dined in his great hall
+with his two hundred guests at a banquet where all the resources of
+nature and art seemed called upon to contribute to its luxury and
+splendor. The ladies, who had never before dined at a public dinner,
+were particularly delighted. They were delighted by the speeches, though
+they had very few; they were delighted by the national anthem, all
+rising; particularly, they were delighted by “three-times-three, and one
+cheer more,” and “hip, hip.” It seemed to their unpractised ears like
+a great naval battle, or the end of the world, or any thing else of
+unimaginable excitement, tumult, and confusion.
+
+The lord-lieutenant proposed Lothair’s health, and dexterously made
+his comparative ignorance of the subject the cause of his attempting
+a sketch of what he hoped might be the character of the person whose
+health he proposed. Every one intuitively felt the resemblance was
+just, and even complete, and Lothair confirmed their kind and sanguine
+anticipations by his terse and well-considered reply. His proposition of
+the ladies’ healths was a signal that the carriages were ready to take
+them, as arranged, to Muriel Mere.
+
+The sun had set in glory over the broad expanse of waters still glowing
+in the dying beam; the people were assembled in thousands on the borders
+of the lake, in the centre of which was an island with a pavilion.
+Fanciful barges and gondolas of various shapes and colors were waiting
+for Lothair and his party, to carry them over to the pavilion, where
+they found a repast which became the hour and the scene—coffee and ices
+and whimsical drinks, which sultanas would sip in Arabian tales. No
+sooner were they seated than the sound of music was heard—distant, but
+now nearer, till there came floating on the lake, until it rested before
+the pavilion, a gigantic shell, larger than the building itself,
+but holding in its golden and opal seats Signor Mardoni and all his
+orchestra.
+
+Then came a concert rare in itself, but ravishing in the rosy twilight;
+and in about half an hour, when the rosy twilight had subsided into
+a violet eve, and when the white moon that had only gleamed began
+to glitter, the colossal shell again moved on, and Lothair and his
+companions, embarking once more in their gondolas, followed it in
+procession about the lake. He carried in his own bark the duchess,
+Theodora, and the lord-lieutenant, and was rowed by a crew in
+Venetian dresses. As he handed Theodora to her seat, the impulse was
+irresistible—he pressed her hand to his lips.
+
+Suddenly a rocket rose with a hissing rush from the pavilion. It was
+instantly responded to from every quarter of the lake. Then the island
+seemed on fire, and the scene of their late festivity became a brilliant
+palace, with pediments and columns and statues, bright in the blaze of
+colored flame. For half an hour the sky seemed covered with blue lights
+and the bursting forms of many-colored stars; golden fountains, like the
+eruption of a marine volcano, rose from different parts of the water;
+the statued palace on the island changed and became a forest glowing
+with green light; and finally a temple of cerulean tint, on which
+appeared in huge letters of prismatic color the name of Lothair.
+
+The people cheered, but even the voice of the people was overcome by
+troops of rockets rising from every quarter of the lake, and by the
+thunder of artillery. When the noise and the smoke had both subsided,
+the name of Lothair still legible on the temple but the letters quite
+white, it was perceived that on every height for fifty miles round they
+had fired a beacon.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 48 The ball at Muriel which followed the concert on the lake
+was one of those balls which, it would seem, never would end. All the
+preliminary festivities, instead of exhausting the guests of Lothair,
+appeared only to have excited them, and rendered them more romantic
+and less tolerant of the routine of existence. They danced in the great
+gallery, which was brilliant and crowded, and they danced as they dance
+in a festive dream, with joy and the enthusiasm of gayety. The fine
+ladies would sanction no exclusiveness. They did not confine their
+inspiring society, as is sometimes too often the case, to the Brecons
+and the Bertrams and the Carisbrookes; they danced fully and freely with
+the youth of the county, and felt that in so doing they were honoring
+and gratifying their host.
+
+At one o’clock they supped in the armory, which was illuminated for
+the first time, and a banquet in a scene so picturesque and resplendent
+renovated not merely their physical energies. At four o’clock the
+duchess and a few others quietly disappeared, but her daughters
+remained, and St. Aldegonde danced endless reels, which was a form in
+which he preferred to worship Terpsichore. Perceiving by an open window
+that it was dawn, he came up to Lothair and said, “This is a case of
+breakfast.”
+
+Happy and frolicsome suggestion! The invitations circulated, and it was
+soon known that they were all to gather at the matin meal.
+
+“I am so sorry that her grace has retired,” said Hugo Bohun to Lady
+St. Aldegonde, as he fed her with bread and butter, “because she always
+likes early breakfasts in the country.”
+
+The sun was shining as the guests of the house retired, and sank into
+couches from which it seemed they never could rise again; but, long
+after this, the shouts of servants and the scuffle of carriages
+intimated that the company in general were not so fortunate and
+expeditious in their retirement from the scene; and the fields were all
+busy, and even the towns awake, when the great body of the wearied but
+delighted wassailers returned from celebrating the majority of Lothair.
+
+In the vast and statesmanlike programme of the festivities of the
+week, which had been prepared by Mr and Mrs. Putney Giles, something of
+interest and importance had been appropriated to the morrow, but it was
+necessary to erase all this; and for a simple reason—no human being on
+the morrow morn even appeared—one might say, even stirred. After all
+the gay tumult in which even thousands had joined, Muriel Towers on
+the morrow presented a scene which only could have been equalled by the
+castle in the fairy tale inhabited by the Sleeping Beauty.
+
+At length, about two hours after noon, bells began to sound which were
+not always answered. Then a languid household prepared a meal of which
+no one for a time partook, till at last a monsignore appeared, and a
+rival Anglican or two. Then St. Aldegonde came in with a troop of men
+who had been bathing in the mere, and called loudly for kidneys, which
+happened to be the only thing not at hand, as is always the case. St.
+Aldegonde always required kidneys when he had sat up all night and
+bathed. “But the odd thing is,” he said, “you never can get any thing to
+eat in these houses. Their infernal cooks spoil every thing. That’s why
+I hate staying with Bertha’s people in the north at the end of the year.
+What I want in November is a slice of cod and a beefsteak, and by Jove
+I never could get them; I was obliged to come to town. If is no joke to
+have to travel three hundred miles for a slice of cod and a beefsteak.”
+
+Notwithstanding all this, however, such is the magic of custom, that by
+sunset civilization had resumed its reign at Muriel Towers. The party
+were assembled before dinner in the saloon, and really looked as fresh
+and bright as if the exhausting and tumultuous yesterday had never
+happened. The dinner, too, notwithstanding the criticism of St.
+Aldegonde, was first rate, and pleased palates not so simply fastidious
+as his own. The bishop and his suite were to depart on the morrow, but
+the cardinal was to remain. His eminence talked much to Mrs. Campian, by
+whom, from the first, he was much struck. He was aware that she was born
+a Roman, and was not surprised that, having married a citizen of the
+United States, her sympathies were what are styled liberal; but this
+only stimulated his anxious resolution to accomplish her conversion,
+both religious and political. He recognized in her a being whose
+intelligence, imagination, and grandeur of character, might be of
+invaluable service to the Church.
+
+In the evening Monsieur Raphael and his sister, and their colleagues,
+gave a representation which was extremely well done. There was no
+theatre at Muriel, but Apollonia had felicitously arranged a contiguous
+saloon for the occasion, and, as everybody was at ease in an arm-chair,
+they all agreed it was preferable to a regular theatre.
+
+On the morrow they were to lunch with the mayor and corporation of
+Grandchester, and view some of the principal factories; on the next day
+the county gave a dinner to Lothair in their hall, the lord-lieutenant
+in the chair; on Friday there was to be a ball at Grandchester given by
+the county and city united to celebrate the great local event. It was
+whispered that this was to be a considerable affair. There was not an
+hour of the week that was not appropriated to some festive ceremony.
+
+It happened on the morning of Friday, the cardinal being alone with
+Lothair, transacting some lingering business connected with the
+guardianship, and on his legs as he spoke, that he said: “We live
+in such a happy tumult here, my dear child, that I have never had an
+opportunity of speaking to you on one or two points which interest
+me and should not be uninteresting to you. I remember a pleasant
+morning-walk we had in the park at Vauxe, when we began a conversation
+which we never finished. What say you to a repetition of our stroll?
+‘Tis a lovely day, and I dare say we might escape by this window, and
+gain some green retreat without any one disturbing us.”
+
+“I am quite of your eminence’s mind,” said Lothair, taking up a
+wide-awake, “and I will lead you where it is not likely we shall be
+disturbed.”
+
+So, winding their way through the pleasure-grounds, they entered by a
+wicket a part of the park where the sunny glades soon wandered among the
+tall fern and wild groves of venerable oaks.
+
+“I sometimes feel,” said the cardinal, “that I may have been too
+punctilious in avoiding conversation with you on a subject the most
+interesting and important to man. But I felt a delicacy in exerting my
+influence as a guardian on a subject my relations to which, when your
+dear father appointed me to that office, were so different from those
+which now exist. But you are now your own master; I can use no control
+over you but that influence which the words of truth must always
+exercise over an ingenuous mind.”
+
+His eminence paused for a moment and looked at his companion; but
+Lothair remained silent, with his eyes fixed upon the ground.
+
+“It has always been a source of satisfaction, I would even say
+consolation, to me,” resumed the cardinal, “to know you were a religious
+man; that your disposition was reverential, which is the highest order
+of temperament, and brings us nearest to the angels. But we live
+in times of difficulty and danger—extreme difficulty and danger; a
+religious disposition may suffice for youth in the tranquil hour, and he
+may find, in due season, his appointed resting-place: but these are days
+of imminent peril; the soul requires a sanctuary. Is yours at hand?”
+
+The cardinal paused, and Lothair was obliged to meet a direct appeal.
+He said then, after a momentary hesitation: “When you last spoke to
+me, sir, on these grave matters, I said I was in a state of great
+despondency. My situation now is not so much despondent as perplexed.”
+
+“And I wish you to tell me the nature of your perplexity,” replied the
+cardinal, “for there is no anxious embarrassment of mind which Divine
+truth cannot disentangle and allay.”
+
+“Well,” said Lothair, “I must say I am often perplexed at the
+differences which obtrude themselves between Divine truth and human
+knowledge.”
+
+“Those are inevitable,” said the cardinal. “Divine truth being
+unchangeable, and human knowledge changing every century; rather, I
+should say, every generation.”
+
+“Perhaps, instead of human knowledge, I should have said human
+progress,” rejoined Lothair.
+
+“Exactly,” said the cardinal, “but what is progress? Movement. But what
+if it be movement in the wrong direction? What if it be a departure from
+Divine truth?”
+
+“But I cannot understand why religion should be inconsistent with
+civilization,” said Lothair.
+
+“Religion is civilization,” said the cardinal; “the highest: it is a
+reclamation of man from savageness by the Almighty. What the world calls
+civilization, as distinguished from religion, is a retrograde movement,
+and will ultimately lead us back to the barbarism from which we have
+escaped. For instance, you talk of progress: what is the chief social
+movement of all the countries that three centuries ago separated from
+the unity of the Church of Christ? The rejection of the sacrament of
+Christian matrimony. The introduction of the law of divorce, which is,
+in fact, only a middle term to the abolition of marriage. What does
+that mean? The extinction of the home and the household on which God
+has rested civilization. If there be no home, the child belongs to the
+state, not to the parent. The state educates the child, and without
+religion, because the state in a country of progress acknowledges no
+religion. For every man is not only to think as he likes, but to write
+and to speak as he likes, and to sow with both hands broadcast, where he
+will, errors, heresies, and blasphemies, without any authority on earth
+to restrain the scattering of this seed of universal desolation. And
+this system, which would substitute for domestic sentiment and Divine
+belief the unlimited and licentious action of human intellect and human
+will, is called progress. What is it but a revolt against God?”
+
+“I am sure I wish there were only one Church and one religion,” said
+Lothair.
+
+“There is only one Church and only one religion,” said the cardinal;
+“all other forms and phrases are mere phantasms, without root, or
+substance, or coherency. Look at that unhappy Germany, once so proud
+of its Reformation. What they call the leading journal tells us to-day,
+that it is a question there whether four-fifths or three-fourths of the
+population believe in Christianity. Some portion of it has already
+gone back, I understand, to Number Nip. Look at this unfortunate land,
+divided, subdivided, parcelled out in infinite schism, with new oracles
+every day, and each more distinguished for the narrowness of his
+intellect or the loudness of his lungs; once the land of saints and
+scholars, and people in pious pilgrimages, and finding always solace and
+support in the divine offices of an ever-present Church, which were a
+true though a faint type of the beautiful future that awaited man.
+Why, only three centuries of this rebellion against the Most High have
+produced throughout the world, on the subject the most important that
+man should possess a clear, firm faith, an anarchy of opinion, throwing
+out every monstrous and fantastic form, from a caricature of the Greek
+philosophy to a revival of fetichism.”
+
+“It is a chaos,” said Lothair, with a sigh.
+
+“From which I wish to save you,” said the cardinal, with some eagerness.
+“This is not a time to hesitate. You must be for God, or for Antichrist.
+The Church calls upon her children.”
+
+“I am not unfaithful to the Church,” said Lothair, “which was the Church
+of my fathers.”
+
+“The Church of England,” said the cardinal. “It was mine. I think of it
+ever with tenderness and pity. Parliament made the Church of England,
+and Parliament will unmake the Church of England. The Church of England
+is not the Church of the English. Its fate is sealed. It will soon
+become a sect, and all sects are fantastic. It will adopt new dogmas,
+or it will abjure old ones; any thing to distinguish it from the
+non-conforming herd in which, nevertheless, it will be its fate to
+merge. The only consoling hope is that, when it falls, many of its
+children, by the aid of the Blessed Virgin, may return to Christ.”
+
+“What I regret, sir,” said Lothair, “is that the Church of Rome should
+have placed itself in antagonism with political liberty. This adds to
+the difficulties which the religious cause has to encounter; for it
+seems impossible to deny that political freedom is now the sovereign
+passion of communities.”
+
+“I cannot admit,” replied the cardinal, “that the Church is in
+antagonism with political freedom. On the contrary, in my opinion, there
+can be no political freedom which is not founded on Divine authority;
+otherwise it can be at the best but a specious phantom of license
+inevitably terminating in anarchy. The rights and liberties of the
+people of Ireland have no advocates except the Church; because, there,
+political freedom is founded on Divine authority; but if you mean by
+political freedom the schemes of the illuminati and the freemasons,
+which perpetually torture the Continent, all the dark conspiracies of
+the secret societies, there, I admit, the Church is in antagonism
+with such aspirations after liberty; those aspirations, in fact, are
+blasphemy and plunder; and, if the Church were to be destroyed, Europe
+would be divided between the atheist and the communist.”
+
+There was a pause; the conversation had unexpectedly arrived at a point
+where neither party cared to pursue it. Lothair felt he had said enough;
+the cardinal was disappointed with what Lothair had said. His eminence
+felt that his late ward was not in that ripe state of probation which he
+had fondly anticipated; but, being a man not only of vivid perception,
+but also of fertile resource, while he seemed to close the present
+conversation, he almost immediately pursued his object by another
+combination of means. Noticing an effect of scenery which pleased
+him, reminded him of Styria, and so on, he suddenly said: “You should
+travel.”
+
+“Well, Bertram wants me to go to Egypt with him,” said Lothair.
+
+“A most interesting country,” said the cardinal, “and well worth
+visiting. It is astonishing what a good guide old Herodotus still is in
+that land! But you should know something of Europe before you go there.
+Egypt is rather a land to end with. A young man should visit the chief
+capitals of Europe, especially the seats of learning and the arts. If my
+advice were asked by a young man who contemplated travelling on a proper
+scale, I should say begin with Rome. Almost all that Europe contains
+is derived from Rome. It is always best to go to the fountain-head, to
+study the original. The society too, there, is delightful; I know none
+equal to it. That, if you please, is civilization—pious and refined. And
+the people—all so gifted and so good—so kind, so orderly, so charitable,
+so truly virtuous. I believe the Roman people to be the best people that
+ever lived, and this too while the secret societies have their foreign
+agents in every quarter, trying to corrupt them, but always in vain.
+If an act of political violence occurs, you may be sure it is confined
+entirely to foreigners.”
+
+“Our friends the St. Jeromes are going to Rome,” said Lothair.
+
+“Well, and that would be pleasant for you. Think seriously of this, my
+dear, young friend. I could be of some little service to you if you go
+to Rome, which, after all, every man ought to do. I could put you, in
+the way of easily becoming acquainted with all the right people, who
+would take care that you saw Rome with profit and advantage.”
+
+Just at this moment, in a winding glade, they were met abruptly by a
+third person. All seemed rather to start at the sudden rencounter; and
+then Lothair eagerly advanced and welcomed the stranger with a proffered
+hand.
+
+“This is a most unexpected, but to me most agreeable, meeting,” he said.
+“You must now be my guest.”
+
+“That would be a great honor,” said the stranger, “but one I cannot
+enjoy. I had to wait at the station a couple of hours or so for my
+train, and they told me if I strolled here I. should find some pretty
+country. I have been so pleased with it, that I fear I have strolled too
+long, and I literally have not an instant at my command,” and he hurried
+away.
+
+“Who is that person?” asked the cardinal with some agitation.
+
+“I have not the slightest idea,” said Lothair. “All I know is, he once
+saved my life.”
+
+“And all I know is,” said the cardinal, “he once threatened mine.”
+
+“Strange!” said Lothair, and then he rapidly recounted to the cardinal
+his adventure at the Fenian meeting.
+
+“Strange!” echoed his eminence.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 49 Mrs. Campian did not appear at luncheon, which was observed
+but not noticed. Afterward, while Lothair was making some arrangements
+for the amusement of his guests, and contriving that they should fit in
+with the chief incident of the day, which was the banquet given to him
+by the county, and which it was settled the ladies were not to attend,
+the colonel took him aside and said, “I do not think that Theodora will
+care to go out to-day.”
+
+“She is not unwell, I hope?”
+
+“Not exactly—but she has had some news, some news of some friends,
+which has disturbed her. And, if you will excuse me, I will request your
+permission not to attend the dinner to-day, which I had hoped to have
+had the honor of doing. But I think our plans must be changed a little.
+I almost think we shall not go to Scotland after all.”
+
+“There is not the slightest necessity for your going to the dinner. You
+will have plenty to keep you in countenance at home. Lord St. Aldegonde
+is not going, nor I fancy any of them. I shall take the duke with me and
+Lord Culloden, and, if you do not go, I shall take Mr. Putney Giles.
+The lord-lieutenant will meet us there. I am sorry about Mrs. Campian,
+because I know she is not ever put out by little things. May I not see
+her in the course of the day? I should be very sorry that the day should
+pass over without seeing her.”
+
+“Oh! I dare say she will see you in the course of the day, before you
+go.”
+
+“When she likes. I shall not go out to-day; I shall keep in my rooms,
+always at her commands. Between ourselves, I shall not be sorry to have
+a quiet morning and collect my ideas a little. Speech-making is a new
+thing for me. I wish you would tell me what to say to the county.”
+
+Lothair had appropriated to the Campians one of the most convenient and
+complete apartments in the castle. It consisted of four chambers, one of
+them a saloon which had been fitted up for his mother when she married;
+a pretty saloon, hung with pale-green silk, and portraits and scenes
+inlaid by Vanloo and Boucher. It was rather late in the afternoon when
+Lothair received a message from Theodora in reply to the wish that he
+had expressed of seeing her.
+
+When he entered the room, she was not seated; her countenance was
+serious. She advanced, and thanked him for wishing to see her, and
+regretted she could not receive him at an earlier hour. “I fear it
+may have inconvenienced you,” she added; “but my mind has been much
+disturbed, and too agitated for conversation.”
+
+“Even now I may be an intruder?”
+
+“No, it is past; on the contrary, I wish to speak to you; indeed, you
+are the only person with whom I could speak,” and she sat down.
+
+Her countenance, which was unusually pale when he entered, became
+flushed. “It is not a subject for the festive hour of your life,” she
+said, “but I cannot resist my fate.”
+
+“Your fate must always interest me,” murmured Lothair.
+
+“Yes; but my fate is the fate of ages and of nations,” said Theodora,
+throwing up her head with that tumult of the brow which he had once
+before noticed. “Amid the tortures of my spirit at this moment, not the
+least is that there is only one person I can appeal to, and he is one to
+whom I have no right to make that appeal.”
+
+“If I be that person,” said Lothair, “you have every right, for I am
+devoted to you.”
+
+“Yes; but it is not personal devotion that is the qualification needed.
+It is not sympathy with me that would authorize such an appeal. It
+must be sympathy with a cause, and a cause for which, I fear, you do
+not—perhaps I should say you cannot—feel.”
+
+“Why?” said Lothair.
+
+“Why should you feel for my fallen country, who are the proudest
+citizen of the proudest of lands? Why should you feel for its debasing
+thraldom—you who, in the religious mystification of man, have, at least,
+the noble privilege of being a Protestant?”
+
+“You speak of Rome?”
+
+“Yes, of the only thought I have, or ever had. I speak of that country
+which first impressed upon the world a general and enduring form of
+masculine virtue; the land of liberty, and law, and eloquence, and
+military genius, now garrisoned by monks, and governed by a doting
+priest.”
+
+“Everybody must be interested about Rome,” said Lothair. “Rome is the
+country of the world, and even the doting priest you talk of boasts of
+two hundred millions of subjects.”
+
+“If he were at Avignon again, I should not care for his boasts,” said
+Theodora. “I do not grudge him his spiritual subjects; I am content to
+leave his superstition to Time. Time is no longer slow; his scythe mows
+quickly in this age. But when his debasing creeds are palmed off on man
+by the authority of our glorious capitol, and the slavery of the human
+mind is schemed and carried on in the forum, then, if there be real
+Roman blood left—and I thank my Creator there is much—it is time for it
+to mount and move,” and she rose and walked up and down the room.
+
+“You have had news from Rome?” said Lothair.
+
+“I have had news from Rome,” she replied, speaking slowly in a deep
+voice; and there was a pause.
+
+Then Lothair said: “When you have alluded to these matters before, you
+never spoke of them in a sanguine spirit.”
+
+“I have seen the cause triumph,” said Theodora; “the sacred cause of
+truth, of justice, of national honor. I have sat at the feet of the
+triumvirate of the Roman Republic; men who, for virtue, and genius, and
+warlike skill and valor, and every quality that exalts man, were never
+surpassed in the olden time—no, not by the Catos and the Scipios; and I
+have seen the blood of my own race poured, like a rich vintage, on the
+victorious Roman soil; my father fell, who, in stature and in mien, was
+a god; and, since then, my beautiful brothers, with shapes to enshrine
+in temples; and I have smiled amid the slaughter of my race, for I
+believed that Rome was free; and yet all this vanished. How, then, when
+we talked, could I be sanguine?”
+
+“And yet you are sanguine now?” said Lothair, with a scrutinizing
+glance; and he rose and joined her, leaning slightly on the
+mantel-piece.
+
+“There was only one event that could secure the success of our efforts,”
+said Theodora, “and that event was so improbable, that I had long
+rejected it from calculation. It has happened, and Rome calls upon me to
+act.”
+
+“The Papalini are strong,” continued Theodora, after a pause; “they have
+been long preparing for the French evacuation; they have a considerable
+and disciplined force of janizaries, a powerful artillery, the strong
+places of the city. The result of a rising, under such circumstances,
+might be more than doubtful; if unsuccessful, to us it would be
+disastrous. It is necessary that the Roman States should be invaded, and
+the papal army must then quit their capital. We have no fear of them in
+the field. Yes,” she added, with energy, “we could sweep them from the
+face of the earth!”
+
+“But the army of Italy,” said Lothair, “will that be inert?”
+
+“There it is,” said Theodora. “That has been our stumbling-block. I have
+always known that, if ever the French quitted Rome, it would be on the
+understanding that the house of Savoy should inherit the noble office
+of securing our servitude. He in whom I alone confide would never credit
+this; but my information, in this respect, was authentic. However, it
+is no longer necessary to discuss the question. News has come, and in no
+uncertain shape, that whatever may have been the understanding, under
+no circumstances will the Italian army enter the Roman state. We must
+strike, therefore, and Rome will be free. But how am I to strike? We
+have neither money nor arms. We have only men. I can give them no more,
+because I have already given them every thing, except my life, which
+is always theirs. As for my husband, who, I may say, wedded me on the
+battle-field, so far as wealth was concerned, he was then a prince among
+princes, and would pour forth his treasure, and his life, with equal
+eagerness. But things have changed since Aspromonte. The struggle in
+his own country has entirely deprived him of revenues as great as any
+forfeited by their Italian princelings. In fact, it is only by a chance
+that he is independent. Had it not been for an excellent man, one of
+your great English merchants, who was his agent here, and managed his
+affairs, we should have been penniless. His judicious investments of
+the superfluity of our income, which, at the time, my husband never even
+noticed, have secured for Colonel Campian the means of that
+decorous life which he appreciates—but no more. As for myself, these
+considerations are nothing. I will not say I should be insensible to a
+refined life with refined companions, if the spirit were content and the
+heart serene; but I never could fully realize the abstract idea of what
+they call wealth; I never could look upon it except as a means to
+an end, and my end has generally been military material. Perhaps the
+vicissitudes of my life have made me insensible to what are called
+reverses of fortune, for, when a child, I remember sleeping on the
+moonlit flags of Paris, with no pillow except my tambourine; and I
+remember it not without delight. Let us sit down. I feel I am talking in
+an excited, injudicious, egotistical, rhapsodical, manner. I thought I
+was calm, and I meant to have been clear. But the fact is, I am ashamed
+of myself. I am doing a wrong thing, and in a wrong manner. But I have
+had a sleepless night, and a day of brooding thought. I meant once to
+have asked you to help me, and now I feel that you are the last person
+to whom I ought to appeal.”
+
+“In that you are in error,” said Lothair, rising and taking her hand
+with an expression of much gravity; “I am the right person for you to
+appeal to—the only person.”
+
+“Nay,” said Theodora, and she shook her head.
+
+“For I owe to you a debt that I never can repay,” continued Lothair.
+“Had it not been for you, I should have remained what I was when we
+first met, a prejudiced, narrow-minded being, with contracted sympathies
+and false knowledge, wasting my life on obsolete trifles, and utterly
+insensible to the privilege of living in this wondrous age of change and
+progress. Why, had it not been for you I should have at this very moment
+been lavishing my fortune on an ecclesiastical toy, which I think of
+with a blush. There may be—doubtless there are—opinions in which we may
+not agree; but in our love of truth and justice there is no difference,
+dearest lady. No; though you must have felt that I am not—that no one
+could be—insensible to your beauty and infinite charms, still it is your
+consummate character that has justly fascinated my thought and heart;
+and I have long resolved, were I permitted, to devote to you my fortune
+and my life.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 50 The month of September was considerably advanced when a
+cab, evidently from its luggage fresh from the railway, entered the
+court-yard of Hexham House, of which the shuttered windows indicated the
+absence of its master, the cardinal, then in Italy. But it was evident
+that the person who had arrived was expected, for before his servant
+could ring the hall-bell the door opened, and a grave-looking domestic
+advanced with much deference, and awaited the presence of no less a
+personage than Monsignore Berwick.
+
+“We have had a rough passage, good Clifford,” said the great man,
+alighting, “but I see you duly received my telegram. You are always
+ready.”
+
+“I hope my lord will find it not uncomfortable,” said Clifford. “I have
+prepared the little suite which you mentioned, and have been careful
+that there should be no outward sign of any one having arrived.”
+
+“And now,” said the monsignore, stopping for a moment in the ball, “here
+is a letter which must be instantly delivered, and by a trusty hand,”
+and he gave it to Mr. Clifford, who, looking at the direction, nodded
+his head and said, “By no one but myself. I will show my lord to his
+rooms and depart with this instantly.”
+
+“And bring back a reply,” added the monsignore.
+
+The well-lit room, the cheerful fire, the judicious refection on
+a side-table, were all circumstances which usually would have been
+agreeable to a wearied traveller, but Monsignore Berwick seemed little
+to regard them. Though a man in general superior to care, and master of
+thought, his countenance was troubled and pensive even to dejection.
+
+“Even the winds and waves are against us,” he exclaimed, too restless
+to be seated, and walking up and down the room with his arms behind
+his back. “That such a struggle should fall to my lot! Why was I not a
+minister in the days of the Gregorys, the Innocents, even the Leos! But
+this is craven. There should be inspiration in peril, and the greatest
+where peril is extreme. I am a little upset—with travel and the voyage
+and those telegrams not being answered. The good Clifford was wisely
+provident,” and he approached the table and took one glass of wine.
+“Good! One must never despair in such a cause. And if the worse happens,
+it has happened before—and what then? Suppose Avignon over again, or
+even Gaeta, or even Paris? So long as we never relinquish our title to
+the Eternal City we shall be eternal. But then, some say, our enemies
+before were the sovereigns; now it is the people. Is it so? True we have
+vanquished kings, and baffled emperors—but the French Republic and the
+Roman Republic have alike reigned and ruled in the Vatican, and where
+are they? We have lost provinces, but we have also gained them. We have
+twelve millions of subjects in the United States of America, and they
+will increase like the sands of the sea. Still it is a hideous thing to
+have come back, as it were, to the days of the Constable of Bourbon, and
+to be contemplating the siege of the Holy See, and massacre and pillage
+and ineffable horrors! The papacy may survive such calamities, as it
+undoubtedly will, but I shall scarcely figure in history if, under my
+influence, such visitations should accrue. If I had only to deal with
+men, I would not admit of failure; but when your antagonists are human
+thoughts, represented by invisible powers, there is something that might
+baffle a Machiavel and appall a Borgia.”
+
+While he was meditating in this vein the door opened, and Mr. Clifford,
+with some hasty action and speaking rapidly, exclaimed: “He said he
+would be here sooner than myself. His carriage was at the door. I drove
+back as soon as possible—and indeed I hear something now in the court,”
+and he disappeared.
+
+It was only to usher in, almost immediately, a stately personage in an
+evening dress, and wearing a decoration of a high class, who saluted the
+monsignore with great cordiality.
+
+“I am engaged to dine with the Prussian ambassador, who has been obliged
+to come to town to receive a prince of the blood who is visiting the
+dockyards here; but I thought you might be later than you expected, and
+I ordered my carriage to be in waiting, so that we have a good little
+hour—and I can come on to you again afterward, if that will not do.”
+
+“A little hour with us is a long hour with other people,” said the
+monsignore, “because we are friends and can speak without windings. You
+are a true friend to the Holy See; you have proved it. We are in great
+trouble and need of aid.”
+
+“I hear that things are not altogether as we could wish,” said the
+gentleman in an evening dress; “but I hope, and should think, only
+annoyances.”
+
+“Dangers,” said Berwick, “and great.”
+
+“How so?”
+
+“Well, we have invasion threatening us without and insurrection within,”
+said Berwick. “We might, though it is doubtful, successfully encounter
+one of these perils, but their united action must be fatal.”
+
+“All this has come suddenly,” said the gentleman. “In the summer you
+had no fear, and our people wrote to us that we might be perfectly
+tranquil.”
+
+“Just so,” said Berwick. “If we had met a month ago, I should have
+told you the same thing. A month ago the revolution seemed lifeless,
+penniless; without a future, without a resource. They had no money, no
+credit, no men. At present, quietly but regularly, they are assembling
+by thousands on our frontiers; thy have to our knowledge received two
+large consignments of small arms, and apparently have unlimited credit
+with the trade, both in Birmingham and Liége; they have even artillery;
+every thing is paid for in coin or in good bills—and, worst of all, they
+have a man, the most consummate soldier in Europe. I thought he was
+at New York, and was in hopes he would never have recrossed the
+Atlantic—but I know that he passed through Florence a fortnight ago, and
+I have seen a man who says he spoke to him at Narni.”
+
+“The Italian government must stop all this,” said the gentleman.
+
+“They do not stop it,” said Berwick. “The government of his holiness
+has made every representation to them: we have placed in their hands
+indubitable evidence of the illegal proceedings that are taking place
+and of the internal dangers we experience in consequence of their
+exterior movements. But they do nothing: it is even believed that the
+royal troops are joining the insurgents, and Garibaldi is spouting with
+impunity in every balcony of Florence.”
+
+“You may depend upon it that our government is making strong
+representations to the government of Florence.”
+
+“I come from Paris and elsewhere,” said Berwick, with animation and
+perhaps a degree of impatience. “I have seen everybody there, and I have
+heard every thing. It is not representations that are wanted from your
+government; it is something of a different kind.”
+
+“But if you have seen everybody at Paris and heard every thing, how can
+I help you?”
+
+“By acting upon the government here. A word from you to the English
+minister would have great weight at this juncture. Queen Victoria is
+interested in the maintenance of the papal throne. Her Catholic subjects
+are counted by millions. The influence of his holiness has been hitherto
+exercised against the Fenians. France would interfere, if she was sure
+the step would not be disapproved by England.”
+
+“Interfere!” said the gentleman. “Our return to Rome almost before
+we have paid our laundresses’ bills in the Eternal City would be a
+diplomatic scandal.”
+
+“A diplomatic scandal would be preferable to a European revolution.”
+
+“Suppose we were to have both?” and the gentleman drew his chair near
+the fire.
+
+“I am convinced that a want of firmness now,” said Berwick, “would lead
+to inconceivable calamities for all of us.”
+
+“Let us understand each other, my very dear friend Berwick,” said his
+companion, and he threw his arm over the back of his chair and looked
+the Roman full in his face. “You say you have been at Paris and
+elsewhere, and have seen everybody and heard every thing?”
+
+“Yes, yes.”
+
+“Something has happened to us also during the last month, and as
+unexpectedly as to yourselves.”
+
+“The secret societies? Yes, he spoke to me on that very point, and
+fully. ‘Tis strange, but is only, in my opinion, an additional argument
+in favor of crushing the evil influence.”
+
+“Well, that he must decide. But the facts are startling. A month ago the
+secret societies in France were only a name; they existed only in the
+memory of the police, and almost as a tradition. At present we know that
+they are in complete organization, and what is most strange is that the
+prefects write they have information that the Mary-Anne associations,
+which are essentially republican and are scattered about the provinces,
+are all revived, and are astir. Mary-Anne, as you know, was the red name
+for the republic years ago, and there always was a sort of myth that
+these societies had been founded by a woman. Of course that is all
+nonsense, but they keep it up; it affects the public imagination, and
+my government has undoubted evidence that the word of command has gone
+round to all these societies that Mary-Anne has; returned and will issue
+her orders, which must be obeyed.”
+
+“The Church is stronger, and especially in the provinces, than the
+Mary-Anne societies,” said Berwick.
+
+“I hope so,” said his friend; “but you see, my dear monsignore, the
+question with us is not so simple as you put It. The secret societies
+will not tolerate another Roman interference, to say nothing of the
+diplomatic hubbub, which we might, if necessary, defy; but what if,
+taking advantage of the general indignation, your new kingdom of Italy
+may seize the golden opportunity of making a popular reputation, and
+declare herself the champion of national independence against the
+interference of the foreigner? My friend, we tread on delicate ground.”
+
+“If Rome falls, not an existing dynasty in Europe will survive five
+years,” said Berwick.
+
+“It may be so,” said his companion, but with no expression of
+incredulity. “You know how consistently and anxiously I have always
+labored to support the authority of the Holy See, and to maintain its
+territorial position as the guarantee of its independence; but Fate has
+decided against us. I cannot indulge in the belief that his holiness
+will ever regain his lost provinces; a capital without a country is an
+apparent anomaly, which I fear will always embarrass us. We can treat
+the possession as the capital of Christendom, but, alas! all the world
+are not as good Christians as ourselves, and Christendom is a country
+no longer marked out in the map of the world. I wish,” continued the
+gentleman in a tone almost coaxing—“I wish we could devise some plan
+which, humanly speaking, would secure to his holiness the possession
+of his holy throne forever. I wish I could induce you to consider more
+favorably that suggestion, that his holiness should content himself with
+the ancient city, and, in possession of St. Peter’s and the Vatican,
+leave the rest of Rome to the vulgar cares and the mundane anxieties
+of the transient generation. Yes,” he added with energy, “if, my dear
+Berwick, you could see your way to this, or something like this, I think
+even now and at once, I could venture to undertake that the emperor, my
+master, would soon put an end to all these disturbances and dangers, and
+that—”
+
+“Non possumus,” said Berwick, sternly stopping him; “sooner than that
+Attila, the Constable of Bourbon, or the blasphemous orgies of the Red
+Republic! After all, it is the Church against the secret societies.
+They are the only two strong things in Europe, and will survive kings,
+emperors, or parliaments.”
+
+At this moment there was a tap at the door, and, bidden to enter, Mr.
+Clifford presented himself with a sealed paper, for the gentleman in
+evening dress. “Your secretary, sir, brought this, which he said must be
+given you before you went to the ambassador.”
+
+“‘Tis well,” said the gentleman, and he rose, and with a countenance of
+some excitement read the paper, which contained a telegram; and then he
+said: “This, I think, will help us out of our immediate difficulties,
+my dear monsignore. Rattazzi has behaved like a man of sense, and has
+arrested Garibaldi. But you do not seem, my friend, as pleased as I
+should have anticipated.”
+
+“Garibaldi has been arrested before,” said Berwick.
+
+“Well, well, I am hopeful; but I must go to my dinner. I will see you
+again tomorrow.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 51 The continuous gathering of what, in popular language, were
+styled the Garibaldi Volunteers, on the southern border of the papal
+territory in the autumn of 1867, was not the only or perhaps the
+greatest danger which then threatened the Holy See, though the one which
+most attracted its alarmed attention. The considerable numbers in which
+this assemblage was suddenly occurring; the fact that the son of the
+Liberator had already taken its command, and only as the precursor of
+his formidable sire; the accredited rumor that Ghirelli at the head of a
+purely Roman legion was daily expected to join the frontier force; that
+Nicotera was stirring in the old Neapolitan kingdom, while the
+Liberator himself at Florence and in other parts of Tuscany was even
+ostentatiously, certainly with impunity, preaching the new crusade and
+using all his irresistible influence with the populace to excite their
+sympathies and to stimulate their energy, might well justify the extreme
+apprehension of the court of Rome. And yet dangers at least equal, and
+almost as close, were at the same time preparing unnoticed and unknown.
+
+In the mountainous range between Fiascone and Viterbo, contiguous to
+the sea, is a valley surrounded by chains of steep and barren hills, but
+which is watered by a torrent scarcely dry, even in summer; so that
+the valley itself, which is not inconsiderable in its breadth, is never
+without verdure, while almost a forest of brushwood formed of shrubs,
+which in England we should consider rare, bounds the natural turf and
+ascends sometimes to no inconsiderable height the nearest hills.
+
+Into this valley, toward the middle of September, there defiled one
+afternoon through a narrow pass a band of about fifty men, all armed,
+and conducting a cavalcade or rather a caravan of mules laden with
+munitions of war and other stores. When they had gained the centre
+of the valley and a general halt was accomplished, their commander,
+accompanied by one who was apparently an officer, surveyed all the
+points of the locality; and, when their companions had rested and
+refreshed themselves, they gave the necessary orders for the preparation
+of a camp. The turf already afforded a sufficient area for their present
+wants, but it was announced that on the morrow they must commence
+clearing the brushwood. In the mean time, one of the liveliest scenes
+of military life soon rapidly developed itself: the canvas houses
+were pitched, the sentries appointed, the videttes established. The
+commissariat was limited to bread and olives, and generally the running
+stream, varied sometimes by coffee, and always consoled by tobacco.
+
+On the third day, amid their cheerful though by no means light labors, a
+second caravan arrived, evidently expected and heartily welcomed. Then,
+in another eight-and-forty hours, smaller bodies of men seemed to drop
+down from the hills, generally without stores, but always armed. Then
+men came from neighboring islands in open boats, and one morning a
+considerable detachment crossed the water from Corsica. So that at the
+end of a week or ten days there was an armed force of several hundred
+men in this once silent valley, now a scene of constant stir and
+continual animation, for some one or something was always arriving, and
+from every quarter; men and arms and stores crept in from every wild
+pass of the mountains and every little rocky harbor of the coast.
+
+About this time, while the officer in command was reviewing a
+considerable portion of the troops, the rest laboring in still clearing
+the brushwood and establishing the many works incidental to a camp, half
+a dozen horsemen were seen descending the mountain-pass by which the
+original body had entered the valley. A scout had preceded them, and
+the troops with enthusiasm awaited the arrival of that leader, a message
+from whose magic name had summoned them to this secluded rendezvous from
+many a distant state and city. Unruffled, but with an inspiring fire in
+his pleased keen eye, that general answered their devoted salute, whom
+hitherto we have known by his travelling name of Captain Bruges.
+
+It was only toward the end of the preceding month that he had resolved
+to take the field; but the organization of the secret societies is
+so complete that he knew he could always almost instantly secure the
+assembling of a picked force in a particular place. The telegraph
+circulated its mystic messages to every part of France and Italy and
+Belgium, and to some old friends not so conveniently at hand, but who he
+doubted not would arrive in due time for action. He himself had employed
+the interval in forwarding all necessary supplies, and he had passed
+through Florence in order that he might confer with the great spirit of
+Italian movement and plan with him the impending campaign.
+
+After he had passed in review the troops, the general, with the officers
+of his staff who had accompanied him, visited on foot every part of
+the camp. Several of the men he recognized by name; to all of them he
+addressed some inspiring word; a memory of combats in which they had
+fought together, or happy allusions to adventures if romantic peril;
+some question which indicated that local knowledge which is magical
+for those who are away from home; mixed with all this, sharp, clear
+inquiries as to the business of the hour, which proved the master of
+detail, severe in discipline, but never deficient in sympathy for his
+troops.
+
+After sunset, enveloped in their cloaks, the general and his companions,
+the party increased by the officers who had been in command previous to
+his arrival, smoked their cigars round the camp-fire.
+
+“Well, Sarano,” said the general, “I will look over your muster-roll
+to-morrow, but I should suppose I may count on a thousand rifles or so.
+I want three, and we shall get them. The great man would have supplied
+them me at once, but I will not have boys. He must send those on to
+Menotti. I told him: ‘I am not a man of genius; I do not pretend to
+conquer kingdoms with boys. Give me old soldiers, men who have served
+a couple of campaigns, and been seasoned with four-and-twenty months of
+camp-life, and I will not disgrace you or myself.’”
+
+“We have had no news from the other place for a long time,” said Sarano.
+“How is it?”
+
+“Well enough. They are in the mountains about Nerola, in a position not
+very unlike this; numerically strong, for Nicotera has joined them, and
+Ghirelli with the Roman Legion is at hand. They must be quiet till the
+great man joins them; I am told they are restless. There has been too
+much noise about the whole business. Had they been as mum as you have
+been, we should not have had all these representations from France and
+these threatened difficulties from that quarter. The Papalini would have
+complained and remonstrated, and Rattazzi could have conscientiously
+assured the people at Paris that they were dealing with exaggerations
+and bugbears; the very existence of the frontier force would have become
+a controversy, and, while the newspapers were proving it was a myth, we
+should have been in the Vatican.”
+
+“And when shall we be there, general?”
+
+“I do not want to move for a month. By that time I shall have two
+thousand five hundred or three thousand of my old comrades, and the
+great man will have put his boys in trim. Both bodies must leave their
+mountains at the same time, join in the open country, and march to
+Rome.”
+
+As the night advanced, several of the party rose and left the
+camp-fire—some to their tents, some to their duties. Two of the staff
+remained with the general.
+
+“I am disappointed and uneasy that we have not heard from Paris,” said
+one of them.
+
+“I am disappointed,” said the general, “but not uneasy; she never makes
+a mistake.”
+
+“The risk was too great,” rejoined the speaker in a depressed tone.
+
+“I do not see that,” said the general. “What is the risk? Who could
+possibly suspect the lady’s maid of the Princess of Tivoli! I am told
+that the princess has become quite a favorite at the Tuileries.”
+
+“They say that the police is not so well informed as it used to be;
+nevertheless, I confess I should be much happier were she sitting round
+this camp-fire.”
+
+“Courage!” said the general. “I do not believe in many things, but I do
+believe in the divine Theodora. What say you, Captain Muriel? I hope you
+are not offended by my criticism of young soldiers. You are the youngest
+in our band, but you have good military stuff in you, and will be soon
+seasoned.”
+
+“I feel I serve under a master of the art,” replied Lothair, “and will
+not take the gloomy view of Colonel Campian about our best friend,
+though I share all his disappointment. It seems to me that detection is
+impossible. I am sure that I could not have recognized her when I handed
+the princess into her carriage.”
+
+“The step was absolutely necessary,” said the general; “no one could be
+trusted but herself—no other person has the influence. All our danger is
+from France. The Italian troops will never cross the frontier to attack
+us, rest assured of that. I have proof of it. And it is most difficult,
+almost impossible, for the French to return. There never would have been
+an idea of such a step, if there had been a little more discretion at
+Florence, less of those manifestoes and speeches from balconies. But we
+must not criticise one who is above criticism. Without him we could do
+nothing, and when he stamps his foot men rise from the earth. I will go
+the rounds; come with me, Captain Muriel. Colonel, I order you to your
+tent; you are a veteran—the only one among us, at least on the staff,
+who was wounded at Aspromonte.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 52 The life of Lothair had been so strange and exciting since he
+quitted Muriel Towers that he had found little time for that reflection
+in which he was once so prone to indulge. Perhaps he shrank from it. If
+he wanted an easy distraction from self-criticism it may be a convenient
+refuge from the scruples, or even the pangs, of conscience—it was
+profusely supplied by the startling affairs of which he formed a part,
+the singular characters with whom he was placed in contact, the risk and
+responsibility which seemed suddenly to have encompassed him with their
+ever-stimulating influence, and, lastly, by the novelty of foreign
+travel, which, even under ordinary circumstances, has a tendency to
+rouse and stir up even ordinary men.
+
+So long as Theodora was his companion in their counsels, and he was
+listening to her deep plans and daring suggestions, enforced by that
+calm enthusiasm which was not the least powerful of her commanding
+spells, it is not perhaps surprising that he should have yielded without
+an effort to her bewitching ascendancy. But when they had separated, and
+she had embarked on that perilous enterprise of personally conferring
+with the chiefs of those secret societies of France, which had been
+fancifully baptized by her popular name, and had nurtured her tradition
+as a religious faith, it might have been supposed that Lothair, left to
+himself, might have recurred to the earlier sentiments of his youth. But
+he was not left to himself. He was left with her injunctions, and
+the spirit of the oracle, though the divinity was no longer visible,
+pervaded his mind and life.
+
+Lothair was to accompany the general as one of his aides-de-camp, and
+he was to meet Theodora again on what was contemplated as the field
+of memorable actions. Theodora had wisely calculated on the influence,
+beneficial in her view, which the character of a man like the general
+would exercise over Lothair. This consummate military leader, though he
+had pursued a daring career, and was a man of strong convictions, was
+distinguished by an almost unerring judgment, and a mastery of method
+rarely surpassed. Though he was without imagination or sentiment, there
+were occasions on which he had shown he was not deficient in a becoming
+sympathy, and he had a rapid and correct perception of character. He was
+a thoroughly honest man, and, in the course of a life of great trial and
+vicissitude, even envenomed foes had never impeached his pure integrity.
+For the rest, he was unselfish, but severe in discipline, inflexible,
+and even ruthless in the fulfilment of his purpose. A certain simplicity
+of speech and conduct, and a disinterestedness which, even in little
+things, was constantly exhibiting itself, gave to his character even
+charm, and rendered personal intercourse with him highly agreeable.
+
+In the countless arrangements which had to be made, Lothair was never
+wearied in recognizing and admiring the prescience and precision of his
+chief; and when the day had died, and for a moment they had ceased from
+their labors, or were travelling together, often through the night,
+Lothair found in the conversation of his companion, artless and
+unrestrained, a wonderful fund of knowledge both of men and things, and
+that, too, in very different climes and countries.
+
+The camp in the Apennines was not favorable to useless reverie. Lothair
+found unceasing and deeply-interesting occupation in his numerous and
+novel duties; and, if his thoughts for a moment wandered beyond the
+barren peaks around him, they were attracted and engrossed by one
+subject—and that was, naturally, Theodora. From her they had
+heard nothing since her departure, except a mysterious, though not
+discouraging, telegram which was given to them by Colonel Campian when
+he had joined them at Florence. It was difficult not to feel anxious
+about her, though the general would never admit the possibility of her
+personal danger.
+
+In this state of affairs, a week having elapsed since his arrival at
+the camp, Lothair, who had been visiting the outposts, was summoned one
+morning by an orderly to the tent of the general. That personage was
+on his legs when Lothair entered it, and was dictating to an officer
+writing at a table.
+
+“You ought to know my military secretary,” said the general, as Lothair
+entered, “and therefore I will introduce you.”
+
+Lothair was commencing a suitable reverence of recognition as the
+secretary raised his head to receive it, when he suddenly stopped,
+changed color, and for a moment seemed to lose himself, and then
+murmured, “Is it possible?”
+
+It was indeed Theodora: clothed in male attire, she seemed a stripling.
+
+“Quite possible,” she said, “and all is well. But I found it a longer
+business than I had counted on. You see, there are so many new persons
+who knew me only by tradition, but with whom it was necessary I should
+personally confer. And I had more difficulty, just now, in getting
+through Florence than I had anticipated. The Papalini and the French
+are both worrying our allies in that city about the gathering on the
+southern frontier, and there is a sort of examination, true or false, I
+will not aver, of all who depart. However, I managed to pass with some
+soldiers’ wives who were carrying fruit as far as Narni, and there I met
+an old comrade of Aspromonte, who is a custom-officer now, but true
+to the good cause, and he, and his daughter, who is with me, helped me
+through every thing, and so I am with my dear friends again.”
+
+After some slight conversation in this vein, Theodora entered into a
+detailed narrative of her proceedings, and gave to them her views of the
+condition of affairs.
+
+“By one thing, above all others,” she said, “I am impressed, and that
+is, the unprecedented efforts which Rome is making to obtain the return
+of the French. There never was such influence exercised, such distinct
+offers made, such prospects intimated. You may prepare yourself for any
+thing; a papal coronation, a family pontiff—I could hardly say a King of
+Rome, though he has been reminded of that royal fact. Our friends
+have acted with equal energy and with perfect temper. The heads of the
+societies have met in council, and resolved that, if France will refuse
+to interfere, no domestic disturbance shall be attempted during this
+reign, and they have communicated this resolution to headquarters. He
+trusts them; he knows they are honest men. They did something like this
+before the Italian War, when he hesitated about heading the army from
+the fear of domestic revolution. Anxious to recover the freedom of
+Italy, they apprized him that, if he personally entered the field,
+they would undertake to insure tranquillity at home. The engagement was
+scrupulously fulfilled. When I left Paris all looked well, but affairs
+require the utmost vigilance and courage. It is a mighty struggle; it
+is a struggle between the Church and the secret societies; and it is a
+death-struggle.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 53 During the week that elapsed after the arrival of Theodora at
+the camp, many recruits, and considerable supplies of military stores,
+reached the valley. Theodora really acted as secretary to the general,
+and her labors were not light. Though Lothair was frequently in her
+presence, they were, never, or rarely, alone, and, when they conversed
+together, her talk was of details. The scouts, too, had brought
+information, which might have been expected, that their rendezvous was
+no longer a secret at Rome. The garrison of the neighboring town
+of Viterbo had, therefore, been increased, and there was even the
+commencement of an intrenched camp in the vicinity of that place, to
+be garrisoned by a detachment of the legion of Antibes and other good
+troops, so that any junction between the general and Garibaldi, if
+contemplated, should not be easily effected.
+
+In the mean time, the life of the camp was busy. The daily drill and
+exercise of two thousand men was not a slight affair, and the constant
+changes in orders which the arrival of bodies of recruits occasioned,
+rendered this primary duty more difficult; the office of quartermaster
+required the utmost resource and temper; the commissariat, which, from
+the nature of the country, could depend little upon forage, demanded
+extreme husbandry and forbearance. But, perhaps, no labors were more
+severe than those of the armorers, the clink of whose instruments
+resounded unceasingly in the valley. And yet such is the magic of
+method, when directed by a master-mind, that the whole went on with the
+regularity and precision of machinery. More than two thousand armed
+men, all of whom had been accustomed to an irregular, some to a lawless,
+life, were as docile as children; animated, in general, by what they
+deemed a sacred cause, and led by a chief whom they universally alike
+adored and feared.
+
+Among these wild warriors, Theodora, delicate and fragile, but with a
+mien of majesty, moved, like the spirit of some other world, and was
+viewed by them with admiration not unmixed with awe. Veterans round
+the camp-fire, had told to the new recruits her deeds of prowess
+and devotion; how triumphantly she had charged at Voltorno, and how
+heroically she had borne their standard when they were betrayed at fatal
+Aspromonte.
+
+The sun had sunk behind the mountains, but was still high in the western
+heaven, when a mounted lancer was observed descending a distant pass
+into the valley. The general and his staff had not long commenced their
+principal meal of the day, of which the disappearance of the sun
+behind the peak was the accustomed signal. This permitted them, without
+inconvenience, to take their simple repast in the open, but still warm,
+air. Theodora was seated between the general and her husband, and her
+eye was the first that caught the figure of the distant but descending
+stranger.
+
+“What is that?” she asked.
+
+The general, immediately using his telescope, after a moment’s
+examination, said: “A lancer of the royal guard.”
+
+All eyes were now fixed upon the movements of the horseman. He had
+descended the winding steep, and now was tracking the craggy path which
+led into the plain. As he reached the precinct of the camp, he was
+challenged, but not detained. Nearer and nearer he approached, and it
+was evident, from his uniform, that the conjecture of his character by
+the general was correct.
+
+“A deserter from the guard,” whispered Colonel Campian, to Lothair.
+
+The horseman was conducted by an officer to the presence of the
+commander. When that presence was reached, the lancer, still silent,
+slowly lowered his tall weapon, and offered the general the dispatch
+which was fastened to the head of his spear.
+
+Every eye was on the countenance of their chief as he perused the
+missive, but that countenance was always inscrutable. It was observed,
+however, that he read the paper twice. Looking up, the general said, to
+the officer: “See that the bearer is well quartered.—This is for you,”
+he added in a low voice to Theodora, and he gave her an enclosure; “read
+it quietly, and then come into my tent.”
+
+Theodora read the letter, and quietly; though, without the preparatory
+hint, it might have been difficult to have concealed her emotion.
+Then, after a short pause, she rose, and the general, requesting his
+companions not to disturb themselves, joined her, and they proceeded in
+silence to his tent.
+
+“He is arrested,” said the general when they had entered it, “and taken
+to Alessandria, where he is a close prisoner. ‘Tis a blow, but I am more
+grieved than surprised.”
+
+This was the arrest of Garibaldi at Sinigaglia by the Italian
+government, which had been communicated at Hexham House to Monsignore
+Berwick by his evening visitor.
+
+“How will it affect operations in the field?” inquired Theodora.
+
+“According to this dispatch, in no degree. Our original plan is to be
+pursued, and acted upon the moment we are ready. That should be in a
+fortnight, or perhaps three weeks. Menotti is to take the command on the
+southern frontier. Well, it may prevent jealousies. I think I shall send
+Sarano there to reconnoitre; he is well both with Nicotera and Ghirelli,
+and may keep things straight.”
+
+“But there are other affairs besides operations in the field,” said
+Theodora, “and scarcely less critical. Read this,” and she gave him the
+enclosure, which ran in these words:
+
+“The general will tell thee what has happened. Have no fear for that.
+All will go right. It will not alter our plans a bunch of grapes. Be
+perfectly easy about this country. No Italian soldier will ever cross
+the frontier except to combat the French. Write that on thy heart. Are
+other things as well? Other places? My advices are bad. All the prelates
+are on their knees to him—with blessings on their lips and curses in
+their pockets. Archbishop of Paris is as bad as any. Berwick is at
+Biarritz—an inexhaustible intriguer; the only priest I fear. I hear
+from one who never misled me that the Polhes brigade has orders to be
+in readiness. The Mary-Anne societies are not strong enough for the
+situation—too local; he listens to them, but he has given no pledge.
+We must go deeper. ‘Tis an affair of ‘Madre Natura.’ Thou must see
+Colonna.”
+
+“Colonna is at Rome,” said the general, “and cannot be spared. He is
+acting president of the National Committee, and has enough upon his
+hands.”
+
+“I must see him,” said Theodora.
+
+“I had hoped I had heard the last of the ‘Madre Natura,’” said the
+general with an air of discontent.
+
+“And the Neapolitans hope they have heard the last of the eruptions
+of their mountain,” said Theodora; “but the necessities of things are
+sterner stuff than the hopes of men.”
+
+“Its last effort appalled and outraged Europe,” said the general.
+
+“Its last effort forced the French into Italy, and has freed the country
+from the Alps to the Adriatic,” rejoined Theodora.
+
+“If the great man had only been as quiet as we have been,” said the
+general, lighting a cigar, “we might have been in Rome by this time.”
+
+“If the great man had been quiet, we should not have had a volunteer in
+our valley,” said Theodora. “My faith in him is implicit; he has been
+right in every thing, and has never failed except when he has been
+betrayed. I see no hope for Rome except in his convictions and energy.
+I do not wish to die, and feel I have devoted my life only to secure
+the triumph of Savoyards who have sold their own country, and of priests
+whose impostures have degraded mine.”
+
+“Ah! those priests!” exclaimed the general. “I really do not much care
+for any thing else. They say the Savoyard is not a bad comrade, and at
+any rate he can charge like a soldier. But those priests? I fluttered
+them once! Why did I spare any? Why did I not burn down St. Peter’s? I
+proposed it, but Mirandola, with his history and his love of art and all
+that old furniture, would reserve it for a temple of the true God and
+for the glory of Europe! Fine results we have accomplished! And now
+we are here, hardly knowing where we are, and, as it appears, hardly
+knowing what to do.”
+
+“Not so, dear general,” said Theodora. “Where we are is the threshold
+of Rome, and if we are wise we shall soon cross it. This arrest of our
+great friend is a misfortune, but not an irredeemable one. I thoroughly
+credit what he says about the Italian troops. Rest assured he knows what
+he is talking about; they will never cross the frontier against us. The
+danger is from another land. But there will be no peril if we are prompt
+and firm. Clear your mind of all these dark feelings about the ‘Madre
+Natura.’ All that we require is that the most powerful and the most
+secret association in Europe should ratify what the local societies of
+France have already intimated. It will be enough. Send for Colonna, and
+leave the rest to me.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 54 The “Madre Natura” is the oldest, the most powerful, and the
+most occult, of the secret societies of Italy. Its mythic origin reaches
+the era of paganism, and it is not impossible that it may have been
+founded by some of the despoiled professors of the ancient faith. As
+time advanced, the brotherhood assumed many outward forms, according to
+the varying spirit of the age: sometimes they were freemasons, sometimes
+they were soldiers, sometimes artists, sometimes men of letters. But
+whether their external representation were a lodge, a commandery, a
+studio, or an academy, their inward purpose was ever the same; and that
+was to cherish the memory, and, if possible, to secure the restoration
+of the Roman Republic, and to expel from the Aryan settlement of Romulus
+the creeds and sovereignty of what they styled the Semitic invasion.
+
+The “Madre Natura” have a tradition that one of the most celebrated of
+the popes was admitted to their fraternity as Cardinal del Medici, and
+that when he ascended the throne, mainly through their labors, he
+was called upon to cooperate in the fulfilment of the great idea. An
+individual who, in his youth, has been the member of a secret society,
+and subsequently ascends a throne, may find himself in an embarrassing
+position. This, however, according to the tradition, which there is
+some documentary ground to accredit, was not the perplexing lot of his
+holiness Pope Leo X. His tastes and convictions were in entire unison
+with his early engagements, and it is believed that he took an early and
+no unwilling opportunity of submitting to the conclave a proposition to
+consider whether it were not both expedient and practicable to return to
+the ancient faith, for which their temples had been originally erected.
+
+The chief tenet of the society of “Madre Natura” is denoted by its name.
+They could conceive nothing more benignant and more beautiful, more
+provident and more powerful, more essentially divine, than that system
+of creative order to which they owed their being, and in which it
+was their privilege to exist. But they differed from other schools of
+philosophy that have held this faith, in this singular particular:
+they recognize the inability of the Latin race to pursue the worship of
+Nature in an abstract spirit, and they desired to revive those exquisite
+personifications of the abounding qualities of the mighty mother which
+the Aryan genius had bequeathed to the admiration of man. Parthenope was
+again to rule at Naples instead of Januarius, and starveling saints and
+winking madonnas were to restore their usurped altars to the god of the
+silver bow and the radiant daughter of the foaming wave.
+
+Although the society of “Madre Natura” themselves accepted the
+allegorical interpretation which the Neo-Platonists had placed upon
+the pagan creeds during the first ages of Christianity, they could
+not suppose that the populace could ever comprehend an exposition so
+refined, not to say so fanciful. They guarded, therefore, against the
+corruptions and abuses of the religion of Nature by the entire abolition
+of the priestly order, and in the principle that every man should be his
+own priest they believed they had found the necessary security.
+
+As it was evident that the arrest of Garibaldi could not be kept secret,
+the general thought it most prudent to be himself the herald of its
+occurrence, which he announced to the troops in a manner as little
+discouraging as he could devise. It was difficult to extenuate the
+consequences of so great a blow, but they were assured that it was not a
+catastrophe, and would not in the slightest degree affect the execution
+of the plans previously resolved on. Two or three days later some
+increase of confidence was occasioned by the authentic intelligence that
+Garibaldi had been removed from his stern imprisonment at Alessandria,
+and conveyed to his island-home, Caprera, though still a prisoner.
+
+About this time, the general said to Lothair: “My secretary has occasion
+to go on an expedition. I shall send a small detachment of cavalry with
+her, and you will be at its head. She has requested that her husband
+should have this office, but that is impossible; I cannot spare my best
+officer. It is your first command, and, though I hope it will involve no
+great difficulty, there is no command that does not require courage and
+discretion. The distance is not very great, and so long as you are in
+the mountains you will probably be safe; but in leaving this range and
+gaining the southern Apennines, which is your point of arrival, you will
+have to cross the open country. I do not hear the Papalini are in force
+there; I believe they have concentrated themselves at Rome, and about
+Viterbo. If you meet any scouts and reconnoitring parties, you will be
+able to give a good account of them, and probably they will be as little
+anxious to encounter you as you to meet them. But we must be prepared
+for every thing, and you may be threatened by the enemy in force;
+in that case you will cross the Italian frontier, in the immediate
+neighborhood of which you will keep during the passage of the open
+country, and surrender yourselves and your arms to the authorities. They
+will not be very severe; but, at whatever cost and whatever may be the
+odds, Theodora must never be a prisoner to the Papalini. You will depart
+to-morrow at dawn.”
+
+There is nothing so animating, so invigorating alike to the body and
+soul, so truly delicious, as travelling among mountains in the early
+hours of day. The freshness of Nature falls upon a responsive frame,
+and the nobility of the scene discards the petty thoughts that pester
+ordinary life. So felt Captain Muriel, as with every military precaution
+he conducted his little troop and his precious charge among the winding
+passes of the Apennines; at first dim in the matin twilight, then soft
+with incipient day, then coruscating with golden flashes. Sometimes
+they descended from the austere heights into the sylvan intricacies
+of chestnut-forests, amid the rush of waters and the fragrant stir of
+ancient trees; and, then again ascending to lofty summits, ranges of
+interminable hills, gray or green, expanded before them, with ever and
+anon a glimpse of plains, and sometimes the splendor and the odor of the
+sea.
+
+Theodora rode a mule, which had been presented to the general by
+some admirer. It was an animal of remarkable beauty and intelligence,
+perfectly aware, apparently, of the importance of its present trust, and
+proud of its rich accoutrements, its padded saddle of crimson velvet,
+and its silver bells. A couple of troopers formed the advanced guard,
+and the same number at a certain distance furnished the rear. The body
+of the detachment, fifteen strong, with the sumpter-mules, generally
+followed Theodora, by whose side, whenever the way permitted, rode their
+commander. Since he left England Lothair had never been so much with
+Theodora. What struck him most now, as indeed previously at the camp,
+was that she never alluded to the past. For her there would seem to be
+no Muriel Towers, no Belmont, no England. You would have supposed that
+she had been born in the Apennines and had never quitted them. All her
+conversation was details, political or military. Not that her manner
+was changed to Lothair. It was not only as kind as before, but it was
+sometimes unusually and even unnecessary tender, as if she reproached
+herself for the too frequent and too evident self-engrossment of her
+thoughts, and wished to intimate to him that, though her brain were
+absorbed, her heart was still gentle and true.
+
+Two hours after noon they halted in a green nook, near a beautiful
+cascade that descended in a mist down a sylvan cleft, and poured its
+pellucid stream, for their delightful use, into a natural basin of
+marble. The men picketed their horses, and their corporal, who was a man
+of the country and their guide, distributed their rations. All vied with
+each other in administering to the comfort and convenience of Theodora,
+and Lothair hovered about her as a bee about a flower, but she was
+silent, which he wished to impute to fatigue. But she said she was not
+at all fatigued, indeed quite fresh. Before they resumed their
+journey he could not refrain from observing on the beauty of their
+resting-place. She assented with a pleasing nod, and then resuming
+her accustomed abstraction she said: “The more I think, the more I am
+convinced that the battle is not to be fought in this country, but in
+France.”
+
+After one more ascent, and that comparatively a gentle one, it was
+evident that they were gradually emerging from the mountainous region.
+Their course since their halting lay through a spur of the chief chain
+they had hitherto pursued, and a little after sunset they arrived at
+a farm-house, which the corporal informed his captain was the intended
+quarter of Theodora for the night, as the horses could proceed no
+farther without rest. At dawn they were to resume their way, and soon to
+cross the open country, where danger, if any, was to be anticipated.
+
+The farmer was frightened when he was summoned from his house by a party
+of armed men; but having some good ducats given him in advance, and
+being assured they were all Christians, he took heart and labored to do
+what they desired. Theodora duly found herself in becoming quarters, and
+a sentry was mounted at her residence. The troopers, who had been quite
+content to wrap themselves in their cloaks and pass the night in
+the air, were pleased to find no despicable accommodation in the
+out-buildings of the farm, and still more with the proffered vintage of
+their host. As for Lothair, he enveloped himself in his mantle and threw
+himself on a bed of sacks, with a truss of Indian corn for his pillow,
+and, though he began by musing over Theodora, in a few minutes he was
+immersed in that profound and dreamless sleep which a life of action and
+mountain-air combined can alone secure.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 55 The open country extending from the Apennines to the very
+gates of Rome, and which they had now to cross, was in general a
+desert; a plain clothed with a coarse vegetation, and undulating with an
+interminable series of low and uncouth mounds, without any of the grace
+of form which always attends the disposition of Nature. Nature had not
+created them. They were the offspring of man and time, and of their
+rival powers of destruction. Ages of civilization were engulfed in this
+drear expanse. They were the tombs of empires and the sepulchres
+of contending races. The Campagna proper has at least the grace of
+aqueducts to break its monotony, and everywhere the cerulean spell of
+distance; but in this grim solitude antiquity has left only the memory
+of its violence and crimes, and nothing is beautiful except the sky.
+
+The orders of the general to direct their course as much as possible
+in the vicinity of the Italian frontier, though it lengthened their
+journey, somewhat mitigated its dreariness, and an hour after noon,
+after traversing some flinty fields, they observed in the distance an
+olive-wood, beneath the pale shade of which, and among whose twisted
+branches and contorted roots, they had contemplated finding a
+halting-place. But here the advanced guard observed already an
+encampment, and one of them rode back to report the discovery.
+
+A needless alarm; for, after a due reconnoissance, they were ascertained
+to be friends—a band of patriots about to join the general in his
+encampment among the mountains. They reported that a division of the
+Italian army was assembled in force upon the frontier, but that several
+regiments had already signified to their commanders that they would not
+fight against Garibaldi or his friends. They confirmed also the news
+that the great leader himself was a prisoner at Caprera; that, although,
+his son Menotti by his command had withdrawn from Nerola, his force
+was really increased by the junction of Ghirelli and the Roman legion,
+twelve hundred strong, and that five hundred riflemen would join the
+general in the course of the week.
+
+A little before sunset they had completed the passage of the open
+country, and had entered the opposite branch of the Apennines, which
+they had long observed in the distance. After wandering among some rocky
+ground, they entered a defile amid hills covered with ilex, and thence
+emerging found themselves in a valley of some expanse and considerable
+cultivation; bright crops, vineyards in which the vine was married to
+the elm, orchards full of fruit, and groves of olive; in the distance
+blue hills that were becoming dark in the twilight, and in the centre of
+the plain, upon a gentle and wooded elevation, a vast file of building,
+the exact character of which at this hour it was difficult to recognize,
+for, even as Theodora mentioned to Lothair that they now beheld the
+object of their journey, the twilight seemed to vanish and the stars
+glistened in the dark heavens.
+
+Though the building seemed so near, it was yet a considerable time
+before they reached the wooded hill, and, though its ascent was easy,
+it was night before they halted in face of a huge gate flanked by high
+stone walls. A single light in one of the windows of the vast pile which
+it enclosed was the only evidence of human habitation.
+
+The corporal sounded a bugle, and immediately the light moved and noises
+were heard—the opening of the hall-doors, and then the sudden flame of
+torches, and the advent of many feet. The great gate slowly opened,
+and a steward and several serving-men appeared. The steward addressed
+Theodora and Lothair, and invited them to dismount and enter what now
+appeared to be a garden with statues and terraces and fountains and
+rows of cypress, its infinite dilapidation not being recognizable in
+the deceptive hour; and he informed the escort that their quarters were
+prepared for them, to which they were at once attended. Guiding their
+captain and his charge, they soon approached a double flight of steps,
+and, ascending, reached the main terrace from which the building
+immediately rose. It was, in truth, a castle of the middle ages, on
+which a Roman prince, at the commencement of the last century, had
+engrafted the character of one of those vast and ornate villas then
+the mode, but its original character still asserted itself, and,
+notwithstanding its Tuscan basement and its Ionic pilasters, its rich
+pediments and delicate volutes, in the distant landscape it still seemed
+a fortress in the commanding position which became the residence of a
+feudal chief.
+
+They entered, through a Palladian vestibule, a hall which they felt
+must be of huge dimensions, though with the aid of a single torch it was
+impossible to trace its limits, either of extent or of elevation. Then
+bowing before them, and lighting as it were their immediate steps, the
+steward guided them down a long and lofty corridor, which led to the
+entrance of several chambers, all vast, with little furniture, but their
+wells covered with pictures. At length he opened a door and ushered them
+into a saloon, which was in itself bright and glowing, but of which the
+lively air was heightened by its contrast with the preceding scene. It
+was lofty, and hung with faded satin in gilded panels still bright. An
+ancient chandelier of Venetian crystal hung illumined from the painted
+ceiling, and on the silver dogs of the marble hearth a fresh block of
+cedar had just been thrown and blazed with aromatic light.
+
+A lady came forward and embraced Theodora, and then greeted Lothair with
+cordiality. “We must dine to-day even later than you do in London,”
+said the Princess of Tivoli, “but we have been expecting you these two
+hours.” Then she drew Theodora aside, and said, “He is here; but
+you must be tired, my best beloved. As some wise man said: ‘Business
+to-morrow.’”
+
+“No, no,” said Theodora; “now, now,—I am never tired. The only thing
+that exhausts me is suspense.”
+
+“It shall be so. At present I will take you away to shake the dust off
+your armor, and, Serafino, attend to Captain Muriel.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 56 When they assembled again in the saloon there was an addition
+to their party in the person of a gentleman of distinguished appearance.
+His age could hardly have much exceeded that of thirty, but time had
+agitated his truly Roman countenance, one which we now find only in
+consular and imperial busts, or in the chance visage of a Roman shepherd
+or a Neapolitan bandit. He was a shade above the middle height, with a
+frame of well-knit symmetry. His proud head was proudly placed on broad
+shoulders, and neither time nor indulgence had marred his slender
+waist. His dark-brown hair was short and hyacinthine, close to his white
+forehead, and naturally showing his small ears. He wore no whiskers, and
+his mustache was limited to the centre of his upper lip.
+
+When Theodora entered and offered him her hand he pressed it to his lips
+with gravity and proud homage, and then their hostess said: “Captain
+Muriel, let me present you to a prince who will not bear his titles, and
+whom, therefore, I must call by his name—Romolo Colonna.”
+
+The large folding-doors, richly painted and gilt, though dim from
+neglect and time, and sustained by columns of precious marbles, were
+suddenly opened and revealed another saloon, in which was a round table
+brightly lighted, and to which the princess invited her friends.
+
+Their conversation at dinner was lively and sustained; the travels of
+the last two days formed a natural part and were apposite to commence
+with, but they were soon engrossed in the great subject of their lives;
+and Colonna, who had left Rome only four-and-twenty hours, gave them
+interesting details of the critical condition of that capital. When the
+repast was concluded the princess rose, and, accompanied by Lothair,
+reentered the saloon, but Theodora and Colonna lingered behind, and,
+finally seating themselves at the farthest end of the apartment in which
+they had dined, became engaged in earnest conversation.
+
+“You have seen a great deal since we first met at Belmont,” said the
+princess to Lothair.
+
+“It seems to me now,” said Lothair, “that I knew as much of life then as
+I did of the stars above us, about whose purposes and fortunes I used to
+puzzle myself.”
+
+“And might have remained in that ignorance. The great majority of men
+exist but do not live—like Italy in the last century. The power of
+the passions, the force of the will, the creative energy of the
+imagination—these make life, and reveal to us a world of which the
+million are entirely ignorant You have been fortunate in your youth
+to have become acquainted with a great woman. It develops all a man’s
+powers, and gives him a thousand talents.”
+
+“I often think,” said Lothair, “that I have neither powers nor talents,
+but am drifting without an orbit.”
+
+“Into infinite space,” said the princess. “Well, one might do worse than
+that. But it is not so. In the long-run your nature will prevail, and
+you will fulfil your organic purpose; but you will accomplish your
+ends with a completeness which can only be secured by the culture and
+development you are now experiencing.”
+
+“And what is my nature?” said Lothair. “I wish you would tell me.”
+
+“Has not the divine Theodora told you?”
+
+“She has told me many things, but not that.”
+
+“How, then, could I know,” said the princess, “if she has not discovered
+it?”
+
+“But perhaps she has discovered it,” said Lothair.
+
+“Oh! then she would tell you,” said the princess, “for she is the soul
+of truth.”
+
+“But she is also the soul of kindness, and she might wish to spare my
+feelings.”
+
+“Well, that is very modest, and I dare say not affected. For there is no
+man, however gifted, even however conceited, who has any real confidence
+in himself until he has acted.”
+
+“Well, we shall soon act,” said Lothair, “and then I. suppose I shall
+know my nature.”
+
+“In time,” said the princess, “and with the continued inspiration of
+friendship.”
+
+“But you too are a great friend of Theodora?”
+
+“Although a woman. I see you are laughing at female friendships, and,
+generally speaking, there is foundation for the general sneer. I will
+own, for my part, I have every female weakness, and in excess. I
+am vain, I am curious, I am jealous, and I am envious; but I adore
+Theodora. I reconcile my feelings toward her and my disposition in this
+way. It is not friendship—it is worship. And indeed there are moments
+when I sometimes think she is one of those beautiful divinities that
+we once worshipped in this land, and who, when they listened to our
+prayers, at least vouchsafed that our country should not be the terrible
+wilderness that you crossed this day.”
+
+In the mean time Colonna, with folded arms and eyes fixed on the ground,
+was listening to Theodora.
+
+“Thus you see,” she continued, “it comes to this—Rome can only be freed
+by the Romans. He looks upon the secret societies of his own country as
+he does upon universal suffrage—a wild beast, and dangerous, but which
+may be watched and tamed and managed by the police. He listens, but he
+plays with them. He temporizes. At the bottom of his heart, his Italian
+blood despises the Gauls. It must be something deeper and more touching
+than this. Rome must appeal to him, and in the ineffable name.”
+
+“It has been uttered before,” said Colonna, looking up at his companion,
+“and—” And he hesitated.
+
+“And in vain you would say,” said Theodora. “Not so. There was a
+martyrdom, but the blood of Felice baptized the new birth of Italian
+life. But I am not thinking of bloodshed. Had it not been for the double
+intrigues of the Savoyards it need not then have been shed. We bear him
+no ill-will—at least not now—and we can make great offers. Make them.
+The revolution in Gaul is ever a mimicry of Italian thought and life.
+Their great affair of the last century, which they have so marred and
+muddied, would never have occurred had it not been for Tuscan reform;
+1848 was the echo of our societies; and the Seine will never be
+disturbed if the Tiber flows unruffled. Let him consent to Roman
+freedom, and ‘Madre Natura’ will guarantee him against Lutetian
+barricades.”
+
+“It is only the offer of Mary-Anne in another form,” said Colonna.
+
+“Guarantee the dynasty,” said Theodora. “There is the point. He can
+trust us. Emperors and kings break treaties without remorse, but he
+knows that what is registered by the most ancient power in the world is
+sacred.”
+
+“Can republicans guarantee dynasties?” said Colonna, shaking his head.
+
+“Why, what is a dynasty, when we are dealing with eternal things?
+The casualties of life compared with infinite space? Rome is eternal.
+Centuries of the most degrading and foreign priestcraft—enervating
+rites brought in by Helliogabalus and the Syrian emperors—have failed
+to destroy her. Dynasties! Why, even in our dark servitude we have
+seen Merovingian and Carlovingian kings, and Capets, and Valois, and
+Bourbons, and now Bonapartes. They have disappeared, and will disappear
+like Orgetorix and the dynasties of the time of Caesar. What we want is
+Rome free. Do not you see that everything has been preparing for that
+event? This monstrous masquerade of United Italy—what is it but an
+initiatory ceremony, to prove that Italy without Rome is a series of
+provinces? Establish the Roman republic, and the Roman race will, as
+before, conquer them in detail. And, when the Italians are thus really
+united, what will become of the Gauls? Why, the first Bonaparte said
+that if Italy were really united the Gauls would have no chance. And he
+was a good judge of such things.”
+
+“What would you have me do, then?” said Colonna.
+
+“See him—see him at once. Say every thing that I have said, and say
+it better. His disposition is with us. Convenience, all political
+propriety, counsel and would justify his abstinence. A return to Rome
+would seem weak, fitful, capricious, and would prove that his previous
+retirement was ill-considered and ill-informed. It would disturb and
+alarm Europe. But you have, nevertheless, to fight against great odds.
+It is ‘Madre Natura’ against St. Peter’s. Never was the abomination of
+the world so active as at present. It is in the very throes of its fell
+despair. To save itself it would poison in the Eucharist.”
+
+“And if I fail?” said Colonna.
+
+“You will not fail. On the whole, his interest lies on our side.”
+
+“The sacerdotal influences are very strong there. When the calculation
+of interest is fine, a word, a glance, sometimes a sigh, a tear, may
+have a fatal effect.”
+
+“All depends upon him,” said Theodora. “If he were to disappear from the
+stage, interference would be impossible.”
+
+“But he is on the stage, and apparently will remain.”
+
+“A single life should not stand between Rome and freedom.”
+
+“What do you mean?”
+
+“I mean that Romolo Colonna should go to Paris and free his country.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 57 When Captain Muriel and his detachment returned to the camp,
+they found that the force had been not inconsiderably increased in
+their absence, while the tidings of the disposition of the Italian
+army brought by the recruits and the deserters from the royal standard,
+cherished the hopes of the troops, and stimulated their desire for
+action. Theodora had been far more communicative during their journey
+back than in that of her departure. She was less absorbed, and had
+resumed that serene yet even sympathizing character which was one of
+her charms. Without going into detail, she mentioned more than once to
+Lothair how relieved she felt by Colonna accepting the mission to
+Paris. He was a person of so much influence, she said, and of such great
+judgment and resource. She augured the most satisfactory results from
+his presence on the main scene of action.
+
+Time passed rapidly at the camp. When a life of constant activity
+is combined with routine, the hours fly. Neither letter nor telegram
+arrived from Colonna, and neither was expected; and yet. Theodora heard
+from him, and even favorably. One day, as she was going the rounds
+with her husband, a young soldier, a new recruit, approached her, and,
+pressing to his lips a branch of the olive-tree, presented it to her.
+On another occasion when she returned to her tent, she found a bunch of
+fruit from the same tree, though not quite ripe, which showed that the
+cause of peace had not only progressed but had almost matured. All these
+communications sustained her sanguine disposition, and, full of happy
+confidence, she labored with unceasing and inspiring energy, so that
+when the looked-for signal came they might be prepared to obey it; and
+rapidly gather the rich fruition of their glorious hopes.
+
+While she was in this mood of mind, a scout arrived from Nerola,
+bringing news that a brigade of the French army had positively embarked
+at Marseilles, and might be hourly expected at Civita Vecchia. The news
+was absolute. The Italian consul at Marseilles had telegraphed to his
+government both when the first regiment was on board and when the last
+had embarked. Copies of these telegrams had been forwarded instantly by
+a secret friend to the volunteers on the southern frontier.
+
+When Theodora heard this news she said nothing, but, turning pale, she
+quitted the group round the general and hastened to her own tent. She
+told her attendant, the daughter of the custom-house officer at Narni,
+and a true child of the mountains, that no one must approach her, not
+even Colonel Campian, and the girl sat without the tent at its entrance,
+dressed in her many-colored garments, with fiery eyes and square white
+teeth, and her dark hair braided with gold coins and covered with a long
+white kerchief of perfect cleanliness; and she had a poniard at her side
+and a revolver in her hand, and she would have used both weapons sooner
+than that her mistress should be disobeyed.
+
+Alone in her tent, Theodora fell upon her knees, and, lifting up her
+hands to heaven and bowing her head to the earth, she said: “O God! whom
+I have ever worshipped, God of justice and of truth, receive the agony
+of my soul!”
+
+And on the earth she remained for hours in despair.
+
+Night came, and it brought no solace, and the day returned, but to her
+it brought no light. Theodora was no longer seen. The soul of the camp
+seemed extinct. The mien of majesty that ennobled all; the winning smile
+that rewarded the rifleman at his practice and the sapper at his toil;
+the inciting word that reanimated the recruit and recalled to the
+veteran the glories of Sicilian struggles—all vanished—all seemed
+spiritless and dull, and the armorer clinked his forge as if he were the
+heartless hireling of a king.
+
+In this state of moral discomfiture there was one person who did not
+lose his head, and this was the general. Calm, collected, and critical,
+he surveyed the situation and indicated the possible contingencies.
+“Our best, if not our only, chance,” he said to Colonel Campian, “is
+this—that the Italian army now gathered in force upon the frontier
+should march to Rome and arrive there before the French. Whatever then
+happens, we shall at least get rid of the great imposture, but in all
+probability the French and Italians will fight. In that case I shall
+join the Savoyards, and in the confusion we may do some business yet.”
+
+“This embarkation,” said the colonel, “explains the gathering of
+the Italians on the frontier. They must have foreseen this event at
+Florence. They never can submit to another French occupation. It would
+upset their throne. The question is, who will be at Rome first.”
+
+“Just so,” said the general; “and as it is an affair upon which all
+depends, and is entirely beyond my control, I think I shall now take
+a nap.” So saying, he turned into his tent, and, in five minutes, this
+brave and exact man, but in whom the muscular development far exceeded
+the nervous, was slumbering without a dream.
+
+Civita Vecchia was so near at hand, and the scouts of the general
+were so numerous and able, that he soon learned the French had not yet
+arrived, and another day elapsed and still no news of the French. But,
+on the afternoon of the following day, the startling but authentic
+information arrived, that, after the French army having embarked and
+remained two days in port, the original orders had been countermanded,
+and the troops had absolutely disembarked.
+
+There was a cheer in the camp when the news was known, and Theodora
+started from her desolation, surprised that there could be in such a
+scene a sound of triumph. Then there was another cheer, and though she
+did not move, but remained listening and leaning on her arm, the light
+returned to her eyes. The cheer was repeated, and there were steps about
+her tent. She caught the voice of Lothair speaking to her attendant, and
+adjuring her to tell her mistress immediately that there was good news,
+and that the French troops had disembarked. Then he heard her husband
+calling Theodora.
+
+The camp became a scene of excitement and festivity which, in general,
+only succeeds some signal triumph. The troops lived always in the air,
+except in the hours of night, when the atmosphere of the mountains in
+the late autumn is dangerous. At present they formed groups and parties
+in the vicinity of the tents; there was their gay canteen and there
+their humorous kitchen. The man of the Gulf with his rich Venetian
+banter and the Sicilian with his scaramouch tricks got on very well with
+the gentle and polished Tuscan, and could amuse without offending the
+high Roman soul; but there were some quips and cranks and sometimes
+some antics which were not always relished by the simpler men from the
+islands, and the offended eye of a Corsican sometimes seemed to threaten
+“vendetta.”
+
+About sunset, Colonel Campian led forth Theodora. She was in female
+attire, and her long hair, restrained only by a fillet, reached nearly
+to the ground. Her Olympian brow seemed distended; a phosphoric light
+glittered in her Hellenic eyes; a deep pink spot burnt upon each of
+those cheeks usually so immaculately fair.
+
+The general and the chief officers gathered round her with their
+congratulations, but she would visit all the quarters. She spoke to the
+men in all the dialects of that land of many languages. The men of
+the Gulf, in general of gigantic stature, dropped their merry Venetian
+stories and fell down on their knees and kissed the hem of her garment;
+the Scaramouch forgot his tricks, and wept as he would to the Madonna;
+Tuscany and Rome made speeches worthy of the Arno and the Forum; and
+the Corsicans and the islanders unsheathed their poniards and brandished
+them in the air, which is their mode of denoting affectionate devotion.
+As the night advanced, the crescent moon glittering above the Apennine,
+Theodora, attended by the whole staff, having visited all the troops,
+stopped at the chief fire of the camp, and in a voice which might have
+maddened nations sang the hymn of Roman liberty, the whole army ranged
+in ranks along the valley joining in the solemn and triumphant chorus.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 58 This exaltation of feeling in the camp did not evaporate. All
+felt that they were on the eve of some great event, and that the hour
+was at hand. And it was in this state of enthusiasm that couriers
+arrived with the intelligence that Garibaldi had escaped from Caprera,
+that he had reached Nerola in safety, and was in command of the
+assembled forces; and that the general was, without loss of time, to
+strike his camp, join the main body at a given place, and then march to
+Rome.
+
+The breaking-up of the camp was as the breaking-up of a long frost and
+the first scent of spring. There was a brightness in every man’s face
+and a gay elasticity in all their movements. But when the order of the
+day informed them that they must prepare for instant combat, and that in
+eight-and-forty hours they would probably be in face of the enemy, the
+hearts of the young recruits fluttered with strange excitement, and the
+veterans nodded to each other with grim delight.
+
+It was nearly midnight when the troops quitted the valley, through a
+defile, in an opposite direction to the pass by which they had entered
+it. It was a bright night. Colonel Campian had the command of the
+division in advance, which was five hundred strong. After the defile,
+the country, though hilly, was comparatively open, and here the advanced
+guard was to halt until the artillery and cavalry had effected the
+passage, and this was the most laborious and difficult portion of the
+march, but all was well considered, and all went right. The artillery
+and cavalry, by sunrise, had joined the advanced guard, who were
+bivouacking in the rocky plain, and about noon the main columns of the
+infantry began to deploy from the heights, and, in a short time, the
+whole force was in the field. Soon after this some of the skirmishers,
+who had been sent forward, returned, and reported the enemy in force,
+and in a strong position, commanding the intended route of the invading
+force. On this the general resolved to halt for a few hours, and rest
+and refresh the troops, and to recommence their march after sunset,
+so that, without effort, they might be in the presence of the enemy by
+dawn.
+
+Lothair had been separated from Theodora during this, to him, novel and
+exciting scene. She had accompanied her husband, but, when the whole
+force advanced in battle array, the general had desired that she should
+accompany the staff. They advanced through the night, and by dawn they
+were fairly in the open country. In the distance, and in the middle of
+the rough and undulating plain, was a round hill with an ancient city,
+for it was a bishop’s see, built all about and over it. It would have
+looked like a gigantic beehive, had it not been for a long convent on
+the summit, flanked by some stone-pines, as we see in the pictures of
+Gaspar and Claude.
+
+Between this city and the invading force, though not in a direct line,
+was posted the enemy in a strong position; their right wing protected
+by one of the mounds common in the plain, and their left backed by an
+olive-wood of considerable extent, and which grew on the last rocky
+spur of the mountains. They were, therefore, as regards the plain, on
+commanding ground. The strength of the two forces was not unequal, and
+the papal troops were not to be despised, consisting, among others, of a
+detachment of the legion of Antibes and the Zouaves. They had artillery,
+which was well posted.
+
+The general surveyed the scene, for which he was not unprepared.
+Disposing his troops in positions in which they were as much protected
+as possible from the enemy’s fire, he opened upon them a fierce and
+continuous cannonade, while he ordered Colonel Campian and eight hundred
+men to fall back among the hills, and, following a circuitous path which
+had been revealed by a shepherd, gain the spur of the mountains, and
+attack the enemy in their rear through the olive-wood. It was calculated
+that this movement, if successful, would require about three hours, and
+the general, for that period of the time, had to occupy the enemy and
+his own troops with what were, in realty, feint attacks.
+
+When the calculated time had elapsed, the general became anxious, and
+his glass was never from his eye. He was posted on a convenient ridge,
+and the wind, which was high this day from the sea, frequently cleared
+the field from the volumes of smoke; so his opportunities of observation
+were good. But the three hours passed, and there was no sign of the
+approach of Campian, and he ordered Sarano, with his division, to
+advance toward the mound and occupy the attention of the right wing of
+the enemy; but, very shortly after Lothair had carried this order, and
+four hours having elapsed, the general observed some confusion in
+the left wing of the enemy, and, instantly countermanding the order,
+commanded a general attack in line. The troops charged with enthusiasm,
+but they were encountered with a resolution as determined. At first
+they carried the mound, broke the enemy’s centre, and were mixed up with
+their great guns; but the enemy fiercely rallied, and the invaders were
+repulsed. The papal troops retained their position, and their opponents
+were in disorder on the plain, and a little dismayed. It was at this
+moment that Theodora rushed forward, and, waving a sword in one hand,
+and in the other the standard of the republic, exclaimed, “Brothers, to
+Rome!”
+
+This sight inflamed their faltering hearts, which, after all, were
+rather confounded than dismayed. They formed and rallied round her, and
+charged with renewed energy at the very moment that Campian had brought
+the force of his division on the enemy’s rear. A panic came over the
+papal troops, thus doubly assailed, and their rout was complete. They
+retreated in the utmost disorder to Viterbo, which they abandoned that
+night, and hurried to Rome.
+
+At the last moment, when the victory was no longer doubtful, and all
+were in full retreat or in full pursuit, a Zouave, in wantonness, firing
+his weapon before he throw it away, sent a random-shot which struck
+Theodora, and she fell. Lothair, who had never left her during the
+battle, was at her side in a moment, and a soldier, who had also marked
+the fatal shot; and, strange to say, so hot and keen was the pursuit,
+that, though a moment before they seemed to be in the very thick of the
+strife, they almost instantaneously found themselves alone, or rather
+with no companions than the wounded near them. She looked at Lothair,
+but, at first, could not speak. She seemed stunned, but soon murmured:
+“Go! go! you are wanted!”
+
+At this moment the general rode up with some of his staff. His
+countenance was elate, and his eye sparkled with fire. But, catching the
+figure of Lothair kneeling on the field, he reined in his charger
+and said, “What is this?” Then looking more closely, he instantly
+dismounted, and muttering to himself, “This mars the victory,” he was at
+Theodora’s side.
+
+A slight smile came over her when she recognized the general, and she
+faintly pressed his hand, and then said again: “Go, go; you are all
+wanted.”
+
+“None of up are wanted. The day is won; we must think of you.”
+
+“Is it won?” she murmured.
+
+“Complete.”
+
+“I die content.”
+
+“Who talks of death?” said the general. “This is a wound, but I have
+had some worse. What we must think of now are remedies. I passed an
+ambulance this moment. Run for, it,” he said to his aide-de-camp. “We
+must stanch the wound at once; but it is only a mile to the city, and
+then we shall find every thing, for we were expected. I will ride on,
+and there shall be proper attendance ready before you arrive. You will
+conduct our friend to the city,” he said to Lothair, “and be of good
+courage, as I am.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 59 The troops were rushing through the gates of the city when
+the general rode up. There was a struggling and stifling crowd; cheers
+and shrieks. It was that moment of wild fruition, when the master is
+neither recognized nor obeyed. It is not easy to take a bone out of
+a dog’s mouth; nevertheless, the presence of the general in time
+prevailed, something like order was established, and, before the
+ambulance could arrive, a guard had been appointed to receive it, and
+the ascent to the monastery, where a quarter was prepared, kept clear.
+
+During the progress to the city Theodora never spoke, but she seemed
+stunned rather than suffering; and once, when Lothair, who was walking
+by her side, caught her glance with his sorrowful and anxious face, she
+put forth her hand, and pressed his.
+
+The ascent to the convent was easy, and the advantages of air and
+comparative tranquillity which the place offered counterbalanced the
+risk of postponing, for a very brief space, the examination of the
+wound.
+
+They laid her on their arrival on a large bed, without poles or canopy,
+in a lofty whitewashed room of considerable dimensions, clean and airy,
+with high, open windows. There was no furniture in the room except a
+chair, a table, and a crucifix. Lothair took her in his arms and laid
+her on the bed; and the common soldier who had hitherto assisted him, a
+giant in stature, with a beard a foot long, stood by the bedside crying
+like a child. The chief surgeon almost at the same moment arrived with
+an aide-de-camp of the general, and her faithful female attendant, and
+in a few minutes her husband, himself wounded and covered with dust.
+
+The surgeon at once requested that all should withdraw except her
+devoted maid, and they waited his report without, in that deep sad
+silence which will not despair, and yet dares not hope.
+
+When the wound had been examined and probed and dressed, Theodora in a
+faint voice said, “Is it desperate?”
+
+“Not desperate,” said the surgeon, “but serious. All depends upon your
+perfect tranquility—of mind as well as body.”
+
+“Well I am here and cannot move; and as for my mind, I am not only
+serene, but happy.”
+
+“Then we shall get through this,” said the surgeon, encouragingly.
+
+“I do not like you to stay with me,” said Theodora. “There are other
+sufferers besides myself.”
+
+“My orders are not to quit you,” said the surgeon, “but I can be of
+great use within these walls. I shall return when the restorative has
+had its effect. But remember, if I be wanted, I am always here.”
+
+Soon after this Theodora fell into a gentle slumber, and after two hours
+woke refreshed. The countenance of the surgeon when he again visited her
+was less troubled; it was hopeful.
+
+The day was now beginning to decline; notwithstanding the scenes of
+tumult and violence near at hand, all was here silent; and the breeze,
+which had been strong during the whole day, but which blew from the sea,
+and was very soft, played gratefully upon the pale countenance of the
+sufferer. Suddenly she said, “What is that?”
+
+And they answered and said, “We heard nothing.”
+
+“I hear the sound of great guns,” said Theodora.
+
+And they listened, and in a moment both the surgeon and the maid heard
+the sound of distant ordnance.
+
+“The liberator is at hand,” said the maid.
+
+“I dare say,” said the surgeon.
+
+“No,” said Theodora, looking distressed. “The sounds do not come from
+his direction. Go and see, Dolores; ask, and tell me what are these
+sounds.”
+
+The surgeon was sitting by her side, and occasionally touching her
+pulse, or wiping the slight foam from her brow, when Dolores returned
+and said, “Lady, the sounds are the great guns of Civita Vecchia.”
+
+A deadly change come over the countenance of Theodora, and the surgeon
+looked alarmed. He would have given her some restorative, but she
+refused it. “No, kind friend,” she said; “it is finished. I have just
+received a wound more fatal than the shot in the field this morning. The
+French are at Rome. Tell me, kind friend, how long do you think I may
+live?”
+
+The surgeon felt her pulse; his look was gloomy. “In such a case as
+yours,” he said, “the patient is the best judge.”
+
+“I understand,” she said. “Send, then, at once for my husband.”
+
+He was at hand, for his wound had been dressed in the convent, and he
+came to Theodora with his arm in a sling, but with the attempt of a
+cheerful visage.
+
+In the mean time, Lothair, after having heard the first, and by no means
+hopeless, bulletin of the surgeon, had been obliged to leave the convent
+to look after his men, and having seen them in quarters and made his
+report to the general, he obtained permission to return to the convent
+and ascertain the condition of Theodora. Arrived there, he heard that
+she had had refreshing slumber, and that her husband was now with her,
+and a ray of hope lighted up the darkness of his soul. He was walking up
+and down the refectory of the convent with that sickening restlessness
+which attends impending and yet uncertain sorrow, when Colonel Campian
+entered the apartment and beckoned to him.
+
+There was an expression in his face which appalled Lothair, and he was
+about to inquire after Theodora, when his tongue cleaved to the roof of
+his mouth, and he could not speak. The Colonel shook his head, and said
+in a low, hollow voice, “She wishes to see you, and alone. Come.”
+
+Theodora was sitting in the bed, propped up by cushions, when Lothair
+entered, and, as her wound was internal, there was no evidence of her
+sufferings. The distressful expression of her face, when she heard the
+great guns of Civita Vecchia, had passed away. It was serious, but it
+was serene. She bade her maid leave the chamber, and then she said to
+Lothair, “It is the last time I shall speak to you, and I wish that we
+should be alone. There is something much on my mind at this moment, and
+you can relieve it.”
+
+“Adored being,” murmured Lothair with streaming eyes, “there is no wish
+of yours that I will not fulfil.”
+
+“I know your life, for you have told it me, and you are true. I know
+your nature; it is gentle and brave, but perhaps too susceptible. I
+wished it to be susceptible only of the great and good. Mark me—I have
+a vague but strong conviction that there will be another and a more
+powerful attempt to gain you to the Church of Rome. If I have ever been
+to you, as you have sometimes said, an object of kind thoughts—if not
+a fortunate, at least a faithful friend—promise me now, at this hour
+of trial, with all the solemnity that becomes the moment, that you will
+never enter that communion.”
+
+Lothair would have spoken, but his voice was choked, and he could only
+press her hand and bow his head.
+
+“But promise me,” said Theodora.
+
+“I promise,” said Lothair.
+
+“And now,” she said, “embrace me, for I wish that your spirit should be
+upon me as mine departs.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 60 It was a November day in Rome, and the sky was as gloomy
+as the heaven of London. The wind moaned through the silent streets,
+deserted except by soldiers. The shops were shut, not a civilian or
+a priest could be seen. The Corso was occupied by the Swiss Guard and
+Zouaves, with artillery ready to sweep it at a moment’s notice. Six
+of the city gates were shut and barricaded with barrels full of earth.
+Troops and artillery were also posted in several of the principal
+piazzas, and on some commanding heights, and St. Peter’s itself was
+garrisoned.
+
+And yet these were the arrangements rather of panic than precaution.
+The utmost dismay pervaded the council-chamber of the Vatican. Since
+the news had arrived of the disembarkation of the French troops at
+Marseilles, all hope of interference had expired. It was clear that
+Berwick had been ultimately foiled, and his daring spirit and teeming
+device were the last hope, as they were the ablest representation,
+of Roman audacity and stratagem. The Revolutionary Committee, whose
+abiding-place or agents never could be traced or discovered, had
+posted every part of the city, during the night, with their manifesto,
+announcing that the hour had arrived; an attempt, partially successful,
+had been made to blow up the barracks of the Zouaves; and the cardinal
+secretary was in possession of information that an insurrection was
+immediate, and that the city would be fired in four different quarters.
+
+The pope had escaped from the Vatican to the Castle of St. Angelo, where
+he was secure, and where his courage could be sustained by the presence
+of the Noble Guard, with their swords always drawn. The six-score of
+monsignori, who in their different offices form what is styled the court
+of Rome, had either accompanied his holiness, or prudently secreted
+themselves in the strongest palaces and convents at their command. Later
+in the day news arrived of the escape of Garibaldi from Caprera; he was
+said to be marching on the city, and only five-and-twenty miles distant.
+There appeared another proclamation from the Revolutionary Committee,
+mysteriously posted under the very noses of the guards and police,
+postponing the insurrection till the arrival of the liberator.
+
+The papal cause seemed hopeless. There was a general feeling throughout
+the city and all classes, that this time it was to be an affair of
+Alaric or Genseric, or the Constable of Bourbon; no negotiations, no
+compromises, no conventions, but slaughter, havoc, a great judicial
+devastation, that was to extirpate all signs and memories of Mediaeval
+and Semitic Rome, and restore and renovate the inheritance of the true
+offspring of the she-wolf. The very aspect of the place itself was
+sinister. Whether it were the dulness of the dark sky, or the frown of
+Madre Natura herself, but the old Seven Hills seemed to look askance.
+The haughty capitol, impatient of its chapels, sighed once more for
+triumphs; and the proud Palatine, remembering the Caesars, glanced with
+imperial contempt on the palaces of the papal princelings that, in the
+course of ignominious ages, had been constructed out of the exhaustless
+womb of its still sovereign ruin. The Jews in their quarter spoke
+nothing, but exchanged a curious glance, as if to say, “Has it come at
+last? And will they indeed serve her as they served Sion?”
+
+This dreadful day at last passed, followed by as dreadful a night, and
+then another day equally gloomy, equally silent, equally panic-stricken.
+Even insurrection would have been a relief amid the horrible and wearing
+suspense. On the third day the government made some wild arrests of
+the wrong persons, and then came out a fresh proclamation from the
+Revolutionary Committee, directing the Romans to make no move until the
+advanced guard of Garibaldi had appeared upon Monte Mario. About this
+time the routed troops of the pope arrived in confusion from Viterbo,
+and of course extenuated their discomfiture by exaggerating the strength
+of their opponents. According to them, they had encountered not less
+than ten thousand men, who now; having joined the still greater force of
+Garibaldi, were in full march on the city.
+
+The members of the papal party who showed the greatest spirit and the
+highest courage at this trying conjuncture were the Roman ladies and
+their foreign friends. They scraped lint for the troops as incessantly
+as they offered prayers to the Virgin. Some of them were trained
+nurses, and they were training others to tend the sick and wounded. They
+organized a hospital service, and when the wounded arrived from Viterbo,
+notwithstanding the rumors of incendiarism and massacre, they came forth
+from their homes, and proceeded in companies, with no male attendants
+but armed men, to the discharge of their self-appointed public duties.
+There were many foreigners in the papal ranks, and the sympathies
+and services of the female visitors to Rome were engaged for their
+countrymen. Princesses of France and Flanders might be seen by the
+tressel-beds of many a suffering soldier of Dauphin and Brabant; but
+there were numerous subjects of Queen Victoria in the papal ranks—some
+Englishmen, several Scotchmen, and many Irish. For them the English
+ladies had organized a special service. Lady St. Jerome, with unflagging
+zeal, presided over this department; and the superior of the sisterhood
+of mercy, that shrank from no toil and feared no danger in the
+fulfilment of those sacred duties of pious patriots, was Miss Arundel.
+
+She was leaning over the bed of one who had been cut down in the
+olive-wood by a sabre of Campian’s force, when a peal of artillery
+was heard. She thought that her hour had arrived, and the assault had
+commenced.
+
+“Most holy Mary!” she exclaimed, “sustain me.”
+
+There was another peal, and it was repeated, and again and again at
+regular intervals.
+
+“That is not a battle, it is a salute,” murmured the wounded soldier.
+
+And he was right; it was the voice of the great guns telling that the
+French had arrived.
+
+The consternation of the Revolutionary Committee, no longer sustained
+by Colonna, absent in France, was complete. Had the advanced guard of
+Garibaldi been in sight, it might still have been the wisest course to
+rise; but Monte Mario was not yet peopled by them, and an insurrection
+against the papal troops, reanimated by the reported arrival of the
+French, and increased in numbers by the fugitives from Viterbo, would
+have been certainly a rash and probably a hopeless effort. And so, in
+the midst of confused and hesitating councils, the first division of the
+French force arrived at the gates of Rome, and marched into the gloomy
+and silent city.
+
+Since the interference of St. Peter and St. Paul against Alaric, the
+papacy had never experienced a more miraculous interposition in its
+favor. Shortly after this the wind changed, and the sky became serene;
+a sunbeam played on the flashing cross of St. Peter’s; the Pope left the
+Castle of Angelo, and returned to the Quirinal; the Noble Guard sheathed
+their puissant blades; the six-score of monsignori reappeared in all
+their busy haunts and stately offices; and the court of Rome, no longer
+despairing of the republic, and with a spirit worthy of the Senate after
+Cannae, ordered the whole of its forces into the field to combat its
+invaders, with the prudent addition, in order to insure a triumph, of a
+brigade of French infantry armed with chassepots.
+
+Garibaldi, who was really at hand, hearing of these events, fell back on
+Monte Rotondo, about fifteen miles from the city, and took up a strong
+position. He was soon attacked by his opponents, and defeated with
+considerable slaughter, and forced to fly. The papal troops returned
+to Rome in triumph, but with many wounded. The Roman ladies and their
+friends resumed their noble duties with enthusiasm. The ambulances were
+apportioned to the different hospitals, and the services of all were
+required. Our own countrymen had suffered severely, but the skill
+and energy and gentle care of Clare Arundel and her companions only
+increased with the greater calls upon their beautiful and sublime
+virtue.
+
+A woman came to Miss Arundel and told her that, in one of the
+ambulances, was a young man whom they could not make out. He was
+severely wounded, and had now swooned; but they had reason to believe he
+was an Englishman. Would she see him and speak to him? And she went.
+
+The person who had summoned her was a woman of much beauty, not an
+uncommon quality in Rome, and of some majesty of mien, as little rare,
+in that city. She was said, at the time when some inquiry was made, to
+be Maria Serafina de Angelis, the wife of a tailor in the Ripetta.
+
+The ambulance was in the court-yard of the hospital of the Santissima
+Trinita di Pellegrini. The woman pointed to it, and then went away.
+There was only one person in the ambulance; the rest had been taken to
+the hospital, but he had been left because he was in a swoon, and they
+were trying to restore him. Those around the ambulance made room for
+Miss Arundel as she approached, and she beheld a young man, covered
+with the stains of battle, and severely wounded; but his countenance was
+uninjured though insensible. His eyes were closed, and his auburn hair
+fell in clusters on his white forehead. The sister of mercy touched the
+pulse to ascertain whether there yet was life, but, in the very act,
+her own frame became agitated, and the color left her cheek as she
+recognized—Lothair.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 61 When Lothair in some degree regained consciousness, he
+found himself in bed. The chamber was lofty and dim, and had once been
+splendid. Thoughtfulness had invested it with an air of comfort rare
+under Italian roofs. The fagots sparkled on the hearth, the light from
+the windows was veiled with hangings, and the draughts from the
+tall doors guarded against by screens. And by his bedside there were
+beautiful flowers, and a crucifix, and a silver bell.
+
+Where was he? He looked up at the velvet canopy above, and then at the
+pictures that covered the walls, but there was no familiar aspect. He
+remembered nothing since he was shot down in the field of Mentana, and
+even that incoherently.
+
+And there had been another battle before that, followed by a catastrophe
+still more dreadful. When had all this happened, and where? He tried
+to move his bandaged form, but he had no strength, and his mind seemed
+weaker than his frame. But he was soon sensible that he was not alone. A
+veiled figure gently lifted him, and another one refreshed his pillows.
+He spoke, or tried to speak, but one of them pressed her finger to her
+shrouded lips, and he willingly relapsed into the silence which he had
+hardly strength enough to break.
+
+And sometimes these veiled and gliding ministers brought him sustenance
+and sometimes remedies, and he complied with all their suggestions, but
+with absolute listlessness; and sometimes a coarser hand interposed, and
+sometimes he caught a countenance that was not concealed, but was ever
+strange. He had a vague impression that they examined and dressed his
+wounds, and arranged his bandages; but whether he really had wounds, and
+whether he were or were not bandaged, he hardly knew, and did not care
+to know. He was not capable of thought, and memory was an effort under
+which he always broke down. Day after day he remained silent and almost
+motionless alike in mind and body. He had a vague feeling that, after
+some great sorrows, and some great trials, he was in stillness and in
+safety; and he had an indefinite mysterious sentiment of gratitude to
+some unknown power, that had cherished him in his dark calamities, and
+poured balm and oil into his wounds.
+
+It was in this mood of apathy that, one evening, there broke upon his
+ear low but beautiful voices performing the evening service of the
+Church. His eye glistened, his heart was touched by the vesper spell. He
+listened with rapt attention to the sweet and sacred strains, and when
+they died away he felt depressed. Would they ever sound again?
+
+Sooner than he could have hoped, for, when he woke in the morning from
+his slumbers, which, strange to say, were always disturbed, for the mind
+and the memory seemed to work at night though in fearful and exhausting
+chaos, the same divine melodies that had soothed him in the eve, now
+sounded in the glad and grateful worship of matin praise.
+
+“I have heard the voice of angels,” he murmured to his veiled attendant.
+
+The vesper and the matin hours became at once the epochs of his day. He
+was ever thinking of them, and soon was thinking of the feelings which
+their beautiful services celebrate and express. His mind seemed no
+longer altogether a blank, and the religious sentiment was the first
+that returned to his exhausted heart.
+
+“There will be a requiem to-day,” whispered one of his veiled
+attendants.
+
+A requiem! a service for the dead; a prayer for their peace and
+rest! And who was dead? The bright, the matchless one, the spell and
+fascination of his life! Was it possible? Could she be dead, who
+seemed vitality in its consummate form? Was there ever such a being as
+Theodora? And if there were no Theodora on earth, why should one think
+of any thing but heaven?
+
+The sounds came floating down the chamber till they seemed to cluster
+round his brain; sometimes solemn, sometimes thrilling, sometimes
+the divine pathos melting the human heart with celestial sympathy and
+heavenly solace. The tears fell fast from his agitated vision, and he
+sank back exhausted, almost insensible, on his pillow.
+
+“The Church has a heart for all our joys and all our sorrows, and for
+all our hopes, and all our fears,” whispered a veiled attendant, as she
+bathed his temples with fragrant waters.
+
+Though the condition of Lothair had at first seemed desperate, his
+youthful and vigorous frame had enabled him to rally, and, with time
+and the infinite solicitude which he received, his case was not
+without hope. But, though his physical cure was somewhat advanced, the
+prostration of his mind seemed susceptible of no relief. The services
+of the Church accorded with his depressed condition; they were the only
+events of his life, and he cherished them. His attendants now permitted
+and even encouraged him to speak; but he seemed entirely incurious and
+indifferent. Sometimes they read to him, and he listened, but he
+never made remarks. The works which they selected had a religious or
+ecclesiastical bias, even while they were imaginative; and it seemed
+difficult not to be interested by the ingenious fancy by which it was
+worked out, that every thing that was true and sacred in heaven had its
+symbol and significance in the qualities and accidents of earth.
+
+After a month passed in this manner, the surgeons having announced that
+Lothair might now prepare to rise from his bed, a veiled attendant said
+to him one day, “There is a gentleman here who is a friend of yours, and
+who would like to see you. And perhaps you would like to see him also
+for other reasons, for you must have much to say to God after all that
+you have suffered. And he is a most holy man.”
+
+“I have no wish to see any one. Are you sure he is not a stranger?”
+asked Lothair.
+
+“He is in the next room,” said the attendant. “He has been here
+throughout your illness, conducting our services; often by your bedside
+when you were asleep, and always praying for you.”
+
+The veiled attendant drew back and waved her hand, and some one glided
+forward, and said in a low, soft voice, “You have not forgotten me?”
+
+And Lothair beheld Monsignore Catesby.
+
+“It is a long time since we met,” said Lothair, looking at him with some
+scrutiny, and then all interest died away, and he turned away his vague
+and wandering eyes.
+
+“But you know me?”
+
+“I know not where I am, and I but faintly comprehend what has happened,”
+murmured Lothair.
+
+“You are among friends,” said the monsignore, in tones of sympathy.
+“What has happened,” he added, with an air of mystery, not unmixed with
+a certain expression of ecstasy in his glance, “must be reserved for
+other times, when you are stronger, and can grapple with such high
+themes.”
+
+“How long have I been here?” inquired Lothair, dreamily.
+
+“It is a month since the Annunciation.”
+
+“What Annunciation?”
+
+“Hush!” said the monsignore, and he raised his finger to his lip. “We
+must not talk of these things—at least at present. No doubt, the same
+blessed person that saved you from the jaws of death is at this moment
+guarding over your recovery and guiding it; but we do not deserve, nor
+does the Church expect, perpetual miracles. We must avail ourselves,
+under Divine sanction, of the beneficent tendencies of Nature; and in
+your case her operations must not be disturbed at this moment by any
+excitement, except, indeed, the glow of gratitude for celestial aid, and
+the inward joy which must permeate the being of any one who feels that
+he is among the most favored of men.”
+
+From this time Monsignore Catesby scarcely ever quitted Lothair.
+He hailed Lothair in the morn, and parted from him at night with a
+blessing; and in the interval Catesby devoted his whole life, and
+the inexhaustible resources of his fine and skilled intelligence,
+to alleviate or amuse the existence of his companion. Sometimes he
+conversed with Lothair, adroitly taking the chief burden of the talk;
+and yet, whether it were bright narrative or lively dissertation, never
+seeming to lecture or hold forth, but relieving the monologue, when
+expedient, by an interesting inquiry, which he was always ready in due
+time to answer himself, or softening the instruction by the playfulness
+of his mind and manner. Sometimes he read to Lothair, and attuned the
+mind of his charge to the true spiritual note by melting passages
+from Kempis or Chrysostom. Then he would bring a portfolio of wondrous
+drawings by the mediaeval masters, of saints and seraphs, and accustom
+the eye and thought of Lothair to the forms and fancies of the court of
+heaven.
+
+One day, Lothair, having risen from his bed for the first time, and
+lying on a sofa in an adjoining chamber to that in which he had been
+so long confined, the monsignore seated himself by the side of Lothair,
+and, opening a portfolio, took out a drawing and held it before Lothair,
+observing his countenance with a glance of peculiar scrutiny.
+
+“Well!” said Catesby, after some little pause, as if awaiting a remark
+from his companion.
+
+“‘Tis beautiful!” said Lothair. “Is it by Raffaelle?”
+
+“No; by Fra Bartolomeo. But the countenance, do you remember ever having
+met such a one?”
+
+Lothair shook his head. Catesby took out another drawing, the same
+subject, the Blessed Virgin. “By Giulio,” said the monsignore, and he
+watched the face of Lothair, but it was listless.
+
+Then he showed Lothair another, and another, and another. At last he
+held before him one which was really by Raffaelle, and by which Lothair
+was evidently much moved. His eye lit up, a blush suffused his pale
+cheek, he took the drawing himself, and held it before his gaze with a
+trembling hand.
+
+“Yes I remember this,” he murmured, for it was one of those faces of
+Greek beauty which the great painter not infrequently caught up at Rome.
+The monsignore looked gently round and waved his hand, and immediately
+arose the hymn to the Virgin in subdued strains of exquisite melody.
+
+On the next morning, when Lothair woke, he found on the table, by his
+side, the drawing of the Virgin in a sliding frame.
+
+About this time the monsignore began to accustom Lothair to leave his
+apartment, and, as he was not yet permitted to walk, Catesby introduced
+what he called an English chair, in which Lothair was enabled to survey
+a little the place which had been to him a refuge and a home. It seemed
+a building of vast size, raised round an inner court with arcades
+and windows, and, in the higher story where he resided, an apparently
+endless number of chambers and galleries. One morning, in their
+perambulations, the monsignore unlocked the door of a covered way which
+had no light but from a lamp which guided their passage. The opposite
+door at the end of this covered way opened into a church, but one of a
+character different from any which Lothair had yet entered.
+
+It had been raised during the latter of the sixteenth century by
+Vignola, when, under the influence of the great Pagan revival, the
+Christian church began to assume the character of an Olympian temple. A
+central painted cupola of large but exquisite proportions, supported
+by pilasters with gilded capitals, and angels of white marble springing
+from golden brackets; walls incrusted with rare materials of every tint,
+and altars supported by serpentine columns of agate and alabaster;
+a blaze of pictures, and statues, and precious stones, and precious
+metals, denoted one of the chief temples of the sacred brotherhood of
+Jesus, raised when the great order had recognized that the views of
+primitive and mediaeval Christianity, founded on the humility of man,
+were not in accordance with the age of confidence in human energy, in
+which they were destined to rise, and which they were determined to
+direct.
+
+Guided by Catesby, and leaning on a staff, Lothair gained a gorgeous
+side chapel in which mass was celebrating; the air was rich with
+incense, and all heaven seemed to open in the ministrations of a
+seraphic choir. Crushed by his great calamities, both physical and
+moral, Lothair sometimes felt that he could now be content if the rest
+of his life could flow away amid this celestial fragrance and these
+gushing sounds of heavenly melody. And absorbed in these feelings it was
+not immediately observed by him that on the altar, behind the dazzling
+blaze of tapers, was a picture of the Virgin, and identically the same
+countenance as that he had recognized with emotion in the drawing of
+Raffaelle.
+
+It revived perplexing memories which agitated him, thoughts on which
+it seemed his brain had not now strength enough to dwell, and yet with
+which it now seemed inevitable for him to grapple. The congregation
+was not very numerous, and, when it broke up, several of them lingered
+behind and whispered to the monsignore, and then, after a little time,
+Catesby approached Lothair and said: “There are some here who would
+wish to kiss your hand, or even touch the hem of your garments. It is
+troublesome, but natural, considering all that has occurred and that
+this is the first time, perhaps, that they have met any one who has been
+so favored.”
+
+“Favored!” said Lothair; “Am I favored? It seems to me I am the most
+forlorn of men—if even I am that.”
+
+“Hush!” said the monsignore, “we must not talk of these things at
+present;” and he motioned to some, who approached and contemplated
+Lothair with blended curiosity and reverence.
+
+These visits of Lothair to the beautiful church of the Jesuits became
+of daily occurrence, and often happened several times on the same
+day; indeed they formed the only incident which seemed to break his
+listlessness. He became interested in the change and variety of the
+services, in the persons and characters of the officiating priests. The
+soft manners of these fathers, their intelligence in the performance of
+their offices, their obliging carriage, and the unaffected concern
+with which all he said or did seemed to inspire them, won upon him
+unconsciously. The church had become his world; and his sympathies, if
+he still had sympathies, seemed confined to those within its walls.
+
+In the mean time his physical advancement though slow was gradual and
+had hitherto never been arrested. He could even walk a little alone,
+though artificially supported, and ramble about the halls and galleries
+full of a prodigious quantity of pictures, from the days of Raffael
+Sanzio to those of Raffael Mengs.
+
+“The doctors think now we might try a little drive,” said the monsignore
+one morning. “The rains have ceased and refreshed every thing. To-day
+is like the burst of spring;” and, when Lothair seemed to shudder at
+the idea of facing any thing like the external world, the monsignore
+suggested immediately that they should go out in a close carriage, which
+they finally entered in the huge quadrangle of the building. Lothair
+was so nervous that he pulled down even the blind of his window; and the
+monsignore, who always humored him, half pulled down his own.
+
+Their progress seemed through a silent land, and they could hardly be
+traversing streets. Then the ascent became a little precipitous, and
+then the carriage stopped, and the monsignore said: “Here is a solitary
+spot. We shall meet no one. The view is charming, and the air is soft.”
+And he placed his hand gently on the arm of Lothair, and, as it were,
+drew him out of the carriage.
+
+The sun was bright, and the sky was bland. There was something in the
+breath of Nature that was delightful. The scent of violets was worth
+all the incense in the world; all the splendid marbles and priestly
+vestments seemed hard and cold when compared with the glorious colors
+of the cactus and the wild forms of the golden and gigantic aloes.
+The Favonian breeze played on the brow of this beautiful hill, and the
+exquisite palm-trees, while they bowed their rustling heads, answered in
+responsive chorus to the antiphon of Nature.
+
+The dreary look that had been so long imprinted on the face of Lothair
+melted away.
+
+“‘Tis well that we came, is it not?” said Catesby; “and now we will
+seat ourselves.” Below and before them, on an undulating site, a city
+of palaces and churches spread out its august form, enclosing within its
+ample walls sometimes a wilderness of classic ruins—column, and arch,
+and theatre—sometimes the umbrageous spread of princely gardens. A
+winding and turbid river divided the city in unequal parts, in one of
+which there rose a vast and glorious temple, crowned with a dome of
+almost superhuman size and skill, on which the favorite sign of heaven
+flashed with triumphant truth.
+
+The expression of relief which, for a moment, had reposed on the face of
+Lothair, left it when he said, in an agitated voice, “I at length behold
+Rome!”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 62 This recognition of Rome by Lothair evinced not only a
+consciousness of locality, but an interest in it not before exhibited;
+and the monsignore soon after seized the opportunity of drawing the mind
+of his companion to the past, and feeling how far he now realized the
+occurrences that immediately preceded his arrival in the city. But
+Lothair would not dwell on them. “I wish to think of nothing,” he said,
+“that happened before I entered this city: all I desire now is to know
+those to whom I am indebted for my preservation in a condition that
+seemed hopeless.”
+
+“There is nothing hopeless with Divine aid,” said the monsignore; “but,
+humanly speaking, you are indebted for your preservation to English
+friends, long and intimately cherished. It is under their roof that you
+dwell, the Agostini palace, tenanted by Lord St. Jerome.”
+
+“Lord St. Jerome!” murmured Lothair to himself.
+
+“And the ladies of his house are those who, only with some slight
+assistance from my poor self, tended you throughout your most desperate
+state, and when we sometimes almost feared that mind and body were alike
+wrecked.”
+
+“I have a dream of angels,” said Lothair; “and sometimes I listened to
+heavenly voices that I seemed to have heard before.”
+
+“I am sure you have not forgotten the ladies of that house?” said
+Catesby, watching his countenance.
+
+“No; one of them summoned me to meet her at Rome,” murmured Lothair,
+“and I am here.”
+
+“That summons was divine,” said Catesby, “and only the herald of the
+great event that was ordained and has since occurred. In this holy city,
+Miss Arundel must ever count as the most sanctified of her sex.”
+
+Lothair lapsed into silence, which subsequently appeared to be
+meditation, for, when the carriage stopped, and the monsignore assisted
+him to alight, he said, “I must see Lord St. Jerome.”
+
+And, in the afternoon, with due and preparatory announcement, Lord St.
+Jerome waited on Lothair. The monsignore ushered him into the chamber,
+and, though he left them as it were alone, never quitted it. He watched
+them conversing, while he seemed to be arranging books and flowers; he
+hovered over the conference, dropping down on them at a critical moment,
+when the words became either languid or embarrassing. Lord St. Jerome
+was a hearty man, simple and high-bred. He addressed Lothair with all
+his former kindness, but with some degree of reserve, and even a dash
+of ceremony. Lothair was not insensible to the alteration in his manner,
+but could ascribe it to many causes. He was himself resolved to make
+an effort, when Lord St. Jerome arose to depart, and expressed the
+intention of Lady St. Jerome to wait on him on the morrow. “No, my dear
+lord,” said Lothair; “to-morrow I make my first visit, and it shall be
+to my best friends. I would try to come this evening, but they will not
+be alone; and I must see them alone if it be only once.”
+
+This visit of the morrow rather pressed on the nervous system of
+Lothair. It was no slight enterprise, and called up many recollections.
+He brooded over his engagement during the whole evening, and his night
+was disturbed. His memory, long in a state of apathy, or curbed and
+controlled into indifference, seemed endowed with unnatural vitality,
+reproducing the history of his past life in rapid and exhausting tumult.
+All its scenes rose before him—Brentham, and Vauxe, and, Muriel—and
+closing with one absorbing spot, which, for a long time, it avoided,
+and in which all merged and ended—Belmont. Then came that anguish of the
+heart, which none can feel but those who in the youth of life have lost
+some one infinitely fascinating and dear, and the wild query why he,
+too, had not fallen on the fatal plain which had entombed all the hope
+and inspiration of his existence.
+
+The interview was not so trying an incident as Lothair anticipated, as
+often under such circumstances occurs. Miss Arundel was not present;
+and, in the second place, although Lothair could not at first be
+insensible to a change in the manner of Lady St. Jerome, as well as
+in that of her lord, exhibiting as it did a degree of deference and
+ceremony which with her toward him were quite unusual, still the genial,
+gushing nature of this lively and enthusiastic woman, full of sympathy,
+soon asserted itself, and her heart was overflowing with sorrow for all
+his sufferings and gratitude for his escape.
+
+“And, after all,” she said, “every thing must have been ordained; and,
+without these trials, and even calamities, that great event could not
+have been brought about which must make all hail you as the most favored
+of men.”
+
+Lothair stared with a look of perplexity, and then said: “If I be the
+most favored of men, it is only because two angelic beings have deigned
+to minister to me in my sorrow, with a sweet devotion I can never
+forget, and, alas! can never repay.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 63 Lothair was not destined to meet Clare Arundel alone or only
+in the presence of her family. He had acceded, after a short time, to
+the wish of Lady St. Jerome, and the advice of Monsignore Catesby, to
+wait on her in the evening, when Lady St. Jerome was always at home and
+never alone. Her rooms were the privileged resort of the very cream of
+Roman society and of those English who, like herself, had returned to
+the Roman Church. An Italian palace supplied an excellent occasion for
+the display of the peculiar genius of our countrywomen to make a place
+habitable. Beautiful carpets, baskets of flowers and cases of ferns,
+and chairs which you could sit upon, tables covered with an infinity of
+toys—sparkling, useful, and fantastic—huge silken screens of rich color,
+and a profusion of light, produced a scene of combined comfort and
+brilliancy which made every one social who entered it, and seemed to
+give a bright and graceful turn even to the careless remarks of ordinary
+gossip.
+
+Lady St. Jerome rose the moment her eye caught the entry of Lothair,
+and, advancing, received him with an air of ceremony, mixed, however,
+with an expression of personal devotion which was distressing to him,
+and singularly contrasted with the easy and genial receptions that he
+remembered at Vauxe. Then Lady St. Jerome led Lothair to her
+companion whom she had just quitted, and presented him to the Princess
+Tarpeia-Cinque Cento, a dame in whose veins, it was said, flowed both
+consular and pontifical blood of the rarest tint.
+
+The Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento was the greatest lady in Rome; had
+still vast possessions—palaces and villas and vineyards and broad farms.
+Notwithstanding all that had occurred, she still looked upon the kings
+and emperors of the world as the mere servants of the pope, and on the
+old Roman nobility as still the conscript fathers of the world. Her
+other characteristic was superstition. So she was most distinguished
+by an irrepressible haughtiness and an illimitable credulity. The only
+softening circumstance was that, being in the hands of the Jesuits, her
+religion did not assume an ascetic or gloomy character. She was fond
+of society, and liked to show her wondrous jewels, which were still
+unrivalled, although she had presented his holiness in his troubles with
+a tiara of diamonds.
+
+There were rumors that the Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento had on
+occasions treated even the highest nobility of England with a certain
+indifference; and all agreed that to laymen, however distinguished,
+her highness was not prone too easily to relax. But, in the present
+instance, it is difficult to convey a due conception of the graciousness
+of her demeanor when Lothair bent before her. She appeared even
+agitated, almost rose from her seat, and blushed through her rouge. Lady
+St. Jerome, guiding Lothair into her vacant seat, walked away.
+
+“We shall never forget what you have done for us,” said the princess to
+Lothair.
+
+“I have done nothing,” said Lothair, with a surprised air.
+
+“Ali, that is so like gifted beings like you,” said the princess. “They
+never will think they have done any thing, even were they to save the
+world.”
+
+“You are too gracious, princess,” said Lothair; “I have no claims to
+esteem which all must so value.”
+
+“Who has, if you have not?” rejoined the princess. “Yes, it is to you,
+and to you alone, that we must look. I am very impartial in what I say,
+for, to be frank, I have not been of those who believed that the great
+champion would rise without the patrimony of St. Peter. I am ashamed to
+say that I have even looked with jealousy on the energy that has been
+shown by individuals in other countries; but I now confess that I was
+in error. I cannot resist this manifestation. It was a privilege to
+have lived when it happened. All that we can do now is to cherish your
+favored life.”
+
+“You are too kind, madam,” murmured the perplexed Lothair.
+
+“I have done nothing,” rejoined the princess, “and am ashamed that I
+have done nothing. But it is well for you, at this season, to be at
+Rome; and you cannot be better, I am sure, than under this roof. But,
+when the spring breaks, I hope you will honor me, by accepting for your
+use a villa which I have at Albano, and which, at that season, has many
+charms.”
+
+There were other Roman ladies in the room only inferior in rank and
+importance to the Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento; and in the course of
+the evening, at their earnest request, they were made acquainted with
+Lothair, for it cannot be said he was presented to them. These ladies,
+generally so calm, would not wait for the ordinary ceremony of life,
+but, as he approached to be introduced, sank to the ground with the
+obeisance offered only to royalty.
+
+There were some cardinals in the apartment and several monsignori.
+Catesby was there in close attendance on a pretty English countess, who
+had just “gone over.” Her husband had been at first very much distressed
+at the event, and tore himself from the severe duties of the House of
+Lords, in the hope that he might yet arrive in time at Rome to save
+her soul. But he was too late; and, strange to say, being of a domestic
+turn, and disliking family dissensions, he remained at Rome during the
+rest of the session, and finally “went over” himself.
+
+Later in the evening arrived his eminence, Cardinal Berwick, for our
+friend had gained, and bravely gained, the great object of a churchman’s
+ambition, and which even our Laud was thinking at one time of accepting,
+although he was to remain a firm Anglican. In the death-struggle between
+the Church and the secret societies, Berwick had been the victor, and no
+one in the Sacred College more truly deserved the scarlet hat.
+
+His eminence had a reverence of radiant devotion for the Princess
+Tarpeia-Cinque Cento, a glance of friendship for Lady St. Jerome—for
+all, a courtly and benignant smile; but, when he recognized Lothair,
+he started forward, seized and retained his hand, and then seemed
+speechless with emotion. “Ah! my comrade in the great struggle!” he at
+length exclaimed; “this is, indeed, a pleasure—and to see you here!”
+
+Early in the evening, while Lothair was sitting by the side of the
+princess, his eye had wandered round the room, not unsuccessfully, in
+search of Miss Arundel; and, when he was free, he would immediately have
+approached her, but she was in conversation with a Roman prince. Then,
+when she was for a moment free, he was himself engaged; and, at last,
+he had to quit abruptly a cardinal of taste, who was describing to him a
+statue just discovered in the baths of Diocletian, in order to seize the
+occasion that again offered itself.
+
+Her manner was constrained when he addressed her, but she gave him her
+hand, which he pressed to his lips. Looking deeply into her violet eyes,
+he said: “You summoned me to meet you at Rome; I am here.”
+
+“And I summoned you to other things,” she answered, at first with
+hesitation and a blush; but then, as if rallying herself to the
+performance of a duty too high to allow of personal embarrassment,
+she added: “all of which you will perform, as becomes one favored by
+Heaven.”
+
+“I have been favored by you,” said Lothair, speaking low and hurriedly;
+“to whom I owe my life, and more than my life. Yes,” he continued, “this
+is not the scene I would have chosen to express my gratitude to you
+for all that you have done for me, and my admiration of your sublime
+virtues; but I can no longer repress the feelings of my heart, though
+their utterance be as inadequate as your deeds have been transcendent.”
+
+“I was but the instrument of a higher power.”
+
+“We are all instruments of a higher power, but the instruments chosen
+are always choice.”
+
+“Ay, there it is!” said Miss Arundel; “and that is what I rejoice you
+feel. For it is impossible that such a selection could have been made,
+as in your case, without your being reserved for great results.”
+
+“I am but a shattered actor for great results,” said Lothair, shaking
+his head.
+
+“You have had trials,” said Miss Arundel, “so had St. Ignatius, so
+had St. Francis, and great temptations; but these are the tests of
+character, of will, of spiritual power—the fine gold is searched. All
+things that have happened have tended and have been ordained to one end,
+and that was to make you the champion of the Church of which you are now
+more than the child.”
+
+“More than the child?”
+
+“Indeed I think so. However, this is hardly the place and occasion
+to dwell on such matters; and, indeed, I know your friends—my friends
+equally—are desirous that your convalescence should not be unnecessarily
+disturbed by what must be, however delightful, still agitating thoughts;
+but you touched yourself unexpectedly on the theme, and, at any rate,
+you will pardon one who has the inconvenient quality of having only one
+thought.”
+
+“Whatever you say or think must always interest me.”
+
+“You are kind to say so. I suppose you know that our cardinal, Cardinal
+Grandison, will be here in a few days?”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 64 Although the reception of Lothair by his old friends and by
+the leaders of the Roman world was in the highest degree flattering,
+there was something in its tone which was perplexing to him and
+ambiguous. Could they be ignorant of his Italian antecedents?
+Impossible. Miss Arundel had admitted, or rather declared, that he had
+experienced great trials, and, even temptations. She could only allude
+to what had occurred since their parting in England. But all this was
+now looked upon as satisfactory, because it was ordained, and tended to
+one end; and what was that end? His devotion to the Church of Rome, of
+which they admitted he was not formally a child.
+
+It was true that his chief companion was a priest, and that he passed a
+great portion of his life within the walls of a church. But the priest
+was his familiar friend in England, who in a foreign land had nursed
+him with devotion in a desperate illness; and, although in the great
+calamities, physical and moral, that had overwhelmed him, he had found
+solace in the beautiful services of a religion which he respected, no
+one for a moment had taken advantage of this mood of his suffering and
+enfeebled mind to entrap him into controversy, or to betray him into
+admissions that he might afterward consider precipitate and immature.
+Indeed, nothing could be more delicate than the conduct of the Jesuit
+fathers throughout his communications with them. They seemed sincerely
+gratified that a suffering fellow creature should find even temporary
+consolation within their fair and consecrated structure; their voices
+modulated with sympathy; their glances gushed with fraternal affection;
+their affectionate politeness contrived, in a thousand slight instances,
+the selection of a mass, the arrangement of a picture, the loan of a
+book, to contribute to the interesting or elegant distraction of his
+forlorn and brooding being.
+
+And yet Lothair began to feel uneasy, and his uneasiness increased
+proportionately as his health improved. He sometimes thought that he
+should like to make an effort and get about a little in the world, but
+he was very weak, and without any of the resources to which he had been
+accustomed throughout life. He had no servants of his own, no carriages,
+no man of business, no banker; and when at last he tried to bring
+himself to write to Mr. Putney Giles—a painful task—Monsignore Catesby
+offered to undertake his whole correspondence for him, and announced
+that his medical attendants had declared that he must under no
+circumstances whatever attempt at present to write a letter. Hitherto he
+had been without money, which was lavishly supplied for his physicians
+and other wants; and he would have been without clothes if the
+most fashionable tailor in Rome, a German, had not been in frequent
+attendance on him under the direction of Monsignore Catesby, who, in
+fact, had organized his wardrobe as he did every thing else.
+
+Somehow or other Lothair never seemed alone. When he woke in the morning
+the monsignore was frequently kneeling before an oratory in his room,
+and if by any chance Lothair was wanting at Lady St. Jerome’s reception,
+Father Coleman, who was now on a visit to the family, would look in
+and pass the evening with him, as men who keep a gaming-table find
+it discreet occasionally to change the dealer. It is a huge and even
+stupendous pile—that Palazzo Agostini, and yet Lothair never tried
+to thread his way through its vestibules and galleries, or attempt a
+reconnaissance of its endless chambers, without some monsignore or other
+gliding up quite propos and relieving him from the dulness of solitary
+existence during the rest of his promenade.
+
+Lothair was relieved by hearing that his former guardian, Cardinal
+Grandison, was daily expected at Rome; and he revolved in his mind
+whether he should not speak to his eminence generally on the system of
+his life, which he felt now required some modification. In the interval,
+however, no change did occur. Lothair attended every day the services
+of the church, and every evening the receptions of Lady St. Jerome;
+and between the discharge of these two duties he took a drive with
+a priest—sometimes with more than one, but always most agreeable
+men—generally in the environs of the city, or visited a convent, or a
+villa, some beautiful gardens, or a gallery of works of art.
+
+It was at Lady St. Jerome’s that Lothair met his former guardian. The
+cardinal had only arrived in the morning. His manner to Lothair was
+affectionate. He retained Lothair’s hand and pressed it with his pale,
+thin fingers; his attenuated countenance blazed for a moment with a
+divine light.
+
+“I have long wished to see you, sir,” said Lothair, “and much wish to
+talk with you.”
+
+“I can hear nothing from you nor of you but what must be most pleasing
+to me,” said the cardinal.
+
+“I wish I could believe that,” said Lothair.
+
+The cardinal caressed him; put his arm round Lothair’s neck and said,
+“There is no time like the present. Let us walk together in this
+gallery,” and they withdrew naturally from the immediate scene.
+
+“You know all that has happened, I dare say,” said Lothair with
+embarrassment and with a sigh, “since we parted in England, sir.”
+
+“All,” said the cardinal. “It has been a most striking and merciful
+dispensation.”
+
+“Then I need not dwell upon it,” said Lothair, “and naturally it would
+be most painful. What I wish particularly to speak to you about is my
+position under this roof. What I owe to those who dwell under it no
+language can describe, and no efforts on my part, and they shall be
+unceasing, can repay. But I think the time has come when I ought no
+longer to trespass on their affectionate devotion, though, when I allude
+to the topic, they seem to misinterpret the motives which influence me,
+and to be pained rather than relieved by my suggestions. I cannot bear
+being looked upon as ungrateful, when in fact I am devoted to them. I
+think, sir, you might help me in putting all this right.”
+
+“If it be necessary,” said the cardinal; “but I apprehend you
+misconceive them. When I last left Rome you were very ill, but Lady St.
+Jerome and others have written to me almost daily about you, during my
+absence, so that I am familiar with all that has occurred, and quite
+cognizant of their feelings. Rest assured that, toward yourself, they
+are exactly what they ought to be and what you would desire.”
+
+“Well, I am glad,” said Lothair, “that you are acquainted with every
+thing that has happened, for you can put them right if it be necessary;
+but I sometimes cannot help fancying that they are under some false
+impression both as to my conduct and my convictions.”
+
+“Not in the slightest,” said the cardinal, “trust me, my dear friend,
+for that. They know everything and appreciate everything; and, great
+as, no doubt, have been your sufferings, feel that every thing has been
+ordained for the best; that the hand of the Almighty has been visible
+throughout all these strange events; that His Church was never
+more clearly built upon a rock than at this moment; that this great
+manifestation will revive, and even restore, the faith of Christendom;
+and that you yourself must be looked upon as one of the most favored of
+men.”
+
+“Everybody says that,” said Lothair, rather peevishly.
+
+“And everybody feels it,” said the cardinal.
+
+“Well, to revert to lesser points,” said Lothair, “I do not say I want
+to return to England, for I dread returning to England, and do not
+know whether I shall ever go back there; and at any rate I doubt not
+my health at present is unequal to the effort; but I should like some
+change in my mode of life. I will not say it is too much controlled,
+for nothing seems ever done without first consulting me; but, somehow
+or other, we are always in the same groove. I wish to see more of the
+world; I wish to see Rome, and the people of Rome. I wish to see and do
+many things which, if I mention, it would seem to hurt the feelings of
+others, and my own are misconceived, but, if mentioned by you, all would
+probably be different.”
+
+“I understand you, my dear young friend, my child, I will still say,”
+said the cardinal. “Nothing can be more reasonable than what you
+suggest. No doubt our friends may be a little too anxious about you, but
+they are the best people in the world. You appear to me to be quite well
+enough now to make more exertion than hitherto they have thought you
+capable of. They see you every day, and cannot judge so well of you as
+I who have been absent. I will charge myself to effect all your wishes.
+And we will begin by my taking you out to-morrow and your driving with
+me about the city. I will show you Rome and the Roman people.”
+
+Accordingly, on the morrow, Cardinal Grandison and his late pupil
+visited together Rome and the Romans. And first of all Lothair was
+presented to the cardinal-prefect of the Propaganda, who presides over
+the ecclesiastical affairs of every country in which the Roman Church
+has a mission, and that includes every land between the Arctic and the
+Southern Pole. This glimpse of the organized correspondence with both
+the Americas, all Asia, all Africa, all Australia, and many European
+countries, carried on by a countless staff of clerks in one of the most
+capacious buildings in the world, was calculated to impress the visitor
+with a due idea of the extensive authority of the Roman Pontiff. This
+institution, greater, according to the cardinal, than any which existed
+in ancient Rome, was to propagate the faith, the purity of which the
+next establishment they visited was to maintain. According to Cardinal
+Grandison, there never was a body the character of which had been
+so wilfully and so malignantly misrepresented as that of the Roman
+Inquisition. Its true object is reformation not punishment and therefore
+pardon was sure to follow the admission of error. True it was there
+were revolting stories afloat, for which there was undoubtedly some
+foundation, though their exaggeration and malice were evident, of the
+ruthless conduct of the Inquisition; but these details were entirely
+confined to Spain, and were the consequences not of the principles of
+the Holy Office, but of the Spanish race, poisoned by Moorish and Jewish
+blood, or by long contact with those inhuman infidels. Had it not been
+for the Inquisition organizing and directing the mitigating influences
+of the Church, Spain would have been a land of wild beasts; and even in
+quite modern times it was the Holy Office at Rome which always stepped
+forward to protect the persecuted, and, by the power of appeal
+from Madrid to Rome, saved the lives of those who were unjustly or
+extravagantly accused.
+
+“The real business, however, of the Holy Office now,” continued the
+cardinal, “is in reality only doctrinal; and there is something truly
+sublime—essentially divine, I would say—in this idea of an old man, like
+the Holy Father, himself the object of ceaseless persecution by all
+the children of Satan, never for a moment relaxing his heaven-inspired
+efforts to maintain the purity of the faith once delivered to the
+saints, and at the same time to propagate it throughout the whole world,
+so that there should be no land on which the sun shines that should not
+afford means of salvation to suffering man. Yes, the Propaganda and the
+Inquisition alone are sufficient to vindicate the sacred claims of
+Rome. Compared with them, mere secular and human institutions, however
+exalted, sink into insignificance.”
+
+These excursions with the cardinal were not only repeated, but became
+almost of daily occurrence. The cardinal took Lothair with him in his
+visits of business, and introduced him to the eminent characters of the
+city. Some of these priests were illustrious scholars or votaries of
+science, whose names were quoted with respect and as authority in the
+circles of cosmopolitan philosophy. Then there were other institutions
+at Rome, which the cardinal snatched occasions to visit, and which,
+if not so awfully venerable as the Propaganda and the Inquisition,
+nevertheless testified to the advanced civilization of Rome and the
+Romans, and the enlightened administration of the Holy Father. According
+to Cardinal Grandison, all the great modern improvements in the
+administration of hospitals and prisons originated in the eternal city;
+scientific ventilation, popular lavatories, the cellular or silent
+system, the reformatory. And yet these were nothing compared with
+the achievements of the Pontifical Government in education. In short,
+complete popular education only existed at Rome. Its schools were more
+numerous even than its fountains. Gratuitous instruction originated
+with the ecclesiastics; and from the night-school to the university here
+might be found the perfect type.
+
+“I really believe,” said the cardinal, “that a more virtuous, a more
+religious, a more happy and contented people than the Romans never
+existed. They could all be kept in order with the police of one of your
+counties. True it is, the Holy Father is obliged to garrison the city
+with twelve thousand men of arms, but not against the Romans, not
+against his own subjects. It is the secret societies of atheism who
+have established their lodges in this city, entirely consisting of
+foreigners, that render these lamentable precautions necessary. They
+will not rest until they have extirpated the religious principle from
+the soul of man, and until they have reduced him to the condition
+of wild beasts. But they will fail, as they failed the other day, as
+Sennacherib failed. These men may conquer zouaves and cuirassiers, but
+they cannot fight against Saint Michael and all the angels. They may do
+mischief, they may aggravate and prolong the misery of man, but they are
+doomed to entire and eternal failure.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 65 Lady St. Jerome was much interested in the accounts which the
+cardinal and Lothair gave her of their excursions in the city and their
+visits.
+
+“It is very true,” she said, “I never knew such good people; and they
+ought to be so favored by Heaven, and leading a life which, if any thing
+earthly can, must give them, however faint, some foretaste of our
+joys hereafter. Did your eminence visit the Pellegrini?” This was the
+hospital, where Miss Arundel had found Lothair.
+
+The cardinal looked grave. “No,” he replied. “My object was to secure
+for our young friend some interesting but not agitating distraction from
+certain ideas which, however admirable and transcendently important,
+are nevertheless too high and profound to permit their constant
+contemplation with impunity to our infirm natures. Besides,” he added,
+in a lower, but still distinct tone, “I was myself unwilling to visit
+in a mere casual manner the scene of what I must consider the greatest
+event of this century.”
+
+“But you have been there?” inquired Lady St. Jerome.
+
+His eminence crossed himself.
+
+In the course of the evening Monsignore Catesby told Lothair that a
+grand service was about to be celebrated in the church of St. George:
+thanks were to be offered to the Blessed Virgin by Miss Arundel for the
+miraculous mercy vouchsafed to her in saving the life of a countryman,
+Lothair. “All her friends will make a point of being there,” added the
+monsignore, “even the Protestants and some Russians. Miss Arundel was
+very unwilling at first to fulfil this office, but the Holy Father has
+commanded it. I know that nothing will induce her to ask you to attend;
+and yet, if I were you, I would turn it over in your mind. I know she
+said that she would sooner that you were present than all her English
+friends together. However, you can think about it. One likes to do what
+is proper.”
+
+One does; and yet it is difficult. Sometimes, in doing what we think
+proper, we get into irremediable scrapes; and often, what we hold to be
+proper, society in its caprice resolves to be highly improper.
+
+Lady St. Jerome had wished Lothair to see Tivoli, and they were all
+consulting together when they might go there. Lord St. Jerome who,
+besides his hunters, had his drag at Rome, wanted to drive them to the
+place. Lothair sat opposite Miss Arundel, gazing on her beauty. It was
+like being at Vauxe again. And yet a great deal had happened since they
+were at Vauxe; and what? So far as they two were concerned, nothing but
+what should create or confirm relations of confidence and affection.
+Whatever may have been the influence of others on his existence, hers
+at least had been one of infinite benignity. She had saved his life; she
+had cherished it. She had raised him from the lowest depth of physical
+and moral prostration to health and comparative serenity. If at Vauxe he
+had beheld her with admiration, had listened with fascinated interest to
+the fervid expression of her saintly thoughts, and the large purposes of
+her heroic mind, all these feelings were naturally heightened now when
+he had witnessed her lofty and consecrated spirit in action, and when
+that action in his own case had only been exercised for his ineffable
+advantage.
+
+“Your uncle cannot go to-morrow,” continued Lady St. Jerome, “and on
+Thursday I am engaged.”
+
+“And on Friday—,” said Miss Arundel, hesitating.
+
+“We are all engaged,” said Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“I should hardly wish to go out before Friday anywhere,” said Miss
+Arundel, speaking to her aunt, and in a lower tone.
+
+Friday was the day on which the thanksgiving service was to be
+celebrated in the Jesuit church of St. George of Cappadocia. Lothair
+knew this well enough and was embarrassed: a thanksgiving for the mercy
+vouchsafed to Miss Arundel in saving the life of a fellow-countryman, an
+that fellow-countryman not present! All her Protestant friends would be
+there, and some Russians. And he not there! It seemed, on his part,
+the most ungracious and intolerable conduct. And he knew that she would
+prefer his presence to that of all her acquaintances together. It was
+more than ungracious on his part; it was ungrateful, almost inhuman.
+
+Lothair sat silent, and stupid, and stiff, and dissatisfied with
+himself. Once or twice he tried to speak, but his tongue would not move,
+or his throat was not clear. And, if he had spoken, he would only have
+made some trifling and awkward remark. In his mind’s eye he saw, gliding
+about him, the veiled figure of his sick-room, and he recalled with
+clearness the unceasing and angelic tenderness of which at the time he
+seemed hardly conscious.
+
+Miss Arundel had risen and had proceeded some way down the room to a
+cabinet where she was accustomed to place her work. Suddenly Lothair
+rose and followed her. “Miss Arundel!” he said, and she looked round,
+hardly stopping when he had reached her. “Miss Arundel, I hope you will
+permit me to be present at the celebration on Friday?”
+
+She turned round quickly, extending, even eagerly, her hand with
+mantling cheek. Her eyes glittered with celestial fire. The words
+hurried from her palpitating lips: “And support me,” she said, “for I
+need support.”
+
+In the evening reception, Monsignore Catesby approached Father Coleman.
+“It is done,” he said, with a look of saintly triumph. “It is done at
+last. He will not only be present, but he will support her. There are
+yet eight-and-forty hours to elapse. Can any thing happen to defeat us?
+It would seem not; yet, when so much is at stake, one is fearful. He
+must never be out of our sight; not a human being must approach him.”
+
+“I think we can manage that,” said Father Coleman.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 66 The Jesuit church of St. George of Cappadocia was situate in
+one of the finest piazzas of Rome. It was surrounded with arcades, and
+in its centre the most beautiful fountain of the city spouted forth its
+streams to an amazing height, and in forms of graceful fancy. On Friday
+morning the arcades were festooned with tapestry and hangings of crimson
+velvet and gold. Every part was crowded, and all the rank and fashion
+and power of Rome seemed to be there assembling. There had been once
+some intention on the part of the Holy Father to be present, but a
+slight indisposition had rendered that not desirable. His holiness,
+however, had ordered a company of his halberdiers to attend, and the
+ground was kept by those wonderful guards in the dress of the middle
+ages—halberds and ruffs, and white plumes, and party-colored coats, a
+match for our beef-eaters. Carriages with scarlet umbrellas on the box,
+and each with three serving-men behind, denoted the presence of the
+cardinals in force. They were usually brilliant equipages, being
+sufficiently new, or sufficiently new purchases, Garibaldi and the late
+commanding officer of Lothair having burnt most of the ancient coaches
+in the time of the Roman republics twenty years before. From each
+carriage an eminence descended with his scarlet cap and his purple train
+borne by two attendants. The Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento was there,
+and most of the Roman princes and princesses, and dukes, and duchesses.
+It seemed that the whole court of Rome was there—monsignori and prelates
+without end. Some of their dresses, and those of the generals of the
+orders, appropriately varied the general effect, for the ladies were all
+in black, their heads covered only with black veils.
+
+Monsignore Catesby had arranged with Lothair that they should enter the
+church by their usual private way, and Lothair therefore was not in any
+degree prepared for the sight which awaited him on his entrance into it.
+The church was crowded; not a chair nor a tribune vacant. There was a
+suppressed gossip going on as in a public place before a performance
+begins, much fluttering of fans, some snuff taken, and many sugar-plums.
+
+“Where shall we find a place?” said Lothair.
+
+“They expect us in the sacristy,” said the monsignore.
+
+The sacristy of the Jesuit church of St. George of Cappadocia might have
+served for the ballroom of a palace. It was lofty, and proportionately
+spacious, with a grooved ceiling painted with all the court of heaven.
+Above the broad and richly-gilt cornice floated a company of seraphim
+that might have figured as the Cupids of Albano. The apartment was
+crowded, for there and in some adjoining chambers were assembled
+the cardinals and prelates, and all the distinguished or official
+characters, who, in a few minutes, were about to form a procession of
+almost unequal splendor and sanctity, and which was to parade the whole
+body of the church.
+
+Lothair felt nervous; an indefinable depression came over him, as on the
+morning of a contest when a candidate enters his crowded committee-room.
+Considerable personages, bowing, approached to address him—the Cardinal
+Prefect of the Propaganda, the Cardinal Assessor of the Holy Office,
+the Cardinal Pro-Datario, and the Cardinal Vicar of Rome. Monsignori the
+Secretary of Briefs to Princes and the Master of the Apostolic Palace
+were presented to him. Had this been a conclave, and Lothair the future
+pope, it would have been impossible to have treated him with more
+consideration than he experienced. They assured him that they looked
+upon this day as one of the most interesting in their lives, and the
+importance of which to the Church could not be overrated. All this
+somewhat encouraged him, and he was more himself when a certain general
+stir, and the entrance of individuals from adjoining apartments,
+intimated that the proceedings were about to commence. It seemed
+difficult to marshal so considerable and so stately an assemblage,
+but those who had the management of affairs were experienced in such
+matters. The acolytes and the thurifers fell into their places; there
+seemed no end of banners and large golden crosses; great was the company
+of the prelates—a long purple line, some only in cassocks, some in
+robes, and mitred; then came a new banner of the Blessed Virgin, which
+excited intense interest, and every eye was strained to catch the
+pictured scene. After this banner, amid frequent incense, walked two
+of the most beautiful children in Rome, dressed as angels with golden
+wings; the boy bearing a rose of Jericho, the girl a lily. After these,
+as was understood, dressed in black and veiled, walked six ladies, who
+were said to be daughters of the noblest houses of England, and then a
+single form with a veil touching the ground.
+
+“Here we must go,” said Monsignore Catesby to Lothair, and he gently
+but irresistibly pushed him into his place. “You know you promised to
+support her. You had better take this,” he said, thrusting a lighted
+taper into his hand; “it is usual, and one should never be singular.”
+
+So they walked on, followed by the Roman princes, bearing a splendid
+baldachin. And then came the pomp of the cardinals, each with his
+train-bearers, exhibiting with the skill of artists the splendor of
+their violet robes.
+
+As the head of the procession emerged from the sacristy into the church,
+three organs and a choir, to which all the Roman churches had lent their
+choicest voices, burst into the Te Deum. Round the church and to all the
+chapels, and then up the noble nave, the majestic procession moved, and
+then, the gates of the holy place opening, the cardinals entered and
+seated themselves, their train-bearers crouching at their knees, the
+prelates grouped themselves, and the banners and crosses were ranged in
+the distance, except the new banner of the Virgin, which seemed to hang
+over the altar. The Holy One seemed to be in what was recently a field
+of battle, and was addressing a beautiful maiden in the dress of a
+Sister of Mercy.
+
+“This is your place,” said Monsignore Catesby, and he pushed Lothair
+into a prominent position.
+
+The service was long, but, sustained by exquisite music, celestial
+perfumes, and the graceful movements of priests in resplendent dresses
+continually changing, it could not be said to be wearisome. When all was
+over, Monsignore Catesby said to Lothair, “I think we had better return
+by the public way; it seems expected.”
+
+It was not easy to leave the church. Lothair was detained, and received
+the congratulations of the Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento and many
+others. The crowd, much excited by the carriages of the cardinals, had
+not diminished when they came forth, and they were obliged to linger
+some little time upon the steps, the monsignore making difficulties when
+Lothair more than once proposed to advance.
+
+“I think we may go now,” said Catesby, and they descended into the
+piazza. Immediately many persons in this immediate neighborhood fell
+upon their knees, many asked a blessing from Lothair, and some rushed
+forward to kiss the hem of his garment.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 67 The Princess Tarpeia-Cinque Cento gave an entertainment in
+the evening in honor of “the great event.” Italian palaces are so vast,
+are so ill-adapted to the moderate establishments of modern tones, that
+their grand style in general only impresses those who visit them with a
+feeling of disappointment and even mortification. The meagre retinue are
+almost invisible as they creep about the corridors and galleries, and
+linger in the sequence of lofty chambers. These should be filled with
+crowds of serving-men and groups of splendid retainers. They were built
+for the days when a great man was obliged to have a great following;
+and when the safety of his person, as well as the success of his career,
+depended on the number and the lustre of his train.
+
+The palace of the Princess Tarpeia was the most celebrated in Rome, one
+of the most ancient, and certainly the most beautiful. She dwelt in it
+in a manner not unworthy of her consular blood and her modern income.
+To-night her guests were received by a long line of foot-servants in
+showy liveries, and bearing the badge of her house, while in every
+convenient spot pages and gentlemen-ushers, in courtly dress, guided the
+guests to their place of destination. The palace blazed with light, and
+showed to advantage the thousand pictures which, it is said, were there
+enshrined, and the long galleries full of the pale statues of Grecian
+gods and goddesses, and the busts of the former rulers of Rome and
+the Romans. The atmosphere was fragrant with rare odors, and music was
+heard, amid the fall of fountains, in the dim but fancifully-illumined
+gardens.
+
+The princess herself wore all those famous jewels which had been spared
+by all the Goths from the days of Brennus to those of Garibaldi, and on
+her bosom reposed the celebrated transparent cameo of Augustus, which
+Caesar himself is said to have presented to Livia, and which Benvenuto
+Cellini had set in a framework of Cupids and rubies. If the weight of
+her magnificence were sometimes distressing, she had the consolation of
+being supported by the arm of Lothair.
+
+Two young Roman princes, members of the Guarda Nobile, discussed the
+situation.
+
+“The English here say,” said one, “that he is their richest man.”
+
+“And very noble, too,” said the other.
+
+“Certainly, truly noble—a kind of cousin of the queen.”
+
+“This great event must have an effect upon all their nobility. I cannot
+doubt they will all return to the Holy Father.”
+
+“They would if they were not afraid of having to restore their church
+lands. But they would be much more happy if Rome were again the capital
+of the world.”
+
+“No shadow of doubt. I wonder if this young prince will hunt in the
+Campagna?”
+
+“All Englishmen hunt.”
+
+“I make no doubt he rides well, and has famous horses, and will
+sometimes lend us one. I am glad his soul is saved.”
+
+“Yes; it is well, when the Blessed Virgin interferes, it should be in
+favor of princes. When princes become good Christians, it is an example.
+It does good. And this man will give an impulse to our opera, which
+wants it, and, as you say, he will have many horses.”
+
+In the course of the evening, Miss Arundel, with a beaming face, but of
+deep expression, said to Lothair: “I could tell you some good news,
+had I not promised the cardinal that he should communicate it to you
+himself. He will see you to-morrow. Although it does not affect me
+personally, it will be to me the happiest event that ever occurred,
+except, of course, one.”
+
+“What can she mean?” thought Lothair. But at that moment Cardinal
+Berwick approached him, and Miss Arundel glided away.
+
+Father Coleman attended Lothair home to the Agostini Palace, and when
+they parted said, with much emphasis, “I must congratulate you once more
+on the great event.”
+
+On the following morning, Lothair found on his table a number of the
+Roman journal published that day. It was customary to place it there,
+but in general he only glanced at it, and scarcely that. On the present
+occasion his own name caught immediately his eye. It figured in a
+long account of the celebration of the preceding day. It was with a
+continually changing countenance, now scarlet, now pallid as death;
+with a palpitating heart, a trembling hand, a cold perspiration, and, at
+length, a disordered vision, that Lothair read the whole of an article,
+of which we now give a summary:
+
+“Rome was congratulated on the service of yesterday, which celebrated
+the greatest event of this century. And it came to pass in this wise.
+It seems that a young English noble of the highest rank, family, and
+fortune” (and here the name and titles of Lothair were accurately
+given), “like many of the scions of the illustrious and influential
+families of Britain, was impelled by an irresistible motive to enlist
+as a volunteer in the service of the pope, when the Holy Father was
+recently-attacked by the secret societies of atheism. This gallant
+and gifted youth, after prodigies of valor and devotion, had fallen at
+Mentana in the sacred cause, and was given up for lost. The day after
+the battle, when the ambulances laden with the wounded were hourly
+arriving at Rome from the field, an English lady, daughter of an
+illustrious house, celebrated throughout centuries for its devotion to
+the Holy See, and who during the present awful trial had never ceased in
+her efforts to support the cause of Christianity, was employed, as was
+her wont, in offices of charity, and was tending, with her companion
+sisters, her wounded countrymen at the Hospital La Consolazione, in the
+new ward which has been recently added to that establishment by the Holy
+Father.
+
+“While she was leaning over one of the beds, she felt a gentle and
+peculiar pressure on her shoulder, and, looking round, beheld a most
+beautiful woman, with a countenance of singular sweetness and yet
+majesty. And the visitor said: ‘You are attending to those English who
+believe in the Virgin Mary. Now at the Hospital Santissima Trinita di
+Pellegrini there is in an ambulance a young Englishman apparently dead,
+but who will not die if you go to him immediately and say you came in
+the name of the Virgin.’
+
+“The influence of the stranger was so irresistible that the young
+English lady, attended by a nurse and one of the porters of La
+Consolazione, repaired instantly to the Di Pellegrini, and there they
+found in the court-yard, as they had been told, an ambulance, in form
+and color and equipment unlike any ambulance used by the papal troops,
+and in the ambulance the senseless body of a youth, who was recognized
+by the English lady as her young and gallant countryman. She claimed
+him in the name of the Blessed Virgin, and, after due remedies, was
+permitted to take him at once to his noble relatives, who lived in the
+Palazzo Agostini.
+
+“After a short time much conversation began to circulate about this
+incident. The family wished to testify their gratitude to the individual
+whose information had led to the recovery of the body, and subsequently
+of the life of their relation; but all that they could at first learn
+at La Consolazione was, that the porter believed the woman was Maria
+Serafina di Angelis, the handsome wife of a tailor in the Strada di
+Ripetta. But it was soon shown that this could not be true, for it was
+proved that, on the day in question, Maria Serafina di Angelis was on a
+visit to a friend at La Riccia; and, in the second place, that she did
+not bear the slightest resemblance to the stranger who had given the
+news. Moreover, the porter of the gate being required to state why he
+had admitted any stranger without the accustomed order, denied that he
+had so done; that he was in his lodge and the gates were locked, and the
+stranger had passed through without his knowledge.
+
+“Two priests were descending the stairs when the stranger came upon
+them, and they were so struck by the peculiarity of her carriage, that
+they turned round and looked at her, and clearly observed at the back of
+her head a sort of halo. She was out of their sight when they made this
+observation, but in consequence of it they made inquiries of the porter
+of the gate, and remained in the court-yard till she returned.
+
+“This she did a few minutes before the English lady and her attendants
+came down, as they had been detained by the preparation of some bandages
+and other remedies, without which they never moved. The porter of the
+gate having his attention called to the circumstance by the priests,
+was most careful in his observations as to the halo, and described it
+as most distinct. The priests then followed the stranger, who proceeded
+down a long and solitary street, made up in a great degree of garden and
+convent walls, and without a turning. They observed her stop and speak
+to two or three children, and then, though there was no house to enter
+and no street to turn into, she vanished.
+
+“When they had reached the children they found each of them holding in
+its hand a beautiful flower. It seems the lady had given the boy a rose
+of Jericho, and to his sister a white and golden lily. Inquiring whether
+she had spoken to them, they answered that she had said, ‘Let these
+flowers be kept in remembrance of me; they will never fade.’ And truly,
+though months had elapsed, these flowers had never failed, and, after
+the procession of yesterday, they were placed under crystal in the
+chapel of the Blessed Virgin in the Jesuit Church of St. George of
+Cappadocia, and may be seen every day, and will be seen forever in
+primeval freshness.
+
+“This is the truthful account of what really occurred with respect to
+this memorable event, and as it was ascertained by a consulta of the
+Holy Office, presided over by the cardinal prefect himself. The Holy
+Office is most severe in its inquisition of the truth, and, though it
+well knows that the Divine presence never leaves His Church, it is most
+scrupulous in its investigations whenever any miraculous interposition
+is alleged. It was entirely by its exertions that the somewhat
+inconsistent and unsatisfactory evidence of the porter of the gate, in
+the first instance, was explained, cleared, and established; the whole
+chain of evidence worked out; all idle gossip and mere rumors rejected;
+and the evidence obtained of above twenty witnesses of all ranks
+of life, some of them members of the learned profession, and others
+military officers of undoubted honor and veracity, who witnessed the
+first appearance of the stranger at the Pellegrini and the undoubted
+fact of the halo playing round her temples.
+
+“The consulta of the Holy Office could only draw one inference,
+sanctioned by the Holy Father himself, as to the character of the
+personage who thus deigned to appear; and interpose; and no wonder that,
+in the great function of yesterday, the eyes of all Rome were fixed upon
+Lothair as the most favored of living men.”
+
+He himself now felt as one sinking into an unfathomable abyss. The
+despair came over him that involves a man engaged in a hopeless contest
+with a remorseless power. All his life during the last year passed
+rushingly across his mind. He recalled the wiles that had been employed
+to induce him to attend a function in a Jesuits’ chapel, in an obscure
+nook of London; the same agencies had been employed there; then, as now,
+the influence of Clare Arundel had been introduced to sway him when all
+others had failed. Belmont had saved him then. There was no Belmont now.
+The last words of Theodora murmured in his ear like the awful voice of
+a distant sea. They were the diapason of all the thought and feeling of
+that profound and passionate spirit.
+
+That seemed only a petty plot in London, and he had since sometimes
+smiled when he remembered how it had been baffled. Shallow apprehension!
+The petty plot was only part of a great and unceasing and triumphant
+conspiracy, and the obscure and inferior agencies which he had been rash
+enough to deride had consummated their commanded purpose in the eyes of
+all Europe, and with the aid of the great powers of the world.
+
+He felt all the indignation natural to a sincere and high-spirited man,
+who finds that he has been befooled by those whom he has trusted; but,
+summoning all his powers to extricate himself from his desolate dilemma,
+he found himself without resource. What public declaration on his part
+could alter the undeniable fact, now circulating throughout the world,
+that in the supernatural scene of yesterday he was the willing and the
+principal actor? Unquestionably he had been very imprudent, not only
+in that instance, but in his habitual visits to the church; he felt all
+that now. But he was torn and shattered, infinitely distressed, both in
+body and in mind; weak and miserable; and he thought he was leaning
+on angelic hearts, when he found himself in the embrace of spirits of
+another sphere.
+
+In what a position of unexampled pain did he not now find himself! To
+feel it your duty to quit the faith in which you have been bred must
+involve an awful pang; but to be a renegade without the consolation
+of conscience, against your sense, against your will, alike for
+no celestial hope and no earthly object—this was agony mixed with
+self-contempt.
+
+He remembered what Lady Corisande had once said to him about those who
+quitted their native church for the Roman communion. What would she say
+now? He marked in imagination the cloud of sorrow on her imperial brow
+and the scorn of her curled lip.
+
+Whatever happened, he could never return to England—at least for
+many years, when all the things and persons he cared for would have
+disappeared or changed, which is worse; and then what would be the use
+of returning? He would go to America, or Australia, or the Indian Ocean,
+or the interior of Africa; but even in all these places, according to
+the correspondence of the Propaganda, he would find Roman priests, and
+active priests. He felt himself a lost man; not free from faults in this
+matter, but punished beyond his errors. But this is the fate of men who
+think they can struggle successfully with a supernatural power.
+
+A servant opened a door and said, in a loud voice, that, with his
+permission, his eminence, the English cardinal, would wait on him.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 68 It is proverbial to what drowning men will cling. Lothair, in
+his utter hopelessness, made a distinction between the cardinal and the
+conspirators. The cardinal had been absent from Rome during the greater
+portion of the residence of Lothair in that city. The cardinal was his
+father’s friend, an English gentleman, with an English education, once
+an Anglican, a man of the world, a man of honor, a good, kind-hearted
+man. Lothair explained the apparent and occasional cooperation of his
+eminence with the others, by their making use of him without a due
+consciousness of their purpose on his part. Lothair remembered how
+delicately his former guardian had always treated the subject of
+religion in their conversations. The announcement of his visit,
+instead of aggravating the distresses of Lothair, seemed, as all these
+considerations rapidly occurred to him, almost to impart a ray of hope.
+
+“I see,” said the cardinal, as he entered serene and graceful as usual,
+and glancing at the table, “that you have been reading the account of
+our great act of yesterday.”
+
+“Yes; and I have been reading it,” said Lothair, reddening, “with
+indignation; with alarm; I should add, with disgust.”
+
+“How is this?” said the cardinal, feeling or affecting surprise.
+
+“It is a tissue of falsehood and imposture,” continued Lothair; “and I
+will take care that my opinion is known of it.”
+
+“Do nothing rashly,” said the cardinal. “This is an official journal,
+and I have reason to believe that nothing appears in it which is not
+drawn up, or well considered, by truly pious men.”
+
+“You yourself, sir, must know,” continued Lothair, “that the whole of
+this statement is founded on falsehood.”
+
+“Indeed, I should be sorry to believe,” said the cardinal, “that there
+was a particle of misstatement, or even exaggeration, either in the base
+or the superstructure of the narrative.”
+
+“Good God!” exclaimed Lothair. “Why, take the very first allegation,
+that I fell at Mentana, fighting in the ranks of the Holy Father.
+Everyone knows that I fell fighting against him, and that I was almost
+slain by one of his chassepots. It is notorious; and though, as a matter
+of taste, I have not obtruded the fact in the society in which I have
+been recently living, I have never attempted to conceal it, and have not
+the slightest doubt that it must be as familiar to every member of that
+society as to your eminence.”
+
+“I know there are two narratives of your relations with the battle of
+Mentana,” observed the cardinal, quietly. “The one accepted as authentic
+is that which appears in this journal; the other account, which can only
+be traced to yourself, bears no doubt a somewhat different character;
+but considering that it is in the highest degree improbable, and
+that there is not a tittle of confirmatory or collateral evidence to
+extenuate its absolute unlikelihood, I hardly think you are justified
+in using, with reference to the statement in this article, the harsh
+expression, which I am persuaded, on reflection, you will feel you have
+hastily used.”
+
+“I think,” said Lothair, with a kindling eye and a burning cheek, “that
+I am the best judge of what I did at Mentana.”
+
+“Well, well,” said the cardinal, with dulcet calmness, “you naturally
+think so; but you must remember you have been very ill, my dear young
+friend, and laboring under much excitement. If I were you—and I speak
+as your friend, I hope your best one—I would not dwell too much on this
+fancy of yours about the battle of Mentana. I would myself always deal
+tenderly with a fixed idea: harsh attempts to terminate hallucination
+are seldom successful. Nevertheless, in the case of a public event, a
+matter of fact, if a man finds that he is of one opinion, and all
+orders of society of another, he should not be encouraged to dwell on a
+perverted view; he should be gradually weaned from it.”
+
+“You amaze me!” said Lothair.
+
+“Not at all,” said the cardinal. “I am sure you will benefit by my
+advice. And you must already perceive that, assuming the interpretation
+which the world without exception places on your conduct in the field to
+be the just one, there really is not a single circumstance in the whole
+of this interesting and important statement, the accuracy of which you
+yourself would for a moment dispute.”
+
+“What is there said about me at Mentana makes me doubt of all the rest,”
+said Lothair.
+
+“Well, we will not dwell on Mentana,” said the cardinal, with a sweet
+smile; “I have treated of that point. Your case is by no means an
+uncommon one. It will wear off with returning health. King George IV
+believed that he was at the battle of Waterloo, and indeed commanded
+there; and his friends were at one time a little alarmed; but Knighton,
+who was a sensible man, said, ‘His majesty has only to leave off
+Curacao, and rest assured he will gain no more victories.’ The rest of
+this statement, which is to-day officially communicated to the whole
+world, and which in its results will probably be not less important even
+than the celebration of the centenary of St. Peter, is established by
+evidence so incontestable—by witnesses so numerous, so various—in all
+the circumstances and accidents of testimony so satisfactory—I may
+say so irresistible, that controversy on this head would be a mere
+impertinence and waste of time.”
+
+“I am not convinced,” said Lothair.
+
+“Hush!” said the cardinal; “the freaks of your own mind about personal
+incidents, however lamentable, may be viewed with indulgence—at least
+for a time. But you cannot be permitted to doubt of the rest. You must
+be convinced, and on reflection you will be convinced. Remember, sir,
+where you are. You are in the centre of Christendom, where truth, and
+where alone truth resides. Divine authority has perused this paper and
+approved it. It is published for the joy and satisfaction of two
+hundred millions of Christians, and for the salvation of all those who,
+unhappily for themselves, are not yet converted to the faith. It
+records the most memorable event of this century. Our Blessed Lady has
+personally appeared to her votaries before during that period, but
+never at Rome. Wisely and well she has worked in villages and among the
+illiterate as at the beginning did her Divine Son. But the time is now
+ripe for terminating the infidelity of the world. In the eternal city,
+amid all its matchless learning and profound theology, in the sight of
+thousands, this great act has been accomplished, in a manner which can
+admit of no doubt, and which can lead to no controversy. Some of the
+most notorious atheists of Rome have already solicited to be admitted
+to the offices of the Church; the secret societies have received their
+deathblow; I look to the alienation of England as virtually over. I am
+panting to see you return to the home of your fathers, and re-conquer it
+for the Church in the name of the Lord God of Sabaoth. Never was a
+man in a greater position since Godfrey or Ignatius. The eyes of all
+Christendom are upon you as the most favored of men, and you stand there
+like Saint Thomas.”
+
+“Perhaps he was as bewildered as I am,” said Lothair.
+
+“Well, his bewilderment ended in his becoming an apostle, as yours will.
+I am glad we have had this conversation, and that we agree; I knew we
+should. But now I wish to speak to you on business, and very grave. The
+world assumes that, being the favored of Heaven, you are naturally and
+necessarily a member of the Church. I, your late guardian, know that is
+not the case, and sometimes I blame myself that it is not so. But I have
+ever scrupulously refrained from attempting to control your convictions;
+and the result has justified me. Heaven has directed your life, and I
+have now to impart to you the most gratifying intelligence that can be
+communicated by man, and that the Holy Father will to-morrow himself
+receive you into the bosom of that Church of which he is the divine
+head. Christendom will then hail you as its champion and regenerator,
+and thus will be realized the divine dream with which you were inspired
+in our morning walk in the park at Vauxe.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 69 It was the darkest hour in Lothair’s life. He had become
+acquainted with sorrow; he had experienced calamities physical and
+moral. The death of Theodora had shaken him to the centre. It was
+that first great grief which makes a man acquainted with his deepest
+feelings, which detracts something from the buoyancy of the youngest
+life, and dims, to a certain degree, the lustre of existence. But even
+that bereavement was mitigated by distractions alike inevitable and
+ennobling. The sternest and highest of all obligations, military duty,
+claimed him with an unfaltering grasp, and the clarion sounded almost as
+he closed her eyes. Then he went forth to struggle for a cause which at
+least she believed to be just and sublime; and if his own convictions
+on that head might be less assured or precise, still there was doubtless
+much that was inspiring in the contest, and much dependent on the
+success of himself and his comrades that tended to the elevation of man.
+
+But, now, there was not a single circumstance to sustain his involved
+and sinking life. A renegade—a renegade without conviction, without
+necessity, in absolute violation of the pledge he had given to the
+person he most honored and most loved, as he received her parting
+spirit. And why was all this? and how was all this? What system of
+sorcery had encompassed his existence? For he was spell-bound—as much
+as any knight in fairy-tale whom malignant influences had robbed of his
+valor and will and virtue. No sane person could credit, even comprehend,
+his position. Had he the opportunity of stating it in a court of justice
+to-morrow, he could only enter into a narrative which would decide
+his lot as an insane being. The magical rites had been so gradual, so
+subtle, so multifarious, all in appearance independent of each other,
+though in reality scientifically combined, that, while the conspirators
+had probably effected his ruin both in body and in soul, the only
+charges he could make against them would be acts of exquisite charity,
+tenderness, self-sacrifice, personal devotion, refined piety, and
+religious sentiment of the most exalted character.
+
+What was to be done? And could any thing be done? Could he escape? Where
+from and where to? He was certain, and had been for some time, from many
+circumstances, that he was watched. Could he hope that the vigilance
+which observed all his movements would scruple to prevent any which
+might be inconvenient? He felt assured that, to quit that palace alone,
+was not in his power. And were it, whither could he go? To whom was he
+to appeal? And about what was he to appeal? Should he appeal to the Holy
+Father? There would be an opportunity for that to-morrow. To the College
+of Cardinals, who had solemnized yesterday with gracious unction his
+spiritual triumph? To those congenial spirits, the mild Assessor of the
+Inquisition, or the president of the Propaganda, who was busied at
+that moment in circulating throughout both the Americas, all Asia,
+all Africa, all Australia, and parts of Europe, for the edification of
+distant millions, the particulars of the miraculous scene in which he
+was the principal actor? Should he throw himself on the protection of
+the ambiguous minister of the British crown, and invoke his aid against
+a conspiracy touching the rights, reason, and freedom of one of her
+majesty’s subjects? He would probably find that functionary inditing a
+private letter to the English Secretary of State, giving the minister
+a graphic account of the rare doings of yesterday, and assuring the
+minister, from his own personal and ocular experience, that a member
+of one of the highest orders of the British peerage carried in the
+procession a lighted taper after two angels with amaranthine flowers and
+golden wings.
+
+Lothair remained in his apartments; no one approached him. It was the
+only day that the monsignore had not waited on him. Father Coleman was
+equally reserved. Strange to say, not one of those agreeable and polite
+gentlemen, fathers of the oratory, who talked about gems, torsos, and
+excavations, and who always more or less attended his levee, troubled
+him this morning. With that exquisite tact which pervades the
+hierarchical circles of Rome, every one felt that Lothair, on the eve of
+that event of his life which Providence had so long and so mysteriously
+prepared, would wish to be undisturbed.
+
+Restless, disquieted, revolving all the incidents of his last year,
+trying, by terrible analysis, to ascertain how he ever could have got
+into such a false position, and how he could yet possibly extricate
+himself from it, not shrinking in many things from self-blame, and yet
+not recognizing on his part such a degree of deviation from the standard
+of right feeling, or even of commonsense, as would authorize such an
+overthrow as that awaiting him—high rank and boundless wealth, a station
+of duty and of honor, some gifts of Nature, and golden youth, and a
+disposition that at least aspired, in the employment of these, accidents
+of life and fortune, at something better than selfish gratification, all
+smashed—the day drew on.
+
+Drew on the day, and every hour it seemed his spirit was more lone
+and dark. For the first time the thought of death occurred to him as a
+relief from the perplexities of existence. How much better had he died
+at Mentana! To this pass had arrived the cordial and brilliant Lord of
+Muriel, who enjoyed and adorned life, and wished others to adorn and
+to enjoy it; the individual whom, probably, were the majority of the
+English people polled, they would have fixed upon as filling the most
+enviable of all positions, and holding out a hope that he was not
+unworthy of it. Born with every advantage that could command the
+sympathies of his fellow-men, with a quick intelligence and a noble
+disposition, here he was at one-and-twenty ready to welcome death,
+perhaps even to devise it, as the only rescue from a doom of confusion,
+degradation, and remorse.
+
+He had thrown himself on a sofa, and had buried his face in his hands to
+assist the abstraction which he demanded. There was not an incident of
+his life that escaped the painful inquisition of his memory. He passed
+his childhood once more in that stern Scotch home, that, after all, had
+been so kind, and, as it would seem, so wise. The last words of counsel
+and of warning from his uncle, expressed at Muriel, came back to him.
+And yet there seemed a destiny throughout these transactions which was;
+irresistible! The last words of Theodora, her look, even more solemn
+than her tone, might have been breathed over a tripod, for they were a
+prophecy, not a warning.
+
+How long he had been absorbed in this passionate reverie he knew not
+but when he looked up again it was night, and the moon had touched his
+window. He rose and walked up and down the room, and then went into
+the corridor. All was silent; not an attendant was visible; the sky was
+clear and starry, and the moonlight fell on the tall, still cypresses in
+the vast quadrangle.
+
+Lothair leaned over the balustrade and gazed upon the moonlit fountains.
+The change of scene, silent and yet not voiceless, and the softening
+spell of the tranquillizing hour, were a relief to him. And after a time
+he wandered about the corridors, and after a time he descended into the
+court. The tall Swiss, in his grand uniform, was closing the gates which
+had just released a visitor. Lothair motioned that he too wished to go
+forth, and the Swiss obeyed him. The threshold was passed, and Lothair
+found himself for the first time alone in Rome.
+
+Utterly reckless, he cared not where he went or what might happen.
+The streets were quite deserted, and he wandered about with a strange
+curiosity, gratified as he sometimes encountered famous objects he had
+read of, and yet the true character of which no reading ever realizes.
+
+The moonlight becomes the proud palaces of Rome, their corniced and
+balconied fronts rich with deep shadows in the blaze. Sometimes he
+encountered an imperial column; sometimes he came to an arcadian square
+flooded with light and resonant with the fall of statued fountains.
+Emerging from a long, straggling street of convents and gardens, he
+found himself in an open space full of antique ruins, and among them the
+form of a colossal amphitheatre that he at once recognized.
+
+It rose with its three tiers of arches and the huge wall that crowns
+them, black and complete in the air; and not until Lothair had entered
+it could he perceive the portion of the outer wall that was in ruins,
+and now bathed with the silver light. Lothair was alone. In that
+huge creation, once echoing with the shouts, and even the agonies, of
+thousands, Lothair was alone.
+
+He sat him down on a block of stone in that sublime and desolate arena,
+and asked himself the secret spell of this Rome that had already so
+agitated his young life, and probably was about critically to affect it.
+Theodora lived for Rome and died for Rome. And the cardinal, born and
+bred an English gentleman, with many hopes and honors, had renounced his
+religion, and, it might be said, his country, for Rome. And for Rome,
+to-morrow, Catesby would die without a pang, and sacrifice himself for
+Rome, as his race for three hundred years had given, for the same cause,
+honor and broad estates and unhesitating lives. And these very people
+were influenced by different motives, and thought they were devoting
+themselves to opposite ends. But still it was Rome—republican or
+Caesarian, papal or pagan, it still was Rome.
+
+Was it a breeze in a breezeless night that was sighing amid these ruins?
+A pine-tree moved its head on a broken arch, and there was a stir
+among the plants that hung on the ancient walls. It was a breeze in a
+breezeless night that was sighing amid the ruins.
+
+There was a tall crag of ancient building contiguous to the block
+on which Lothair was seated, and which on his arrival he had noted,
+although, long lost in reverie, he had not recently turned his glance in
+that direction. He was roused from that reverie by the indefinite sense
+of some change having occurred which often disturbs and terminates one’s
+brooding thoughts. And looking round, he felt, he saw, he was no longer
+alone. The moonbeams fell upon a figure that was observing him from the
+crag of ruin that was near, and, as the light clustered and gathered
+round the form, it became every moment more definite and distinct.
+
+Lothair would have sprung forward, but he could only extend his arms: he
+would have spoken, but his tongue was paralyzed.
+
+“Lothair,” said a deep, sweet voice that never could be forgotten.
+
+“I am here,” he at last replied.
+
+“Remember!” and she threw upon him that glance, at once serene and
+solemn, that had been her last, and was impressed indelibly upon his
+heart of hearts.
+
+Now, he could spring forward and throw himself at her feet, but alas!
+as he reached her, the figure melted into the moonlight, and she was
+gone—that divine Theodora, who, let us hope, returned at last to those
+Elysian fields she so well deserved.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 70 “They have overdone it, Gertrude, with Lothair,” said Lord
+Jerome to his wife. “I spoke to Monsignore Catesby about it some
+time ago, but he would not listen to me; I had more confidence in the
+cardinal and am disappointed; but a priest is ever too hot. His nervous
+system has been tried too much.”
+
+Lady St. Jerome still hoped the best, and believed in it. She was
+prepared to accept the way Lothair was found senseless in the Coliseum
+as a continuance of miraculous interpositions. He might have remained
+there for a day or days, and never have been recognized when discovered.
+How marvelously providential that Father Coleman should have been in the
+vicinity, and tempted to visit the great ruin that very night!
+
+Lord St. Jerome was devout, and easy in his temper. Priests and women
+seemed to have no difficulty in managing him. But he was an English
+gentleman, and there was at the bottom of his character a fund of
+courage, firmness, and commonsense, that sometimes startled and
+sometimes perplexed those who assumed that he could be easily
+controlled. He was not satisfied with the condition of Lothair, “a peer
+of England and my connection;” and he had not unlimited confidence
+in those who had been hitherto consulted as to his state. There was a
+celebrated English physician at that time visiting Rome, and Lord St.
+Jerome, notwithstanding the multiform resistance of Monsignors Catesby,
+insisted he should be called in to Lothair.
+
+The English physician was one of those men who abhor priests, and do
+not particularly admire ladies. The latter, in revenge, denounced his
+manners as brutal, though they always sent for him, and were always
+trying, though vainly, to pique him into sympathy. He rarely spoke,
+but he listened to every one with entire patience. He sometimes asked a
+question, but he never made a remark.
+
+Lord St. Jerome had seen the physician alone before he visited the
+Palazzo Agostini, and had talked to him freely about Lothair. The
+physician saw at once that Lord St. Jerome was truthful, and that,
+though his intelligence might be limited, it was pure and direct.
+Appreciating Lord St. Jerome, that nobleman found the redoubtable doctor
+not ungenial, and assured his wife that she would meet on the morrow
+by no means so savage a being as she anticipated. She received him
+accordingly, and in the presence of Monsignore Catesby. Never had she
+exercised her distinguished powers of social rhetoric with more art
+and fervor, and never apparently had they proved less productive of the
+intended consequences. The physician said not a word, and merely bowed
+when exhausted Nature consigned the luminous and impassioned Lady St.
+Jerome to inevitable silence. Monsignore Catesby felt he was bound in
+honor to make some diversion in her favor; repeat some of her unanswered
+inquiries, and reiterate some of her unnoticed views; but the only
+return he received was silence, without a bow, and then the physician
+remarked, “I presume I can now see the patient.”
+
+The English physician was alone with Lothair for some time, and then
+he met in consultation the usual attendants. The result of all these
+proceedings was that he returned to the saloon, in which he found Lord
+and Lady St. Jerome, Monsignore Catesby, and Father Coleman, and he then
+said: “My opinion is, that his lordship should quit Rome immediately,
+and I think he had better return at once to his own country.”
+
+All the efforts of the English Propaganda were now directed to prevent
+the return of Lothair to his own country. The cardinal and Lady St.
+Jerome, and the monsignore, and Father Coleman, all the beautiful young
+countesses who had “gone over” to Rome, and all the spirited young
+earls who had come over to bring their wives back, but had unfortunately
+remained themselves, looked very serious, and spoke much in whispers.
+Lord St. Jerome was firm that Lothair should immediately leave the city,
+and find that change of scene and air which were declared by authority
+to be indispensable for his health, both of mind and body. But his
+return to England, at this moment, was an affair of serious difficulty.
+He could not return unattended, and attended, too, by some intimate
+and devoted friend. Besides, it was very doubtful whether Lothair had
+strength remaining to bear so great an exertion, and at such a season
+of the year—and he seemed disinclined to it himself. He also wished to
+leave Rome, but he wished also in time to extend his travels. Amid these
+difficulties, a Neapolitan duke, a great friend of Monsignore Catesby, a
+gentleman who always had a friend in need, offered to the young English
+noble, the interesting young Englishman so favored by Heaven, the use
+of his villa on the coast of the remotest part of Sicily, near Syracuse.
+Here was a solution of many difficulties: departure from Rome, change of
+scene and air—sea air, too, particularly recommended—and almost the same
+as a return to England, without an effort, for was it not an island,
+only with a better climate, and a people with free institutions, or a
+taste for them, which is the same?
+
+The mode in which Lady St. Jerome and Monsignors Catesby consulted
+Lord St. Jerome on the subject took the adroit but insidious form
+of congratulating him on the entire and unexpected fulfilment of his
+purpose. “Are we not fortunate?” exclaimed her ladyship, looking up
+brightly in his face, and gently pressing one of his arms.
+
+“Exactly everything your lordship required,” echoed Monsignore Catesby,
+congratulating him by pressing the other.
+
+The cardinal said to Lord St. Jerome, in the course of the morning, in
+an easy way, and as if he were not thinking too much of the matter, “So,
+you have got out of all your difficulties.”
+
+Lord St. Jerome was not entirely satisfied, but he thought he had done
+a great deal, and, to say the truth, the effort for him had not been
+inconsiderable; and so the result was that Lothair, accompanied by
+Monsignore Catesby and Father Coleman, travelled by easy stages, and
+chiefly on horseback, through a delicious and romantic country, which
+alone did Lothair a great deal of good, to the coast; crossed the
+straits on a serene afternoon, visited Messina and Palermo, and finally
+settled at their point of destination—the Villa Catalano.
+
+Nothing could be more satisfactory than the monsignore’s bulletin,
+announcing to his friends at Rome their ultimate arrangements. Three
+weeks’ travel, air, horse exercise, the inspiration of the landscape
+and the clime, had wonderfully restored Lothair, and they might entirely
+count on his passing Holy Week at Rome, when all they had hoped and
+prayed for would, by the blessing of the Holy Virgin, be accomplished.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 71 The terrace of the Villa Catalano, with its orange and palm
+trees, looked upon a sea of lapiz lazuli, and rose from a shelving shore
+of aloes and arbutus. The waters reflected the color of the sky, and all
+the foliage was bedewed with the same violet light of morn which bathed
+the softness of the distant mountains, and the undulating beauty of the
+ever-varying coast.
+
+Lothair was walking on the terrace, his favorite walk, for it was the
+only occasion on which he ever found himself alone. Not that he had any
+reason to complain of his companions. More complete ones could scarcely
+be selected. Travel, which, they say, tries all tempers, had only proved
+the engaging equanimity of Catesby, and had never disturbed the amiable
+repose of his brother priest: and then they were so entertaining and so
+instructive, as well as handy and experienced in all common things. The
+monsignore had so much taste and feeling, and various knowledge; and as
+for the reverend father, all the antiquaries they daily encountered
+were mere children in his hands, who, without effort, could explain and
+illustrate every scene and object, and spoke as if he had never given a
+thought to any other theme than Sicily and Syracuse, the expedition
+of Nicias, and the adventures of Agathocles. And yet, during all their
+travels, Lothair felt that he never was alone. This was remarkable at
+the great cities, such as Messina and Palermo, but it was a prevalent
+habit in less-frequented places. There was a petty town near them, which
+he had never visited alone, although he had made more than one attempt
+with that view; and it was only on the terrace in the early morn, a spot
+whence he could be observed from the villa, and which did not easily
+communicate with the precipitous and surrounding scenery, that Lothair
+would indulge that habit of introspection which he had pursued through
+many a long ride, and which to him was a never-failing source of
+interest and even excitement.
+
+He wanted to ascertain the causes of what he deemed the failure of his
+life, and of the dangers and discomfiture that were still impending
+over him. Were these causes to be found in any peculiarity of his
+disposition, or in the general inexperience and incompetence of youth?
+The latter, he was now quite willing to believe, would lead their
+possessors into any amount of disaster, but his ingenuous nature
+hesitated before it accepted them as the self-complacent solution of his
+present deplorable position.
+
+Of a nature profound and inquisitive, though with a great fund of
+reverence which had been developed by an ecclesiastical education,
+Lothair now felt that he had started in life with an extravagant
+appreciation of the influence of the religious principle on the conduct
+of human affairs. With him, when heaven was so nigh, earth could not be
+remembered; and yet experience showed that, so long as one was on
+the earth, the incidents of this planet considerably controlled one’s
+existence, both in behavior and in thought. All the world could not
+retire to Mount Athos. It was clear, therefore, that there was a juster
+conception of the relations between religion and life than that which he
+had at first adopted.
+
+Practically, Theodora had led, or was leading, him to this result; but
+Theodora, though religious, did not bow before those altars to which
+he for a moment had never been faithless. Theodora believed in
+her immortality, and did not believe in death according to the
+ecclesiastical interpretation. But her departure from the scene, and
+the circumstances under which it had taken place, had unexpectedly and
+violently restored the course of his life to its old bent. Shattered and
+shorn, he was willing to believe that he was again entering the kingdom
+of heaven, but found he was only under the gilded dome of a Jesuit’s
+church, and woke to reality, from a scene of magical deceptions, with
+a sad conviction that even cardinals and fathers of the Church were
+inevitably influenced in this life by its interest and his passions.
+
+But the incident of his life that most occupied—it might be said
+engrossed—his meditation was the midnight apparition in the Coliseum.
+Making every allowance that a candid nature and an ingenious mind
+could suggest for explicatory circumstances; the tension of his nervous
+system, which was then doubtless strained to its last point; the memory
+of her death-scene, which always harrowed and haunted him; and that dark
+collision between his promise and his life which then, after so many
+efforts, appeared by some supernatural ordination to be about inevitably
+to occur in that very Rome whose gigantic shades surrounded him; he
+still could not resist the conviction that he had seen the form of
+Theodora and had listened to her voice. Often the whole day, when they
+were travelling, and his companions watched him on his saddle in silent
+thought, his mind in reality was fixed on this single incident and he
+was cross-examining his memory as some adroit and ruthless advocate
+deals with the witness in the box, and tries to demonstrate his
+infidelity or his weakness.
+
+But whether it were indeed the apparition of his adored friend or a
+distempered dream, Lothair not less recognized the warning as divine,
+and the only conviction he had arrived at throughout his Sicilian
+travels was a determination that, however tragical the cost, his promise
+to Theodora should never be broken.
+
+The beautiful terrace of the Villa Catalano overlooked a small bay to
+which it descended by winding walks. The water was deep, and in any
+other country the bay might have been turned to good account; but
+bays abounded on this coast, and the people, with many harbors, had no
+freights to occupy them. This morn, this violet morn, when the balm of
+the soft breeze refreshed Lothair, and the splendor of the rising sun
+began to throw a flashing line upon the azure waters, a few fishermen in
+one of the country boats happened to come in, about to dry a net upon a
+sunny bank. The boat was what is called a speronaro; an open boat worked
+with oars, but with a lateen sail at the same time when the breeze
+served.
+
+Lothair admired the trim of the vessel, and got talking with the men as
+they ate their bread and olives, and a small fish or two.
+
+“And your lateen sail—?” continued Lothair.
+
+“Is the best thing in the world, except in a white squall,” replied the
+sailor, “and then every thing is queer in these seas with an open boat,
+though I am not afraid of Santa Agnese, and that is her name. But I took
+two English officers who came over here for sport and whose leave of
+absence was out—I took them over in her to Malta, and did it in ten
+hours. I believe it had never been done in an open boat before, but it
+was neck or nothing with them.”
+
+“And you saved them?”
+
+“With the lateen up the whole way.”
+
+“They owed you much, and I hope they paid you well.”
+
+“I asked them ten ducats,” said the man, “and they paid me ten ducats.”
+
+Lothair had his hand in his pocket all this time, feeling, but
+imperceptibly, for his purse, and, when he had found it, feeling how it
+was lined. He generally carried about him as much as Fortunatus.
+
+“What are you going to do with yourselves this morning?” said Lothair.
+
+“Well, not much; we thought of throwing the net, but we have had one
+dip, and no great luck.”
+
+“Are you inclined to give me a sail?”
+
+“Certainly, signor.”
+
+“Have you a mind to go to Malta?”
+
+“That is business, signor.”
+
+“Look here,” said Lothair, “here are ten ducats in this purse, and a
+little more. I will give them to you if you will take me to Malta
+at once; but, if you will start in a hundred seconds, before the sun
+touches that rock, and the waves just beyond it are already bright, you
+shall have ten more ducats when you reach the isle.”
+
+“Step in, signor.”
+
+From the nature of the course, which was not in the direction of the
+open sea, for they had to double Cape Passaro, the speronaro was out of
+the sight of the villa in a few minutes. They rowed only till they had
+doubled the cape, and then set the lateen sail, the breeze being light,
+but steady and favorable. They were soon in open sea, no land in sight.
+“And, if a white squall does rise,” thought Lothair, “it will only
+settle many difficulties.”
+
+But no white squall came; every thing was favorable to their progress;
+the wind the current, the courage, and spirit of the men, who liked the
+adventure, and liked Lothair. Night came on, but they were as tender to
+him as women, fed him with their least coarse food, and covered him with
+a cloak made of stuff spun by their mothers and their sisters.
+
+Lothair was slumbering when the patron of the boat roused him, and he
+saw at hand many lights, and, in a few minutes, was in still water.
+They were in one of the harbors of Malta, but not permitted to land at
+midnight, and, when the morn arrived, the obstacles to the release of
+Lothair were not easily removed. A speronaro, an open boat from Sicily,
+of course with no papers to prove their point of departure—here were
+materials for doubt and difficulty, of which the petty officers of the
+port knew how to avail themselves. They might come from Barbary, from an
+infected port; plague might be aboard, a question of quarantine. Lothair
+observed that they were nearly alongside of a fine steam-yacht, English,
+for it bore the cross of St. George; and, while on the quay, he and
+the patron of the speronaro arguing with the officers of the port,
+a gentleman from the yacht put ashore in a boat, of which the bright
+equipment immediately attracted attention. The gentleman landed almost
+close to the point where the controversy was carrying on. The excited
+manner and voice of the Sicilian mariner could not escape notice. The
+gentleman stopped and looked at the group, and then suddenly exclaimed:
+“Good Heavens! my lord, can it be you?”
+
+“Ah, Mr. Phoebus, you will help me!” said Lothair; and then he went up
+to him and told him every thing. All difficulties, of course, vanished
+before the presence of Mr. Phoebus, whom the officers of the port
+evidently looked upon as a being beyond criticism and control.
+
+“And now,” said Mr. Phoebus, “about your people and your baggage?”
+
+“I have neither servants nor clothes,” said Lothair, “and, if it had not
+been for these good people, I should not have had food.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 72 Phoebus, in his steam-yacht Pan, of considerable
+admeasurement, and fitted up with every luxury and convenience that
+science and experience could suggest, was on his way to an island which
+he occasionally inhabited, near the Asian coast of the Ægean Sea, and
+which he rented from the chief of his wife’s house, the Prince of Samos.
+Mr. Phoebus, by his genius and fame, commanded a large income, and
+he spent it freely and fully. There was nothing of which he more
+disapproved than accumulation. It was a practice which led to sordid
+habits, and was fatal to the beautiful. On the whole, he thought it more
+odious even than debt, more permanently degrading. Mr. Phoebus liked
+pomp and graceful ceremony, and he was of opinion that great artists
+should lead a princely life, so that, in their manners and method of
+existence, they might furnish models to mankind in general, and elevate
+the tone and taste of nations.
+
+Sometimes, when he observed a friend noticing with admiration, perhaps
+with astonishment, the splendor or finish of his equipments, he would
+say: “The world think I had a large fortune with Madame Phoebus. I had
+nothing. I understand that a fortune, and no inconsiderable one, would
+have been given had I chosen to ask for it. But I did not choose to
+ask for it. I made Madame Phoebus my wife because she was the finest
+specimen of the Aryan race that I was acquainted with, and I would have
+no considerations mixed up with the high motive that influenced me.
+My father-in-law Cantacuzene, whether from a feeling of gratitude or
+remorse, is always making us magnificent presents. I like to receive
+magnificent presents, but also to make them; and I presented him with a
+picture which is the gem of his gallery, and which, if he ever part with
+it, will in another generation be contended for by kings and peoples.
+
+“On her last birthday we breakfasted with my father-in-law Cantacuzene,
+and Madame Phoebus found in her napkin a check for five thousand pounds.
+I expended it immediately in jewels for her personal use; for I wished
+my father-in-law to understand that there are other princely families in
+the world besides the Cantacuzenes.”
+
+A friend once ventured inquiringly to suggest whether his way of
+life might not be conducive to envy, and so disturb that serenity of
+sentiment necessary to the complete life of an artist. But Mr. Phoebus
+would not for a moment admit the soundness of the objection. “No,” he
+said, “envy is a purely intellectual process. Splendor never excites
+it; a man of splendor is looked upon always with favor—his appearance
+exhilarates the heart of man. He is always popular. People wish to dine
+with him, to borrow his money, but they do not envy him. If you want
+to know what envy is, you should live among artists. You should hear
+me lecture at the Academy. I have sometimes suddenly turned round and
+caught countenances like that of the man who was waiting at the corner
+of the street for Benvenuto Cellini, in order to assassinate the great
+Florentine.”
+
+It was impossible for Lothair in his present condition to have fallen
+upon a more suitable companion than Mr. Phoebus. It is not merely
+change of scene and air that we sometimes want, but a revolution in the
+atmosphere of thought and feeling in which we live and breathe. Besides
+his great intelligence and fancy, and his peculiar views on art and
+man and affairs in general, which always interested their hearer, and
+sometimes convinced, there was a general vivacity in Mr. Phoebus and a
+vigorous sense of life, which were inspiriting to his companions. When
+there was any thing to be done, great or small, Mr. Phoebus liked to do
+it; and this, as he averred, from a sense of duty, since, if any thing
+is to be done, it should be done in the best manner, and no one could do
+it so well as Mr. Phoebus. He always acted as if he had been created
+to be the oracle and model of the human race, but the oracle was never
+pompous or solemn, and the model was always beaming with good-nature and
+high spirits.
+
+Mr. Phoebus liked Lothair. He liked youth, and good-looking youth; and
+youth that was intelligent and engaging and well-mannered. He also liked
+old men. But, between fifty and seventy, he saw little to approve of in
+the dark sex. They had lost their good looks if they ever had any,
+their wits were on the wane, and they were invariably selfish. When they
+attained second childhood, the charm often returned. Age was frequently
+beautiful, wisdom appeared like an aftermath, and the heart which seemed
+dry and deadened suddenly put forth shoots of sympathy.
+
+Mr. Phoebus postponed his voyage in order that Lothair might make his
+preparations to become his guest in his island. “I cannot take you to a
+banker,” said Mr. Phoebus, “for I have none; but I wish you would share
+my purse. Nothing will ever induce me to use what they call paper money.
+It is the worst thing that what they call civilization has produced;
+neither hue nor shape, and yet a substitute for the richest color, and,
+where the arts flourish, the finest forms.”
+
+The telegraph which brought an order to the bankers at Malta to give an
+unlimited credit to Lothair, rendered it unnecessary for our friend to
+share what Mr. Phoebus called his purse, and yet he was glad to have the
+opportunity of seeing it, as Mr. Phoebus one morning opened a chest in
+his cabin and produced several velvet bags, one full of pearls, another
+of rubies, others of Venetian sequins, Napoleons, and golden piastres.
+“I like to look at them,” said Mr. Phoebus, “and find life more intense
+when they are about my person. But bank-notes, so cold and thin—they
+give me an ague.”
+
+Madame Phoebus and her sister Euphrosyne welcomed Lothair in maritime
+costumes which were absolutely bewitching; wondrous jackets with loops
+of pearls, girdles defended by dirks with handles of turquoises, and
+tilted hats that; while they screened their long eyelashes from the sun,
+crowned the longer braids of their never-ending hair. Mr. Phoebus gave
+banquets every day on board his yacht, attended by the chief personages
+of the island, and the most agreeable officers of the garrison. They
+dined upon deck, and it delighted him, with a surface of sang-froid, to
+produce a repast which both in its material and its treatment was equal
+to the refined festivals of Paris. Sometimes they had a dance; sometimes
+in his barge, rowed by a crew in Venetian dresses, his guests glided on
+the tranquil waters, under a starry sky, and listened to the exquisite
+melodies of their hostess and her sister.
+
+At length the day of departure arrived. It was bright, with a breeze
+favorable to the sail and opportune for the occasion. For all the
+officers of the garrison, and all beautiful Valetta itself, seemed
+present in their yachts and barges to pay their last tribute of
+admiration to the enchanting sisters and the all-accomplished owner of
+the Pan. Placed on the galley of his yacht, Mr. Phoebus surveyed the
+brilliant and animated scene with delight. “This is the way to conduct
+life,” he said. “If, fortunately for them, I could have passed another
+month among these people, I could have developed a feeling equal to the
+old regattas of the Venetians.”
+
+The gean isle occupied by Mr. Phoebus was of no inconsiderable
+dimensions. A chain of mountains of white marble intersected it, covered
+with forests of oak, though in parts precipitous and bare. The lowlands,
+while they produced some good crops of grain, and even cotton and silk,
+were chiefly clothed with fruit-trees—orange and lemon, and the fig,
+the olive, and the vine. Sometimes the land was uncultivated, and was
+principally covered with myrtles, of large size, and oleanders,
+and arbutus, and thorny brooms. Here game abounded, while from the
+mountain-forests the wolf sometimes descended, and spoiled and scared
+the islanders.
+
+On the sea-shore, yet not too near the wave, and on a sylvan declivity,
+was along, pavilion-looking building, painted in white and arabesque.
+It was backed by the forest, which had a park-like character from its
+partial clearance, and which, after a convenient slip of even land,
+ascended the steeper country and took the form of wooded hills, backed
+in due time by still sylvan yet loftier elevations, and sometimes a
+glittering peak.
+
+“Welcome, my friend!” said Mr. Phoebus to Lothair. “Welcome to an Aryan
+clime, an Aryan landscape, and an Aryan race! It will do you good after
+your Semitic hallucinations.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 73 Mr. Phoebus pursued a life in his island partly feudal,
+partly Oriental, partly Venetian, and partly idiosyncratic. He had
+a grand studio, where he could always find interesting occupation in
+drawing every fine face and form in his dominions. Then he hunted,
+and that was a remarkable scene. The ladies, looking like Diana or her
+nymphs, were mounted on cream-colored Anatolian chargers, with golden
+bells; while Mr. Phoebus himself, in green velvet and seven-leagued
+boots, sounded a wondrous twisted horn, rife with all the inspiring
+or directing notes of musical and learned venerie. His neighbors of
+condition came mounted, but the field was by no means confined to
+cavaliers. A vast crowd of men, in small caps and jackets and huge
+white breeches, and armed with all the weapons of Palikari, handjars and
+ataghans and silver-sheathed muskets of uncommon length and almost as
+old as the battle of Lepanto, always rallied round his standard. The
+equestrians caracoled about the park, and the horns sounded, and the
+hounds bayed, and the men shouted, till the deer had all scudded away.
+Then, by degrees, the hunters entered the forest, and the notes of
+venerie became more faint and the shouts more distant. Then, for two or
+three hours, all was silent, save the sound of an occasional shot or
+the note of a stray hound, until the human stragglers began to reappear
+emerging from the forest, and in due time the great body of the hunt,
+and a gilded cart drawn by mules and carrying the prostrate forms
+of fallow-deer and roebuck. None of the ceremonies of the chase were
+omitted, and the crowd dispersed, refreshed by Samian wine, which Mr.
+Phoebus was teaching them to make without resin, and which they quaffed
+with shrugging shoulders.
+
+“We must have a wolf-hunt for you,” said Euphrosyne to Lothair. “You
+like excitement, I believe?”
+
+“Well, I am rather inclined for repose at present, and I came here with
+the hope of obtaining it.”
+
+“Well, we are never idle here; in fact, that would be impossible with
+Gaston. He has established here an academy of the fine arts, and also
+revived the gymnasia; and my sister and myself have schools—only music
+and dancing; Gaston does not approve of letters. The poor people have,
+of course, their primary schools, with their priests, and Gaston does
+not interfere with them, but he regrets their existence. He looks upon
+reading and writing as very injurious to education.”
+
+Sometimes reposing on divans, the sisters received the chief persons of
+the isle, and regaled them with fruits and sweetmeats, and coffee and
+sherbets, while Gaston’s chibouques and tobacco of Salonica were a
+proverb. These meetings always ended with dance and song, replete,
+according to Mr. Phoebus, with studies of Aryan life.
+
+“I believe these islanders to be an unmixed race,” said Mr. Phoebus.
+“The same form and visage prevails throughout; and very little changed
+in any thing—even in their religion.”
+
+“Unchanged in their religion!” said Lothair, with some astonishment.
+
+“Yes; you will find it so. Their existence is easy; their wants are not
+great, and their means of subsistence plentiful. They pass much of their
+life in what is called amusement—and what is it? They make parties of
+pleasure; they go in procession to a fountain or a grove. They dance and
+eat fruit, and they return home singing songs. They have, in fact, been
+performing unconsciously the religious ceremonies of their ancestors,
+and which they pursue, and will forever, though they may have forgotten
+the name of the dryad or the nymph who presides over their waters.”
+
+“I should think their priests would guard them from these errors,” said
+Lothair.
+
+“The Greek priests, particularly in these Asian islands, are good sort
+of people,” said Mr. Phoebus. “They marry and have generally large
+families, often very beautiful. They have no sacerdotal feelings, for
+they never can have any preferment; all the high posts in the Greek
+Church being reserved for the monks, who study what is called theology.
+The Greek parish priest is not at all Semitic; there is nothing to
+counteract his Aryan tendencies. I have already raised the statue of
+a nymph at one of their favorite springs and places of pleasant
+pilgrimage, and I have a statue now in the island, still in its case,
+which I contemplate installing in a famous grove of laurel not far off
+and very much resorted to.”
+
+“And what then?” inquired Lothair.
+
+“Well, I have a conviction that among the great races the old creeds
+will come back,” said Mr. Phoebus, “and it will be acknowledged that
+true religion is the worship of the beautiful. For the beautiful cannot
+be attained without virtue, if virtue consists, as I believe, in the
+control of the passions, in the sentiment of repose, and the avoidance
+in all things of excess.”
+
+One night Lothair was walking home with the sisters from a village
+festival where they had been much amused.
+
+“You have had a great many adventures since we first met?” said Madame
+Phoebus.
+
+“Which makes it seem longer ago than it really is,” said Lothair.
+
+“You count time by emotion, then?” said Euphrosyne.
+
+“Well, it is a wonderful thing, however it be computed,” said Lothair.
+
+“For my part, I do not think that it ought to be counted at all,” said
+Madame Phoebus; “and there is nothing to me so detestable in Europe as
+the quantity of clocks and watches.”
+
+“Do you use a watch, my lord?” asked Euphrosyne, in a tone which always
+seemed to Lothair one of mocking artlessness.
+
+“I believe I never wound it up when I had one,” said Lothair.
+
+“But you make such good use of your time,” said Madame Phoebus, “you do
+not require watches.”
+
+“I am glad to hear I make good use of my time,” said Lothair, “but a
+little surprised.”
+
+“But you are so good, so religious,” said Madame Phoebus. “That is a
+great thing; especially for one so young.”
+
+“Hem!” said Lothair.
+
+“That must have been a beautiful procession at Rome,” said Euphrosyne.
+
+“I was rather a spectator of it than an actor in it,” said Lothair, with
+some seriousness. “It is too long a tale to enter into, but my part in
+those proceedings was entirely misrepresented.”
+
+“I believe that nothing in the newspapers is ever true,” said Madame
+Phoebus.
+
+“And that is why they are so popular,” added Euphrosyne; “the taste of
+the age being so decidedly for fiction.”
+
+“Is it true that you escaped from a convent to Malta?” said Madame
+Phoebus.
+
+“Not quite,” said Lothair, “but true enough for conversations.”
+
+“As confidential as the present, I suppose?” said Euphrosyne.
+
+“Yes, when we are grave, as we are inclined to be now,” said Lothair.
+
+“Then, you have been fighting a good deal,” said Madame Phoebus.
+
+“You are putting me on a court-martial, Madame Phoebus,” said Lothair.
+
+“But we do not know on which side you were,” said Euphrosyne.
+
+“That is matter of history,” said Lothair, “and that, you know, is
+always doubtful.”
+
+“Well, I do not like fighting,” said Madame Phoebus, “and for my part I
+never could find out that it did an good.”
+
+“And what do you like?” said Lothair. “Tell me how would you pass your
+life?”
+
+“Well, much as I do. I do not know that I want any change, except I
+think I should like it to be always summer.”
+
+“And I would have perpetual spring,” said Euphrosyne.
+
+“But, summer or spring, what would be your favorite pursuit?”
+
+“Well, dancing is very nice,” said Madame Phoebus.
+
+“But we cannot always, be dancing,” said Lothair.
+
+“Then we would sing,” said Euphrosyne.
+
+“But the time comes when one can neither dance nor sing,” said Lothair.
+
+“Oh, then we become part of the audience,” said Madame Phoebus, “the
+people for whose amusement everybody labors.”
+
+“And enjoy power without responsibility,” said Euphrosyne, “detect false
+notes and mark awkward gestures. How can any one doubt of Providence
+with such a system of constant compensation!”
+
+There was something in the society of these two sisters that Lothair
+began to find highly attractive. Their extraordinary beauty, their
+genuine and unflagging gayety, their thorough enjoyment of existence,
+and the variety of resources with which they made life amusing and
+graceful, all contributed to captivate him. They had, too, a great love
+and knowledge both of art and nature, and insensibly they weaned Lothair
+from that habit of introspection which, though natural to him, he
+had too much indulged, and taught him to find sources of interest and
+delight in external objects. He was beginning to feel happy in this
+islands and wishing that his life might never change, when one day Mr.
+Phoebus informed them that the Prince Agathonides, the eldest son of
+the Prince of Samos, would arrive from Constantinople in a few days,
+and would pay them a visit. “He will come with some retinue,” said Mr.
+Phoebus, “but I trust we shall be able by our reception to show that the
+Cantacuzenes are not the only princely family in the world.”
+
+Mr. Phoebus was confident in his resources in this respect, for his
+yacht’s crew in their Venetian dresses could always furnish a guard of
+honor which no Grecian prince or Turkish pacha could easily rival. When
+the eventful day arrived, he was quite equal to the occasion. The yacht
+was dressed in every part with the streaming colors of all nations, the
+banner of Gaston Phoebus waved from his pavilion, the guard of honor
+kept the ground, but the population of the isle were present in numbers
+and in their most showy costume, and a battery of ancient Turkish guns
+fired a salute without an accident.
+
+The Prince Agathonides was a youth, good looking and dressed in a
+splendid Palikar costume, though his manners were quite European, being
+an attach to the Turkish embassy at Vienna. He had with him a sort of
+governor, a secretary, servants in Mamlouk dresses, pipe-bearers, and
+grooms, there being some horses as presents from his father to Mr.
+Phoebus, and some rarely-embroidered kerchiefs and choice perfumes and
+Persian greyhounds for the ladies.
+
+‘The arrival of the young prince was the signal for a series of
+entertainments on the island. First of all, Mr. Phoebus resolved to give
+a dinner in the Frank style, to prove to Agathonides that there were
+other members of the Cantacuzene family besides himself who comprehended
+a first-rate Frank dinner. The chief people of the island were invited
+to this banquet. They drank the choicest grapes of France and Germany,
+were stuffed with truffles, and sat on little cane chairs. But one might
+detect in their countenances how they sighed for their easy divans,
+their simple dishes, and their resinous wine. Then there was a
+wolf-hunt, and other sport; a great day of gymnasia, many dances and
+much music; in fact, there were choruses all over the island, and every
+night was a serenade.
+
+Why such general joy? Because it was understood that the heir-apparent
+of the isle, their future sovereign, had in fact arrived to make his bow
+to the beautiful Euphrosyne, as though he saw her for the first time.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 74 Very shortly after his arrival at Malta, Mr. Phoebus had
+spoken to Lothair about Theodora. It appeared that Lucien Campian,
+though severely wounded, had escaped with Garibaldi after the battle of
+Mentana into the Italian territories. Here they were at once arrested,
+but not severely detained, and Colonel Campian took the first
+opportunity of revisiting England, where, after settling his affairs, he
+had returned to his native country, from which he had been separated
+for many years. Mr. Phoebus during the interval had seen a great deal
+of him, and the colonel departed for America under the impression that
+Lothair had been among the slain at the final struggle.
+
+“Campian is one of the beat men I over knew,” said Phoebus. “He was a
+remarkable instance of energy combined with softness of disposition. In
+my opinion, however, he ought never to have visited Europe: he was made
+to clear the backwoods, and govern man by the power of his hatchet and
+the mildness of his words. He was fighting for freedom all his life,
+yet slavery made and slavery destroyed him. Among all the freaks of Fate
+nothing is more surprising than that this Transatlantic planter should
+have been ordained to be the husband of a divine being—a true Hellenic
+goddess, who in the good days would have been worshipped in this
+country, and have inspired her race to actions of grace, wisdom, and
+beauty.”
+
+“I greatly esteem him,” said Lothair “and I shall write to him
+directly.”
+
+“Except by Campian, who spoke probably about you to no one save myself,”
+continued Phoebus, “your name has never been mentioned with reference to
+those strange transactions. Once there was a sort of rumor that you had
+met with some mishap, but these things were contradicted and explained,
+and then forgotten: and people were all out of town. I believe that
+Cardinal Grandison communicated with your man of business, and between
+them every thing was kept quiet, until this portentous account of your
+doings at Rome, which transpired after we left England and which met us
+at Malta.”
+
+“I have written to my man of business about that,” said Lothair, “but
+I think it will tax all his ingenuity to explain, or to mystify it as
+successfully as he did the preceding adventures. At any rate, he will
+not have the assistance of my lord cardinal.”
+
+“Theodora was a remarkable woman on many accounts,” said Mr. Phoebus,
+“but particularly on this, that, although one of the most beautiful
+women that ever existed, she was adored by beautiful women. My wife
+adored her; Euphrosyne, who has no enthusiasm, adored her; the Princess
+of Tivoli, the most capricious being probably that ever existed, adored;
+and always adored, Theodora. I think it must have been that there was
+on her part a total absence of vanity, and this the more strange in
+one whose vocation in her earlier life had been to attract and live
+on popular applause; but I have seen her quit theatres ringing with
+admiration and enter her carriage with the serenity of a Phidian muse.”
+
+“I adored her,” said Lothair, “but I never could quite solve her
+character. Perhaps it was too rich and deep far rapid comprehension.”
+
+“We shall never perhaps see her like again,” said Mr. Phoebus. “It was a
+rare combination, peculiar to the Tyrrhenian sea. I am satisfied that we
+must go there to find the pure Hellenic blood, and from thence it got to
+Rome.”
+
+“We may not see her like again, but we may see her again,” said Lothair;
+“and sometimes I think she is always hovering over me.”
+
+In this vein, when they were alone, they were frequently speaking of
+the departed, and one day—it was before the arrival of Prince
+Agathonides—Mr. Phoebus said to Lothair: “We will ride this morning to
+what we call the grove of Daphne. It is a real laurel-grove. Some of the
+trees must be immemorial, and deserve to have been sacred, if once
+they were not so. In their huge, grotesque forms you would not easily
+recognize your polished friends of Europe, so trim and glossy and
+shrub-like. The people are very fond of this grove, and make frequent
+processions there. Once a year they must be headed by their priest.
+No one knows why, nor has he the slightest idea of the reason of the
+various ceremonies which he that day performs. But we know, and some day
+he or his successors will equally understand them. Yes, if I remain here
+long enough—and I sometimes think I will never again quit the isle—I
+shall expect some fine summer night, when there is that rich stillness
+which the whispering waves only render more intense, to hear a voice
+of music on the mountains declaring that the god Pan has returned to
+earth.”
+
+It was a picturesque ride, as every ride was on this island, skirting
+the sylvan hills with the sea glimmering in the distance. Lothair was
+pleased with the approaches to the sacred grove: now and then a single
+tree with gray branches and a green head, then a great spread of
+underwood, all laurel, and then spontaneous plantations of young trees.
+
+“There was always a vacant space in the centre of the grove,” said Mr.
+Phoebus, “once sadly overrun with wild shrubs, but I have cleared it and
+restored the genius of the spot. See!”
+
+They entered the sacred circle and beheld a statue raised on a porphyry
+pedestal. The light fell with magical effect on the face of the statue.
+It was the statue of Theodora, the placing of which in the pavilion
+of Belmont Mr. Phoebus was superintending when Lothair first made his
+acquaintance.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 75 The Prince Agathonides seemed quite to monopolize the
+attention of Madame Phoebus and her sister. This was not very
+unreasonable, considering that he was their visitor, the future chief
+of their house, and had brought them so many embroidered
+pocket-handkerchiefs, choice scents, and fancy dogs. But Lothair thought
+it quite disgusting, nor could he conceive what they saw in him, what
+they were talking about or laughing about, for, so far as he had been
+able to form any opinion on the subject, the prince was a shallow-pated
+coxcomb without a single quality to charm any woman of sense and spirit.
+Lothair began to consider how he could pursue his travels, where he
+should go to, and, when that was settled, how he should get there.
+
+Just at this moment of perplexity, as is often the case, something
+occurred which no one could foresee, but which, like every event,
+removed some difficulties and introduced others.
+
+There arrived at the island a dispatch forwarded to Mr. Phoebus by
+the Russian ambassador at Constantinople, who had received it from
+his colleague at London. This dispatch contained a proposition to
+Mr. Phoebus to repair to the court of St. Petersburg, and accept
+appointments of high distinction and emolument. Without in any way
+restricting the independent pursuit of his profession, he was offered
+a large salary, the post of court painter, and the presidency of the
+Academy of Fine Arts. Of such moment did the Russian Government deem the
+official presence of this illustrious artist in their country, that
+it was intimated, if the arrangement could be effected, its conclusion
+might be celebrated by conferring on Mr. Phoebus a patent of nobility
+and a decoration of a high class. The dispatch contained a private
+letter from an exalted member of the imperial family, who had had the
+high and gratifying distinction of making Mr. Phoebus’s acquaintance
+in London, personally pressing the acceptance by him of the general
+proposition, assuring him of cordial welcome and support, and informing
+Mr. Phoebus that what was particularly desired at this moment was a
+series of paintings illustrative of some of the most memorable scenes
+in the Holy Land and especially the arrival of the pilgrims of the Greek
+rite at Jerusalem. As for this purpose he would probably like to visit
+Palestine, the whole of the autumn or even a longer period was placed at
+his disposal; so that, enriched with all necessary drawings and studies,
+he might achieve his more elaborate performances in Russia at his
+leisure and with every advantage.
+
+Considering that the great objects in life with Mr. Phoebus were to live
+in an Aryan country, amid an Aryan race, and produce works which should
+revive for the benefit of human nature Aryan creeds, a proposition to
+pass some of the prime years of his life among the Mongolian race, and
+at the same time devote his pencil to the celebration Semitic subjects,
+was startling.
+
+“I shall say nothing to Madame Phoebus until the prince has gone,” he
+remarked to Lothair; “he will go the day after to-morrow. I do not know
+what they may offer to make me—probably only a baron, perhaps a count.
+But you know in Russia a man may become a prince, and I certainly should
+like those Cantacuzenes to feel that after all their daughter is a
+princess with no thanks to them. The climate is detestable, but one owes
+much to one’s profession. Art would be honored at a great, perhaps the
+greatest, court. There would not be a fellow at his easel in the
+streets about Fitzroy Square who would not be prouder. I wonder what
+the decoration will be? ‘Of a high class’—vague. It might be Alexander
+Newsky. You know you have a right, whatever your decoration, to have
+it expressed, of course at your own expense, in brilliants. I confess I
+have my weaknesses. I should like to get over to the Academy dinner—one
+can do any thing in these days of railroads—and dine with the R. A’s in
+my ribbon and the star of the Alexander Newsky in brilliants. I think
+every academician would feel elevated. What I detest are their Semitic
+subjects—nothing but drapery. They cover even their heads in those
+scorching climes. Can any one make any thing of a caravan of pilgrims?
+To be sure, they say no one can draw a camel. If I went to Jerusalem, a
+camel would at last be drawn. There is something in that. We must think
+over these things, and when the prince has gone talk it over with
+Madame Phoebus. I wish you all to come to a wise decision, without the
+slightest reference to my individual tastes or, it may be, prejudices.”
+
+The result of all this was that Mr. Phoebus, without absolutely
+committing himself, favorably entertained the general proposition of the
+Russian court; while, with respect to their particular object in art, he
+agreed to visit Palestine and execute at least one work for his imperial
+friend and patron. He counted on reaching Jerusalem before the Easter
+pilgrims returned to their homes.
+
+“If they would make me a prince at once, and give me the Alexander
+Newsky in brilliants, it might be worth thinking of,” he said to
+Lothair.
+
+The ladies, though they loved their isle, were quite delighted with
+the thought of going to Jerusalem. Madame Phoebus knew a Russian
+grand-duchess who had boasted to her that she had been both to Jerusalem
+and Torquay, and Madame Phoebus had felt quite ashamed that she had been
+to neither.
+
+“I suppose you will feel quite at home there,” said Euphrosyne to
+Lothair.
+
+“No; I never was there.”
+
+“No; but you know all about those places and people—holy places and holy
+persons. The Blessed Virgin did not, I believe, appear to you. It was to
+a young lady, was it not? We were asking each other last night who the
+young lady could be.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 76 Time, which changes every thing, is changing even the
+traditionary appearance of forlorn Jerusalem. Not that its mien, after
+all, was ever very sad. Its airy site, its splendid mosque, its vast
+monasteries, the bright material of which the whole city is built, its
+cupolaed houses of freestone, and above all the towers and gates and
+battlements of its lofty and complete walls, always rendered it a
+handsome city. Jerusalem has not been sacked so often or so recently as
+the other two great ancient cities, Rome and Athens. Its vicinage was
+never more desolate than the Campagna, or the state of Attica and the
+Morea in 1830.
+
+The battle-field of western Asia from the days of the Assyrian kings
+to those of Mehemet Ali, Palestine endured the same devastation as in
+modern times has been the doom of Flanders and the Milanese; but the
+years of havoc in the Low Countries and Lombardy must be counted in
+Palestine by centuries. Yet the wide plains of the Holy Land, Sharon,
+and Shechem, and Esdraelon, have recovered; they are as fertile and as
+fair as in old days; it is the hill-culture that has been destroyed, and
+that is the culture on which Jerusalem mainly depended. Its hills were
+terraced gardens, vineyards, and groves of olive-trees. And here it
+is that we find renovation. The terraces are again ascending the stony
+heights, and the eye is frequently gladdened with young plantations.
+Fruit-trees, the peach and the pomegranate, the almond and the fig,
+offer gracious groups; and the true children of the land, the vine and
+the olive, are again exulting in their native soil.
+
+There is one spot, however, which has been neglected, and yet the one
+that should have been the first remembered, as it has been the most
+rudely wasted. Blessed be the hand which plants trees upon Olivet!
+Blessed be the hand that builds gardens about Sion!
+
+The most remarkable creation, however, in modern Jerusalem is the
+Russian settlement which within a few years has risen on the elevated
+ground on the western side of the city. The Latin, the Greek, and the
+Armenian Churches had for centuries possessed enclosed establishments
+in the city, which, under the name of monasteries, provided shelter
+and protection for hundreds—it might be said even thousands—of pilgrims
+belonging to their respective rites. The great scale, therefore, on
+which Russia secured hospitality for her subjects was not in reality
+so remarkable as the fact that it seemed to indicate a settled
+determination to separate the Muscovite Church altogether from the
+Greek, and throw off what little dependence is still acknowledged on the
+Patriarchate of Constantinople. Whatever the motive, the design has been
+accomplished on a large scale. The Russian buildings, all well defended,
+are a caravanserai, a cathedral, a citadel. The consular flag crowns the
+height and indicates the office of administration; priests and monks are
+permanent inhabitants, and a whole caravan of Muscovite pilgrim and the
+trades on which they depend can be accommodated within the precinct.
+
+Mr. Phoebus, his family and suite, were to be the guests of the Russian
+consul, and every preparation was made to insure the celebrated
+painter a becoming reception. Frequent telegrams had duly impressed the
+representative of all the Russias in the Holy Land with the importance
+of his impending visitor. Even the qualified and strictly provisional
+acceptance of the Russian proposition by Mr. Phoebus had agitated the
+wires of Europe scarcely less than a suggested conference.
+
+“An artist should always remember what he owes to posterity and his
+profession,” said Mr. Phoebus to Lothair, as they were walking the deck,
+“even if you can distinguish between them, which I doubt, for it is only
+by a sense of the beautiful that the human family can be sustained
+in Its proper place in the scale of creation, and the sense of the
+beautiful is a result of the study of the fine arts. It would be
+something to sow the seeds of organic change in the Mongolian type, but
+I am nor sanguine of success. There is no original fund of aptitude to
+act upon. The most ancient of existing communities is Turanian, and yet,
+though they could invent gunpowder and the mariner’s compass, they never
+could understand perspective.—Man ahead there! tell Madame Phoebus to
+come on deck for the first sight of Mount Lebanon.”
+
+When the Pan entered the port of Joppa they observed another English
+yacht in those waters; but, before they could speculate on its owner,
+they were involved in all the complications of landing. On the quay, the
+Russian vice-consul was in attendance with horses and mules, and
+donkeys handsomer than either. The ladies were delighted with the vast
+orange-gardens of Joppa, which Madame Phoebus said realized quite her
+idea of the Holy Land.
+
+“I was prepared for milk and honey,” said Euphrosyne, “but this is too
+delightful,” as she travelled through lanes of date-bearing palm-trees,
+and sniffed with her almond-shaped nostrils the all-pervading fragrance.
+
+They passed the night at Arimathea, a pretty village surrounded
+with gardens enclosed with hedges of prickly pear. Here they found
+hospitality, in an old convent, but all the comforts of Europe and many
+of the refinements of Asia had been forwarded for their accommodations.
+
+“It is a great homage to art,” said Mr. Phoebus, as he scattered his
+gold like a great seigneur of Gascony.
+
+The next day, two miles from Jerusalem, the consul met them with a
+cavalcade, and the ladies assured their host that they were not at all
+wearied with their journey, but were quite prepared, in due time, to
+join his dinner-party, which he was most anxious they should attend, as
+he had “two English lords” who had arrived, and whom he had invited
+to meet them. They were all curious to know their names, though that,
+unfortunately, the consul could not tell them, but he had sent to the
+English consulate to have them written down. All he could assure them
+was, that they were real English lords, not travelling English lords,
+but in sober earnestness great personages.
+
+Mr. Phoebus was highly gratified. He was pleased with his reception.
+There was nothing he liked much more than a procession. He was also a
+sincere admirer of the aristocracy of his country. “On the whole,”
+he would say, “they most resemble the old Hellenic race; excelling in
+athletic sports, speaking no other language than their own, and never
+reading.”
+
+“Your fault,” he would sometimes say to Lothair, “and the cause of many
+of your sorrows, is the habit of mental introspection. Man is born to
+observe, but if he falls into psychology he observes nothing, and then
+he is astonished that life has no charms for him, or that, never seizing
+the occasion, his career is a failure. No, sir, it is the eye that must
+be occupied and cultivated; no one knows the capacity of the eye who has
+not developed it, or the visions of beauty and delight and inexhaustible
+interest which it commands. To a man who observes, life is as different
+as the existence of a dreaming psychologist is to that of the animals of
+the field.”
+
+“I fear,” said Lothair, “that I have at length found out the truth, and
+that I am a dreaming psychologist.”
+
+“You are young and not irremediably lost,” said Mr. Phoebus.
+“Fortunately, you have received the admirable though partial education
+of your class. You are a good shot, you can ride, you can row, you can
+swim. That imperfect secretion of the brain which is called thought has
+not yet bowed your frame. You have not had time to read much. Give it up
+altogether. The conversation of a woman like Theodora is worth all the
+libraries in the world. If it were only for her sake, I should wish
+to save you, but I wish to do it for your own. Yes, profit by the vast
+though calamitous experience which you have gained in a short time. We
+may know a great deal about our bodies, we can know very little about
+our minds.”
+
+The “real English lords” turned out to be Bertram and St. Aldegonde,
+returning from Nubia. They had left England about the same time as
+Lothair, and had paired together on the Irish Church till Easter, with a
+sort of secret hope on the part of St. Aldegonde that they might neither
+of them reappear in the House of Commons again until the Irish Church
+were either saved or subverted. Holy Week had long passed, and they were
+at Jerusalem, not quite so near the House of Commons as the Reform
+Club or the Carlton, but still St. Aldegonde had mentioned that he
+was beginning to be bored with Jerusalem, and Bertram counted on their
+immediate departure when they accepted the invitation to dine with the
+Russian consul.
+
+Lothair was unaffectedly delighted to meet Bertram, and glad to see
+St. Aldegonde, but he was a little nervous and embarrassed as to the
+probable tone of his reception by them. But their manner relieved him in
+an instant, for he saw they knew nothing of his adventures.
+
+“Well,” said St. Aldegonde, “what have you been doing with yourself
+since we last met? I wish you had come with us, and had a shot at a
+crocodile.”
+
+Bertram told Lothair in the course of the evening that he found letters
+at Cairo from Corisande, on his return, in which there was a good deal
+about Lothair, and which had made him rather uneasy. “That there was a
+rumor you had been badly wounded, and some other things,” and Bertram
+looked him full in the face; “but I dare say not a word of truth.”
+
+“I was never better in my life,” said Lothair, “and I have been in
+Sicily and in Greece. However, we will talk over all this another time.”
+
+The dinner at the consulate was one of the most successful banquets that
+was ever given, if to please your guests be the test of good fortune in
+such enterprises. St. Aldegonde was perfectly charmed with the Phoebus
+family; he did not know which to admire most—the great artist, who was
+in remarkable spirits to-day, considering he was in a Semitic country,
+or his radiant wife, or his brilliant sister-in-law. St. Aldegonde took
+an early opportunity of informing Bertram that if he liked to go over
+and vote for the Irish Church he would release him from his pair
+with the greatest pleasure, but for his part he had not the slightest
+intention of leaving Jerusalem at present. Strange to say, Bertram
+received this intimation without a murmur. He was not so loud in his
+admiration of the Phoebus family as St. Aldegonde, but there is a silent
+sentiment sometimes more expressive than the noisiest applause, and
+more dangerous. Bertram had sat next to Euphrosyne, and was entirely
+spell-bound.
+
+The consul’s wife, a hostess not unworthy of such guests, had
+entertained her friends in the European style. The dinner-hour was not
+late, and the gentlemen who attended the ladies from the dinner-table
+were allowed to remain some time in the saloon. Lothair talked much to
+the consul’s wife, by whose side sat Madame Phoebus. St. Aldegonde was
+always on his legs, distracted by the rival attractions of that lady and
+her husband. More remote, Bertram whispered to Euphrosyne, who answered
+him with laughing eyes.
+
+At a certain hour, the consul, attended by his male guests, crossing a
+court, proceeded to his divan, a lofty and capacious chamber painted in
+fresco, and with no furniture except the low but broad raised seat that
+surrounded the room. Here, when they were seated, an equal number of
+attendants—Arabs in Arab dress, blue gowns, and red slippers, and red
+caps—entered, each proffering a long pipe of cherry or jasmine wood.
+Then, in a short time, guests dropped in, and pipes and coffee were
+immediately brought to them. Any person who had been formally presented
+to the consul had this privilege, without any further invitation. The
+society often found in these consular divans in the more remote places
+of the East—Cairo, Damascus, Jerusalem—is often extremely entertaining
+and instructive. Celebrated travellers, distinguished men of science,
+artists, adventurers who ultimately turn out to be heroes, eccentric
+characters of all kinds, are here encountered, and give the fruits of
+their original or experienced observation without reserve.
+
+“It is the smoking-room over again,” whispered St. Aldegonde to Lothair,
+“only in England one is so glad to get away from the women, but here I
+must say I should have liked to remain behind.”
+
+An individual in a Syrian dress, fawn-colored robes girdled with a rich
+shawl, and a white turban, entered. He made his salute with grace and
+dignity to the consul, touching his forehead, his lip, and his heart,
+and took his seat with the air of one not unaccustomed to be received,
+playing, until he received his chibouque, with a chaplet of beads.
+
+“That is a good-looking fellow, Lothair,” said St. Aldegonde; “or is it
+the dress that turns them out such swells? I feel quite a lout by some
+of these fellows.”
+
+“I think he would be good-looking in any dress,” said Lothair. “A
+remarkable countenance.”
+
+It was an oval visage, with features in harmony with that form; large
+dark-brown eyes and lashes, and brows delicately but completely defined;
+no hair upon the face except a beard, full but not long. He seemed about
+the same age as Mr. Phoebus, and his complexion, though pale, was clear
+and fair.
+
+The conversation, after some rambling, had got upon the Suez Canal. Mr.
+Phoebus did not care for the political or the commercial consequences of
+that great enterprise, but he was glad that a natural division should
+be established between the greater races and the Ethiopian. It might not
+lead to any considerable result, but it asserted a principle. He looked
+upon that trench as a protest.
+
+“But would you place the Nilotic family in the Ethiopian race?” inquired
+the Syrian in a voice commanding from its deep sweetness.
+
+“I would certainly. They were Cushim, and that means negroes.”
+
+The Syrian did not agree with Mr. Phoebus; he stated his views firmly
+and, clearly, but without urging them. He thought that we must look to
+the Pelasgi as the colonizing race that had peopled and produced Egypt.
+The mention of the Pelasgi fired Mr. Phoebus to even unusual
+eloquence. He denounced the Pelasgi as a barbarous race: men of gloomy
+superstitions, who, had it not been for the Hellenes, might have fatally
+arrested the human development. The triumph of the Hellenes was the
+triumph of the beautiful, and all that is great and good in life was
+owing to their victory.
+
+“It is difficult to ascertain what is great in life,” said the Syrian,
+“because nations differ on the subject and ages. Some, for example,
+consider war to be a great thing, others condemn it. I remember also
+when patriotism was a boast, and now it is a controversy. But it is not
+so difficult to ascertain what is good. For man has in his own being
+some guide to such knowledge, and divine aid to acquire it has not
+been wanting to him. For my part I could not maintain that the Hellenic
+system led to virtue.”
+
+The conversation was assuming an ardent character when the consul, as a
+diplomatist, turned the channel. Mr. Phoebus had vindicated the Hellenic
+religion, the Syrian, with a terse protest against the religion of
+Nature, however idealized, as tending to the corruption of man, had let
+the question die away, and the Divan were discussing dromedaries,
+and dancing-girls, and sherbet made of pomegranate, which the consul
+recommended and ordered to be produced. Some of the guests retired, and
+among them the Syrian with the same salute and the same graceful dignity
+as had distinguished his entrance.
+
+“Who is that man?” said Mr. Phoebus. “I met him at Rome ten years ago.
+Baron Mecklenburg brought him to me to paint for my great picture of St.
+John, which is in the gallery of Munich. He said in his way—you remember
+his way—that he would bring me a face of Paradise.”
+
+“I cannot exactly tell you his name,” said the consul. “Prince Galitzin
+brought him here, and thought highly of him. I believe he is one of the
+old Syrian families in the mountain; but whether he be a Maronite or a
+Druse, or any thing else, I really cannot say. Now try the sherbet.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 77 There are few things finer than the morning view of Jerusalem
+from the Mount of Olives. The fresh and golden light falls on a
+walled city with turrets and towers and frequent gates: the houses of
+freestone, with terraced or oval roofs, sparkle in the sun, while the
+cupolaed pile of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the vast monasteries,
+and the broad steep of Sion crowned with the tower of David, vary the
+monotony of the general masses of building. But the glory of the scene
+is the Mosque of Omar as it rises on its broad platform of marble from
+the deep ravine of Kedron, with its magnificent dome high in the air,
+its arches and gardened courts, and its ornaments glittering amid the
+cedar, the cypress, and the palm.
+
+Reclining on Olivet, Lothair, alone and in charmed abstraction, gazed on
+the wondrous scene. Since his arrival at Jerusalem he lived much apart,
+nor had he found difficulty in effecting this isolation. Mr. Phoebus had
+already established a studio on a considerable scale, and was engaged
+in making sketches of pilgrims and monks, tall donkeys of Bethlehem with
+starry fronts, in which he much delighted, and grave Jellaheen sheiks,
+who were hanging about the convents in the hopes of obtaining a convoy
+to the Dead Sea. As for St. Aldegonde and Bertram, they passed their
+lives at the Russian consulate, or with its most charming inhabitants.
+This morning, with the consul and his wife and the matchless sisters, as
+St. Aldegonde always termed them, they had gone on an excursion to the
+Convent of the Nativity. Dinner usually reassembled all the party, and
+then the Divan followed.
+
+“I say, Bertram,” said St. Aldegonde, “what a lucky thing we paired and
+went to Nubia! I rejoice in the Divan, and yet, somehow, I cannot bear
+leaving those women. If the matchless sisters would only smoke, by Jove
+they would be perfect!”
+
+“I should not like Euphrosyne to smoke,” said Bertram.
+
+A person approached Lothair by the pathway from Bethany. It was the
+Syrian gentleman whom he had met at the consulate. As he was passing
+Lothair, he saluted him with the grace which had been before remarked,
+and Lothair, who was by nature courteous, and even inclined a little
+to ceremony in his manners, especially with those with whom he was not
+intimate, immediately rose, as he would not receive such a deputation in
+a reclining posture.
+
+“Let me not disturb you,” said the stranger, “or, if we must be on equal
+terms, let me also be seated, for this is a view that never palls.”
+
+“It is perhaps familiar to you,” said Lothair, “but with me, only a
+pilgrim, its effect is fascinating, almost overwhelming.”
+
+“The view of Jerusalem never becomes familiar,” said the Syrian, “for
+its associations are so transcendent, so various, so inexhaustible, that
+the mind can never anticipate its course of thought and feeling, when
+one sits, as we do now, on this immortal mount.”
+
+“I presume you live here?” said Lothair.
+
+“Not exactly,” said his companion. “I have recently built a house
+without the walls, and I have planted my hill with fruit-trees, and
+made vineyards and olive-grounds, but I have done this as much—perhaps
+more—to set an example, which, I am glad, to say, has been followed,
+as for my own convenience or pleasure. My home is in the north of
+Palestine, on the other side of, Jordan, beyond the Sea of Galilee. My
+family has dwelt there from time immemorial; but they always loved this
+city, and have a legend that they dwelt occasionally within its walls,
+even in the days when Titus from that hill looked down upon the temple.”
+
+“I have often wished to visit the Sea of Galilee,” said Lothair.
+
+“Well, you have now an opportunity,” said the Syrian; “the north of
+Palestine, though it has no topical splendor, has much variety and a
+peculiar natural charm. The burst and brightness of spring have not yet
+quite vanished: you would find our plains radiant with wild-flowers, and
+our hills green with young crops; and, though we cannot rival Lebanon,
+we have forest glades among our famous hills that, when once seen, are
+remembered.”
+
+“But there is something to me more interesting than the splendor of
+tropical scenery,” said Lothair, “even if Galilee could offer it. I wish
+to visit the cradle of my faith.”
+
+“And you would do wisely,” said the Syrian, “for there is no doubt the
+spiritual nature of man is developed in this land.”
+
+“And yet there are persons at the present day who doubt—even deny—the
+spiritual nature of man,” said Lothair. “I do not, I could not—there are
+reasons why I could not.”
+
+“There are some things I know, and some things I believe,” said the
+Syrian. “I know that I have a soul, and I believe that it is immortal.”
+
+“It is science that, by demonstrating the insignificance of this
+globe in the vast scale of creation, has led to this infidelity,” said
+Lothair.
+
+“Science may prove the insignificance of this globe in the scale of
+creation,” said the stranger, “but it cannot prove the insignificance of
+man. What is the earth compared with the sun? a molehill by a mountain;
+yet the inhabitants of this earth can discover the elements of which
+the great orb consists, and will probably ere long ascertain all the
+conditions of its being. Nay, the human mind can penetrate far beyond
+the sun. There is no relation, therefore, between the faculties of man
+and the scale in creation of the planet which he inhabits.”
+
+“I was glad to hear you assert the other night the spiritual nature of
+man in opposition to Mr. Phoebus.”
+
+“Ah! Mr. Phoebus!” said the stranger, with a smile. “He is an old
+acquaintance of mine. And I must say he is very consistent—except in
+paying a visit to Jerusalem. That does surprise me. He said to me the
+other night the same things as he said to me at Rome many years ago. He
+would revive the worship of Nature. The deities whom he so eloquently
+describes and so exquisitely delineates are the ideal personifications
+of the most eminent human qualities, and chiefly the physical. Physical
+beauty is his standard of excellence, and he has a fanciful theory that
+moral order would be the consequence of the worship of physical beauty,
+for without moral order he holds physical beauty cannot be maintained.
+But the answer to Mr. Phoebus is, that his system has been tried and
+has failed, and under conditions more favorable than are likely to
+exist again; the worship of Nature ended in the degradation of the human
+race.”
+
+“But Mr. Phoebus cannot really believe in Apollo and Venus,” said
+Lothair. “These are phrases. He is, I suppose, what is called a
+Pantheist.”
+
+“No doubt the Olympus of Mr. Phoebus is the creation of his easel,”
+replied the Syrian. “I should not, however, describe him as a Pantheist,
+whose creed requires more abstraction than Mr. Phoebus, the worshipper
+of nature, would tolerate. His school never care to pursue any
+investigation which cannot be followed by the eye—and the worship of
+the beautiful always ends in an orgy. As for Pantheism, it is Atheism in
+domino. The belief in a Creator who is unconscious of creating is more
+monstrous than any dogma of any of the Churches in this city, and we
+have them all here.”
+
+“But there are people now who tell you that there never was any
+Creation, and therefore there never could have been a Creator,” said
+Lothair.
+
+“And which is now advanced with the confidences of novelty,” said the
+Syrian, “though all of it has been urged, and vainly urged, thousands of
+years ago. There must be design, or all we see would be without sense,
+and I do not believe in the unmeaning. As for the natural forces to
+which all creation is now attributed, we know they are unconscious,
+while consciousness is as inevitable a portion of our existence as the
+eye or the hand. The conscious cannot be derived from the unconscious.
+Man is divine.”
+
+“I wish I could assure myself of the personality of the Creator,” said
+Lothair. “I cling to that, but they say it is unphilosophical.”
+
+“In what sense?” asked the Syrian. “Is it more unphilosophical to
+believe in a personal God, omnipotent and omniscient, than in natural
+forces unconscious and irresistible? Is it unphilosophical to combine
+power with intelligence? Goethe, a Spinozist who did not believe in
+Spinoza, said that he could bring his mind to the conception that in the
+centre of space we might meet with a monad of pure intelligence. What
+may be the centre of space I leave to the daedal imagination of the
+author of ‘Faust;’ but a monad of pure intelligence—is that more
+philosophical than the truth, first revealed to man amid these
+everlasting hills,” said the Syrian, “that God made man in His own
+image?”
+
+“I have often found in that assurance a source of sublime consolation,”
+said Lothair.
+
+“It is the charter of the nobility of man,” said the Syrian, “one of the
+divine dogmas revealed in this land; not the invention of councils, not
+one of which was held on this sacred soil, confused assemblies first
+got together by the Greeks, and then by barbarous nations in barbarous
+times.”
+
+“Yet the divine land no longer tells us divine things,” said Lothair.
+
+“It may or it may not have fulfilled its destiny,” said the Syrian. “‘In
+my Father’s house are many mansions,’ and by the various families of
+nations the designs of the Creator are accomplished. God works by races,
+and one was appointed in due season and after many developments to
+reveal and expound in this land the spiritual nature of man. The Aryan
+and the Semite are of the same blood and origin, but when they quitted
+their central land they were ordained to follow opposite courses. Each
+division of the great race has developed one portion of the double
+nature of humanity, till, after all their wanderings, they met again,
+and, represented by their two choicest families, the Hellenes and the
+Hebrews, brought together the treasures of their accumulated wisdom, and
+secured the civilization of man.”
+
+“Those among whom I have lived of late,” said Lothair, “have taught me
+to trust much in councils, and to believe that without them there could
+be no foundation for the Church. I observe you do not speak in that
+vein, though, like myself, you find solace in those dogmas which
+recognize the relations between the created and the Creator.”
+
+“There can be no religion without that recognition,” said the Syrian,
+“and no creed can possibly be devised without such a recognition that
+would satisfy man. Why we are here, whence we come, whither we go—these
+are questions which man is organically framed and forced to ask himself,
+and that would not be the case if they could not be answered. As for
+churches depending on councils, the first council was held more than
+three centuries after the Sermon on the Mount. We Syrians had churches
+in the interval: no one can deny that. I bow before the Divine decree
+that swept them away from Antioch to Jerusalem, but I am not yet
+prepared to transfer my spiritual allegiance to Italian popes and Greek
+patriarchs. We believe that our family were among the first followers of
+Jesus, and that we then held lands in Bashan which we hold now. We had
+a gospel once in our district where there was some allusion to this, and
+being written by neighbors, and probably at the time, I dare say it
+was accurate, but the Western Churches declared our gospel was not
+authentic, though why I cannot tell, and they succeeded in extirpating
+it. It was not an additional reason why we should enter into their fold.
+So I am content to dwell in Galilee and trace the footsteps of my Divine
+Master, musing over His life and pregnant sayings amid the mounts He
+sanctified and the waters He loved so well.”
+
+The sun was now rising in the heavens, and the hour had arrived when it
+became expedient to seek the shade. Lothair and the Syrian rose at the
+same time.
+
+“I shall not easily forget our conversation on the Mount of Olives,”
+said Lothair, “and I would ask you to add to this kindness by permitting
+me, before I leave Jerusalem, to pay my respects to you under your
+roof.”
+
+“Peace be with you!” said the Syrian. “I live without the gate of
+Damascus, on a hill which you will easily recognize, and my name is
+PARACLETE.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 78 Time passed very agreeably to St. Aldegonde and Bertram at
+Jerusalem, for it was passed entirely at the Russian consulate, or with
+its interesting and charming inmates, who were always making excursions,
+or, as they styled them, pilgrimages. They saw little of Lothair, who
+would willingly have conversed with his friend on many topics, but his
+friend was almost always engaged, and, if by some chance they succeeded
+in finding themselves alone, Bertram appeared to be always preoccupied.
+One day he said to Lothair: “I tell you what, old fellow, if you want
+to know all about what has happened at home, I will give you Corisande’s
+letters. They are a sort of journal which she promised to keep for me,
+and they will tell you every thing. I found an immense packet of them on
+our return from Cairo, and I meant to have read them here; but I do not
+know how it is—I suppose there is so much to be seen here—but I never
+seem to have a moment to myself. I have got an engagement now to the
+consulate. We are going to Elisha’s Fountain to-day. Why do not you
+come?”
+
+“Well, I am engaged too,” said Lothair. “I have settled to go to the
+Tombs of the Kings to-day, with Signor Paraclete, and I cannot well get
+off; but remember the letters.”
+
+The box of letters arrived at Lothair’s rooms in due season, and their
+perusal deeply interested him. In their pages, alike earnest and lively,
+and a picture of a mind of high intelligence adorned with fancy
+and feeling, the name of Lothair frequently appeared, and sometimes
+accompanied with expressions that made his heart beat. All the rumors
+of his adventures, as they gradually arrived in England, generally
+distorted, were duly chronicled, and sometimes with comments, which
+intimated the interest they occasioned to the correspondent of Bertram.
+More than once she could not refrain from reproaching her brother for
+having left his friend so much to himself. “Of all your friends,” she
+said, “the one who always most interested me, and seemed most worthy of
+your affection.” And then she deplored the absolute ruin of Lothair, for
+such she deemed his entrance into the Roman Church.
+
+“I was right in my appreciation of that woman, though I was utterly
+inexperienced in life,” thought Lothair. “If her mother had only favored
+my views two years ago, affairs would have been different. Would they
+have been better? Can they be worse? But I have gained experience.
+Certainly; and paid for it with my heart’s blood. And might I not have
+gained experience tranquilly, in the discharge of the duties of my
+position at home—dear home? Perhaps not. And suppose I never had gained
+experience, I still might have been happy? And what am I now? Most lone
+and sad. So lone and sad that nothing but the magical influence of the
+scene around me saves me from an overwhelming despondency.”
+
+Lothair passed his life chiefly with Paraclete, and, a few weeks after
+their first acquaintance, they left Jerusalem together for Galilee.
+
+The month of May had disappeared, and June was advancing. Bertram and
+Saint Aldegonde no longer talked about their pair, and their engagements
+in the House of Commons. There seemed a tacit understanding between
+them to avoid the subject; remarkable on the part of Bertram, for he had
+always been urgent on his brother-in-law to fulfil their parliamentary
+obligation.
+
+The party at the Russian consulate had gone on a grand expedition to the
+Dead Sea, and had been absent for many days from Jerusalem. They were
+conveyed by one of the sheiks of the Jordan valley. It was a most
+successful expedition—constant adventure, novel objects and habits, all
+the spell of a romantic life. The ladies were delighted with the scenery
+of the Jordan valley, and the gentlemen had good sport; St. Aldegonde
+had killed a wild-boar, and Bertram an ibex, whose horns were preserved
+for Brentham. Mr. Phoebus intensely studied the camel and its habits. He
+persuaded himself that the ship of the desert entirely understood him.
+“But it is always so,” he added. “There is no animal that in a week does
+not perfectly comprehend me. Had I time and could give myself up to it,
+I have no doubt I could make them speak. Nature has endowed me, so far
+as dumb animals are concerned, with a peculiar mesmeric power.”
+
+At last this happy caravan was again within sight of the walls of
+Jerusalem.
+
+“I should like to have remained in the valley of the Jordan forever,”
+said St. Aldegonde.
+
+“And so should I,” whispered Bertram to Euphrosyne, “with the same
+companions.”
+
+When they had returned to the consulate, they found the post from
+England had arrived during their absence. There were dispatches for all.
+It is an agitating moment—that arrival of letters in a distant land.
+Lord St. Aldegonde seemed much disturbed when he tore open and perused
+his. His countenance became clouded; he dashed his hand through his
+dishevelled locks; he pouted; and then he said to Bertram, “Come to my
+room.”
+
+“Anything wrong at home?”
+
+“Not at home,” said St. Aldegonde. “Bertha is all right. But a most
+infernal letter from Glyn—most insolent. If I do return I will vote
+against them. But I will not return. I have made up my mind to that.
+People are so selfish,” exclaimed St. Aldegonde, with indignation. “They
+never think of any thing but themselves.”
+
+“Show me his letter,” said Bertram. “I have got a letter too; it is from
+the duke.”
+
+The letter of the Opposition whip did not deserve the epithets ascribed
+to it by St. Aldegonde. It was urgent and courteously peremptory; but,
+considering the circumstances of the case, by no means too absolute.
+Paired to Easter by great indulgence, St. Aldegonde was passing
+Whitsuntide at Jerusalem. The parliamentary position was critical, and
+the future of the Opposition seemed to depend on the majority by which
+their resolutions on the Irish Church were sent up to the House of
+Lords.
+
+“Well,” said Bertram. “I see nothing to complain of in that letter.
+Except a little more urgency, it is almost the same language as reached
+us at Cairo, and then you said Glyn was a capital fellow, and seemed
+quite pleased.”
+
+“Yes, because I hated Egypt,” said St. Aldegonde. “I hated the pyramids,
+and I was disappointed with the dancing-girls; and it seemed to me
+that, if it had not been for the whip, we never should have been able to
+escape. But things are very different now.”
+
+“Yes, they are,” said Bertram, in a melancholy tone.
+
+“You do not think of returning?” said St. Aldegonde.
+
+“Instantly,” replied Bertram. “I have a letter from the duke which is
+peremptory. The county is dissatisfied with my absence. And mine is
+a queer constituency; very numerous and several large towns; the
+popularity of my family gained me the seat, not their absolute
+influence.”
+
+“My constituents never trouble me,” said St. Aldegonde.
+
+“You have none,” said Bertram.
+
+“Well, if I were member for a metropolitan district I would not budge.
+And I little thought you would have deserted me.”
+
+“Ah!” sighed Bertram. “You’re discontented, because your amusements are
+interrupted. But think of my position, torn from a woman whom I adore.”
+
+“Well, you know you must have left her sooner or later,” urged St.
+Aldegonde.
+
+“Why?” asked Bertram.
+
+“You know what Lothair told us. She is engaged to her cousin the Prince
+of Samos, and—”
+
+“If I had only the Prince of Samos to deal with, I should care little,”
+said Bertram.
+
+“Why, what do you mean?”
+
+“That Euphrosyne is mine, if my family will sanction our union, but not
+otherwise.”
+
+St. Aldegonde gave a long whistle, and he added, “I wish Bertha were
+here. She is the only person I know who has a head.”
+
+“You see, my dear Granville, while you are talking of your little
+disappointments, I am involved in awful difficulties.”
+
+“You are sure about the Palace of Samos?”
+
+“Clear your head of that. There is no engagement of any kind between
+him and Euphrosyne. The visit to the island was only a preliminary
+ceremony—just to show himself. No doubt the father wishes the alliance;
+nor is there any reason to suppose that it would be disagreeable to the
+son; but, I repeat it—no engagement exists.”
+
+“If I were not your brother-in-law, I should have been very glad to have
+married Euphrosyne myself,” said St. Aldegonde.
+
+“Yes, but what am I to do?” asked Bertram, rather impatiently.
+
+“It will not do to write to Brentham,” said St. Aldegonde, gravely;
+“that I see clearly.” Then, after musing a while, he added: “I am vexed
+to leave our friends here and shall miss them sadly. They are the most
+agreeable people I ever knew. I never enjoyed myself so much. But we
+must think of nothing but your affairs. We must return instantly. The
+whip will be an excuse, but the real business will be Euphrosyne. I
+should delight in having her for a sister-in-law, but the affair will
+require management. We can make short work of getting home: steam to
+Marseilles, leave the yacht there, and take the railroad. I have half
+a mind to telegraph to Bertha to meet us there. She would be of great
+use.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 79 Lothair was delighted with Galilee, and particularly with the
+blue waters of its lake slumbering beneath the surrounding hills. Of all
+its once pleasant towns, Tiberias alone remains, and that in ruins
+from a recent earthquake. But where are Chorazin, and Bethsaida, and
+Capernaum? A group of hovels and an ancient tower still bear the magic
+name of Magdala, and all around are green mounts and gentle slopes, the
+scenes of miracles that softened the heart of man, and of sermons that
+never tire his ear. Dreams passed over Lothair of settling forever
+on the shores of these waters, and of reproducing all their vanished
+happiness: rebuilding their memorable cities, reviving their fisheries,
+cultivating the plain of Gennesaret and the country of the Gadarenes,
+and making researches in this cradle of pure and primitive Christianity.
+
+The heritage of Paraclete was among the oaks of Bashan, a lofty land,
+rising suddenly from the Jordan valley, verdant and well watered, and
+clothed in many parts with forest; there the host of Lothair resided
+among his lands and people, and himself dwelt in a stone and castellated
+building, a portion of which was of immemorial antiquity, and where he
+could rally his forces and defend himself in case of the irruption and
+invasion of the desert tribes. And here one morn arrived a messenger
+from Jerusalem summoning Lothair back to that city, in consequence of
+the intended departure of his friends.
+
+The call was urgent, and was obeyed immediately with that promptitude
+which the manners of the East, requiring no preparation, admit.
+Paraclete accompanied his guest. They had to cross the Jordan, and then
+to trace their way till they reached the southern limit of the plain
+of Esdraelon, from whence they counted on the following day to reach
+Jerusalem. While they were encamped on this spot, a body of Turkish
+soldiery seized all their horses, which were required, they said, by the
+Pacha of Damascus, who was proceeding to Jerusalem, attending a great
+Turkish general, who was on a mission to examine the means of defence
+of Palestine on the Egyptian side. This was very vexatious, but one
+of those incidents of Eastern life against which it is impossible to
+contend; so Lothair and Paraclete were obliged to take refuge in their
+pipes beneath a huge and solitary sycamore-tree, awaiting the arrival of
+the Ottoman magnificoes.
+
+They came at last, a considerable force of cavalry, then mules and
+barbarous carriages with the harem, all the riders and inmates enveloped
+in what appeared to be winding-sheets, white and shapeless; about them
+eunuchs and servants. The staff of the pachas followed, preceding the
+grandees who closed the march, mounted on Anatolian chargers.
+
+Paraclete and Lothair had been obliged to leave the grateful shade of
+the sycamore-tree, as the spot had been fixed on by the commander of the
+advanced guard for the resting-place of the pachas. They were standing
+aside and watching the progress of the procession, and contemplating the
+earliest opportunity of representing their grievances to high authority,
+when the Turkish general, or the seraskier, as the Syrians inaccurately
+styled him, suddenly reined in his steed, and said, in a loud voice,
+“Captain Muriel!”
+
+Lothair recognized the well-known voice of his commanding officer in
+the Apennine, and advanced to him with a military salute. “I must
+first congratulate you on being alive, which I hardly hoped,” said the
+general. “Then let me know why you are here.”
+
+And Lothair told him.
+
+“Well, you shall have back your horses,” said the general; “and I will
+escort you to El Khuds. In the mean time you must be our guest;” and he
+presented him to the Pacha of Damascus with some form. “You and I have
+bivouacked in the open air before this, and not in so bland a clime.”
+
+Beneath the shade of the patriarchal sycamore, the general narrated to
+Lothair his adventures since they were fellow-combatants on the fatal
+field of Mentana.
+
+“When all was over,” continued the general, “I fled with Garibaldi, and
+gained the Italian frontier at Terrni. Here we were of course arrested
+by the authorities, but not very maliciously. I escaped one morning, and
+got among the mountains in the neighborhood of our old camp. I had to
+wander about these parts for some time, for the Papalini were in the
+vicinity, and there was danger. It was a hard time; but I found a
+friend now and then among the country people, though they are dreadfully
+superstitious. At last I got to the shore, and induced an honest fellow
+to put to sea in an open boat, on the chance of something turning up. It
+did, in the shape of a brigantine from Elba bound for Corfu. Here I
+was sure to find friends, for the brotherhood are strong in the Ionian
+Isles. And I began to look about for business. The Greeks made me some
+offers, but their schemes were all vanity, worse than the Irish. You
+remember our Fenian squabble? From something that transpired, I had made
+up my mind, so soon as I was well equipped, to go to Turkey. I had had
+some transactions with the house of Cantacuzene, through the kindness of
+our dear friend whom we will never forget, but will never mention; and
+through them I became acquainted with the Prince of Samos, who is the
+chief of their house. He is in the entire confidence of Aali Pacha. I
+soon found out that there was real business on the carpet. The Ottoman
+army, after many trials and vicissitudes, is now in good case; and the
+Porte has resolved to stand no more nonsense either in this direction—”
+and the general gave a significant glance—“or in any other. But they
+wanted a general; they wanted a man who knew his business. I am not a
+Garibaldi, you know, and never pretended to be. I have no genius, or
+volcanic fire, or that sort of thing; but I do presume to say, with
+fair troops, paid with tolerable regularity, a battery or two of rifled
+cannon, and a well-organized commissariat, I am not afraid of meeting
+any captain of my acquaintance, whatever his land or language. The Turks
+are a brave people, and there is nothing in their system, political or
+religious, which jars with my convictions. In the army, which is all
+that I much care for, there is the career of merit, and I can promote
+any able man that I recognize. As for their religion, they are tolerant
+and exact nothing from me; and if I had any religion except Madre
+Natura, I am not sure I would not prefer Islamism; which is at least
+simple, and as little sacerdotal as any organized creed can be. The
+Porte made me a liberal offer, and I accepted it. It so happened that,
+the moment I entered their service, I was wanted. They had a difficulty
+on their Dalmatian frontier; I settled it in a way they liked. And now I
+am sent here with full powers, and am a pacha of the highest class, and
+with a prospect of some warm work. I do not know what your views are,
+but, if you would like a little more soldiering, I will put you on my
+staff; and, for aught I know, we may find your winter-quarters at Grand
+Cairo—they say a pleasant place for such a season.”
+
+“My soldiering has not been very fortunate,” said Lothair; “and I am not
+quite as great an admirer of the Turks as you are, general. My mind is
+rather on the pursuits of peace, and twenty hours ago I had a dream of
+settling on the shores of the Sea of Galilee.”
+
+“Whatever you do,” said the general, “give up dreams.”
+
+“I think you may be right in that,” said Lothair, with half a sigh.
+
+“Action may not always be happiness,” said the general; “but there is
+no happiness without action. If you will not fight the Egyptians, were I
+you, I would return home and plunge into affairs. That was a fine castle
+of yours I visited one morning; a man who lives in such a place must be
+able to find a great deal to do.”
+
+“I almost wish I were there, with you for my companion,” said Lothair.
+
+“The wheel may turn,” said the general; “but I begin to think I shall
+not see much of Europe again. I have given it some of my best years and
+best blood; and, if I had assisted in establishing the Roman republic,
+I should not have lived in vain; but the old imposture seems to me
+stronger than ever. I have got ten good years in me yet; and, if I
+be well supported and in luck, for, after all, every thing depends on
+fortune, and manage to put a couple of hundred thousand men in perfect
+discipline, I may find some consolation for not blowing up St. Peter’s,
+and may do something for the freedom of mankind on the banks of the
+Danube.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 80 Mrs. Putney Giles, in full toilet, was standing before the
+mantel-piece of her drawing-room in Hyde Park Gardens, and watching,
+with some anxiety, the clock that rested on it. It was the dinner-hour,
+and Mr. Putney Giles, particular in such matters, had not returned. No
+one looked forward to his dinner, and a chat with his wife, with greater
+zest than Mr. Putney Giles; and he deserved the gratification which
+both incidents afforded him, for he fairly earned it. Full of news and
+bustle, brimful of importance and prosperity, sunshiny and successful,
+his daily return home—which, with many, perhaps most, men, is a process
+lugubriously monotonous—was in Hyde Park Gardens, even to Apollonia,
+who possessed many means of amusement and occupation, a source ever of
+interest and excitement.
+
+To-day too, particularly, for their great client, friend, and patron,
+Lothair, had arrived last night, from the Continent, at Muriel House,
+and had directed Mr. Putney Giles to be in attendance on him on the
+afternoon of this day.
+
+Muriel House was a family mansion in the Green Park. It was built of
+hewn stone, during the last century—a Palladian edifice, for a time much
+neglected, but now restored and duly prepared for the reception of its
+lord and master by the same combined energy and taste which had proved
+so satisfactory and successful at Muriel Towers.
+
+It was a long room, the front saloon at Hyde Park Gardens, and the door
+was as remote as possible from the mantel-piece. It opened suddenly, but
+only the panting face of Mr. Putney Giles was seen, as he poured forth
+in hurried words: “My dear, dreadfully late, but I can dress in five
+minutes. I only opened the door in passing, to tell you that I have seen
+our great friend; wonderful man! but I will tell you all at dinner, or
+after. It was not he who kept me, but the Duke of Brecon. The duke has
+been with me two hours. I had a good mind to bring him home to dinner,
+and give him a bottle of my ‘48. They like that sort of thing, but it
+will keep,” and the head vanished.
+
+The Duke of Brecon would not have dined ill, had he honored this
+household. It is a pleasant thing to see an opulent and prosperous man
+of business, sanguine and full of health, and a little overworked, at
+that royal meal, dinner. How he enjoys his soup! And how curious in his
+fish! How critical in his entrée, and how nice in his Welsh mutton! His
+exhausted brain rallies under the glass of dry sherry, and he realizes
+all his dreams with the aid of claret that has the true flavor of the
+violet.
+
+“And now, my dear Apollonia,” said Mr. Putney Giles, when the servants
+had retired, and he turned his chair and played with a new nut from the
+Brazils, “about our great friend. Well, I was there at two o’clock, and
+found him at breakfast. Indeed, he said that, had he not given me an
+appointment, he thought he should not have risen at all. So delighted
+he was to find himself again in an English bed. Well, he told me every
+thing that had happened. I never knew a man so unreserved, and so
+different from what he was when I first knew him, for he never much
+cared then to talk about himself. But no egotism, nothing of that sort
+of thing—all his mistakes, all his blunders, as he called them. He told
+me every thing, that I might thoroughly understand his position, and
+that he might judge whether the steps I had taken in reference to it
+were adequate.”
+
+“I suppose about his religion,” said Apollonia. “What is he, after all?”
+
+“As sound as you are. But you are right; that was the point on which he
+was most anxious. He wrote, you know, to me from Malta, when the
+account of his conversion first appeared, to take all necessary steps to
+contradict the announcement, and counteract its consequences. He gave me
+carte blanche, and was anxious to know precisely what I had done. I
+told him that a mere contradiction, anonymous, or from a third person,
+however unqualified its language, would have no effect in the face of
+a detailed narrative, like that in all the papers, of his walking in
+procession and holding a lighted taper, and all that sort of thing. What
+I did was this. I commenced building, by his direction, two new churches
+on his estate, and announced in the local journals, copied in London,
+that he would be present at the consecration of both. I subscribed, in
+his name, and largely, to all the diocesan societies, gave a thousand
+pounds to the Bishop of London’s fund, and accepted for him the office
+of steward, for this year, for the Sons of the Clergy. Then, when the
+public feeling was ripe, relieved from all its anxieties, and beginning
+to get indignant at the calumnies that had been so freely circulated,
+the time for paragraphs had arrived, and one appeared stating that
+a discovery had taken place of the means by which an unfounded and
+preposterous account of the conversion of a distinguished young English
+nobleman at Rome had been invented and circulated, and would probably
+furnish the occasion for an action for libel. And now his return and
+appearance at the Chapel Royal, next Sunday, will clinch the whole
+business.”
+
+“And he was satisfied?”
+
+“Most satisfied; a little anxious whether his personal friends,
+and particularly the Brentham family, were assured of the truth. He
+travelled home with the duke’s son and Lord St. Aldegonde, but they came
+from remote parts, and their news from home was not very recent.”
+
+“And how does he look?”
+
+“Very well; never saw him look better. He is handsomer than he was. But
+he is changed. I could not conceive in a year that any one could be so
+changed. He was young for his years; he is now old for his years. He
+was, in fact, a boy; he is now a man; and yet it is only a year. He said
+it seemed to him ten.”
+
+“He has been through a fiery furnace,” said Apollonia.
+
+“Well, he has borne it well,” said Mr. Giles. “It is worth while serving
+such a client, so cordial, so frank, and yet so full of thought. He
+says he does not in the least regret all the money he has wasted. Had he
+remained at home, it would have gone to building a cathedral.”
+
+“And a popish one!” said Apollonia. “I cannot agree with him,” she
+continued, “that his Italian campaign was a waste of money. It will bear
+fruit. We shall still see the end of the ‘abomination of desolation.’”
+
+“Very likely,” said Mr. Giles; “but I trust my client will have no more
+to do with such questions either way.”
+
+“And did he ask after his friends?” said Apollonia.
+
+“Very much: he asked after you. I think he went through all the guests
+at Muriel Towers except the poor Campians. He spoke, to me about the
+colonel, to whom it appears he has written; but Theodora he never
+mentioned, except by some periphrasis, some allusion to a great sorrow,
+or to some dear friend whom he had lost. He seems a little embarrassed
+about the St. Jeromes, and said more than once that he owed his life to
+Miss Arundel. He dwelt a good deal upon this. He asked also a great deal
+about the Brentham family. They seem the people whom he most affects.
+When I told him of Lady Corisande’s approaching union with the Duke of
+Brecon, I did not think he half liked it.”
+
+“But is it settled?”
+
+“The same as—. The duke has been with me two hours to-day about his
+arrangements. He has proposed to the parents, who are delighted with
+the match, and has received every encouragement from the young lady. He
+looks upon it as certain.”
+
+“I wish our kind friend had not gone abroad,” said Apollonia.
+
+“Well, at any rate, he has come back,” said Mr. Giles; “that is
+something. I am sure I more than once never expected to see him again.”
+
+“He has every virtue, and every charm,” said Apollonia, “and principles
+that are now proved. I shall never forget his kindness at the Towers. I
+wish he were settled for life. But who is worthy of him? I hope he will
+not fall into the clutches of that popish girl. I have sometimes, from
+what I observed at Muriel, and other reasons, a dread misgiving.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 81 It was the first night that Lothair had slept in his own
+house, and, when he awoke in the morning, he was quite bewildered, and
+thought for a moment he was in the Palazzo Agostini. He had not reposed
+in so spacious and lofty a chamber since he was at Rome. And this
+brought all his recollection to his Roman life, and every thing that
+had happened there. “And yet, after all,” he said, “had it not been for
+Clare Arundel, I should never have seen Muriel House. I owe to her
+my life.” His relations with the St. Jerome family were doubtless
+embarrassing, even painful; and yet his tender and susceptible nature
+could not for a moment tolerate that he should passively submit to an
+estrangement from those who had conferred on him so much kindness, and
+whose ill-considered and injurious courses, as he now esteemed them,
+were perhaps, and probably, influenced and inspired by exalted, even
+sacred motives.
+
+He wondered whether they were in London; and, if so, what should he do?
+Should he call, or should he write? He wished he could do something
+to show to Miss Arundel how much he appreciated her kindness, and how
+grateful he was. She was a fine creature, and all her errors were noble
+ones; enthusiasm, energy, devotion to a sublime cause. Errors, but are
+these errors? Are they not, on the contrary, qualities which should
+command admiration in any one? and in a woman—and a beautiful woman—more
+than admiration?
+
+There is always something to worry you. It comes as regularly as
+sunrise. Here was Lothair under his own roof again, after strange
+and trying vicissitudes, with his health restored, his youth little
+diminished, with some strange memories and many sweet ones; on the
+whole, once more in great prosperity, and yet his mind harped only on
+one vexing thought, and that was his painful and perplexed relations
+with the St. Jerome family.
+
+His thoughts were a little distracted from this harassing theme by
+the novelty of his house, and the pleasure it gave him. He admired the
+double staircase and the somewhat heavy, yet richly-carved ceilings; and
+the look into the park, shadowy and green, with a rich summer sun, and
+the palace in the distance. What an agreeable contrast to his hard,
+noisy sojourn in a bran-new, brobdingnagian hotel, as was his coarse
+fate when he was launched into London life! This made him think of
+many comforts for which he ought to be grateful, and then he remembered
+Muriel Towers, and how completely and capitally every thing was there
+prepared and appointed, and while he was thinking over all this—and
+kindly of the chief author of these satisfactory arrangements, and the
+instances in which that individual had shown, not merely professional
+dexterity and devotion, but some of the higher qualities that make life
+sweet and pleasant—Mr. Putney Giles was announced, and Lothair sprang
+forward and gave him his hand with a cordiality which repaid at once
+that perfect but large-hearted lawyer for all his exertions, and some
+anxieties that he had never expressed even to Apollonia.
+
+Nothing in life is more remarkable than the unnecessary anxiety which
+we endure, and generally, occasion ourselves. Between four and five
+o’clock, having concluded his long conference with Mr. Putney Giles,
+Lothair, as if he were travelling the principal street of a foreign
+town, or rather treading on tiptoe like a prince in some enchanted
+castle, ventured to walk down St. James Street, and the very first
+person he met was Lord St. Jerome!
+
+Nothing could be more unaffectedly hearty than his greeting by that good
+man and thorough gentleman. “I saw, by the Post, you had arrived,” said
+Lord St. Jerome, “and we were all saying at breakfast how glad we should
+be to see you again. And looking so well! Quite yourself! I never saw
+you looking better. You have been to Egypt with Lord St. Aldegonde, I
+think? It was the wisest thing you could do. I said to Gertrude, when
+you went to Sicily, ‘If I were Lothair, I would go a good deal farther
+than Sicily.’ You wanted change of scene and air, more than any man I
+know.”
+
+“And how are they all?” said Lothair; “my first visit will be to them.”
+
+“And they will be delighted to see you. Lady St. Jerome is a little
+indisposed—a cold caught at one of her bazaars. She will hold them, and
+they say that no one ever sells so much. But still, as I often say, ‘My
+dear Gertrude, would it not be better if I were to give you a check
+for the institution; it would be the same to them, and would save you
+a great deal of trouble.’ But she fancies her presence inspires others,
+and perhaps there is something in it.”
+
+“I doubt not; and Miss Arundel?”
+
+“Clare is quite well, and I am hurrying home now to ride with her. I
+shall tell her that you asked after her.”
+
+“And offer her my kindest remembrances.”
+
+“What a relief!” exclaimed Lothair, when once more alone. “I thought I
+should have sunk into the earth when he first addressed me, and now I
+would not have missed this meeting for any consideration.”
+
+He had not the courage to go into White’s. He was under a vague
+impression that the whole population of the metropolis, and especially
+those who reside in the sacred land, bounded on the one side by
+Piccadilly, and on the other by Pall Mall, were unceasingly talking
+of his scrapes and misadventures; but he met Lord Carisbrooke and Mr.
+Brancepeth.
+
+“Ah! Lothair,” said Carisbrooke, “I do not think we have seen you
+this season—certainly not since Easter. What have you been doing with
+yourself?”
+
+“You have been in Egypt?” said Mr. Brancepeth. “The duke was mentioning
+at White’s to-day that you had returned with his son and Lord St.
+Aldegonde.”
+
+“And does it pay?” inquired Carisbrooke. “Egypt? What I have found
+generally in this sort of thing is, that one hardly knows what to do
+with one’s evenings.”
+
+“There is something in that,” said Lothair, “and perhaps it applies to
+other countries besides Egypt. However, though it is true I did return
+with St. Aldegonde and Bertram, I have myself not been to Egypt.”
+
+“And where did you pick them up?”
+
+“At Jerusalem.”
+
+“Jerusalem! What on earth could they go to Jerusalem for?” said Lord
+Carisbrooke. “I am told there is no sort of sport there. They say, in
+the Upper Nile, there is good shooting.”
+
+“St. Aldegonde was disappointed. I suppose our countrymen have disturbed
+the crocodiles and frightened away the pelicans?”
+
+“We were going to look in at White’s—come with us.”
+
+Lothair was greeted with general kindness; but nobody seemed aware that
+he had been long and unusually absent from them. Some had themselves not
+come up to town till after Easter, and had therefore less cause to miss
+him. The great majority, however, were so engrossed with themselves that
+they never missed anybody. The Duke of Brecon appealed to Lothair
+about something that had happened at the last Derby, and was under the
+impression, until better informed, that Lothair had been one of his
+party. There were some exceptions to this general unacquaintance with
+events which an hour before Lothair had feared fearfully engrossed
+society. Hugo Bohun was doubly charmed to see him, “because we were all
+in a fright one day that they were going to make you a cardinal, and it
+turned out that, at the very time they said you were about to enter the
+conclave, you happened to be at the second cataract. What lies these
+newspapers do tell!”
+
+But the climax of relief was reached when the noble and gray-headed
+patron of the arts in Great Britain approached him with polished
+benignity, and said, “I can give you perhaps even later news than you
+can give me of our friends at Jerusalem. I had a letter from Madame
+Phoebus this morning, and she mentioned with great regret that you had
+just left them. Your first travels, I believe?”
+
+“My first.”
+
+“And wisely planned. You were right in starting out and seeing the
+distant parts. One may not always have the energy which such an
+expedition requires. You can keep Italy for a later and calmer day.”
+
+Thus, one by one, all the cerulean demons of the morn had vanished,
+and Lothair had nothing to worry him. He felt a little dull as the
+dinner-hour approached. Bertram was to dine at home, and then go to
+the House of Commons; St. Aldegonde, concluding the day with the same
+catastrophe, had in the most immoral manner, in the interval, gone to
+the play to see “School,” of which he had read an account in Galignani
+when he was in quarantine. Lothair was so displeased with this unfeeling
+conduct on his part that he declined to accompany him; but Lady St.
+Aldegonde, who dined at Crecy House, defended her husband, and thought
+it very right and reasonable that one so fond of the drama as he, who
+had been so long deprived of gratifying his taste in that respect,
+should take the first opportunity of enjoying this innocent amusement.
+A solitary dinner at Muriel House, in one of those spacious and lofty
+chambers, rather appalled Lothair, and he was getting low again,
+remembering nothing but his sorrows, when Mr. Pinto came up to him and
+said: “The impromptu is always successful in life; you cannot be engaged
+to dinner, for everybody believes you are at Jericho. What say you to
+dining with me? Less than the Muses and more than the Graces, certainly,
+if you come. Lady Beatrice has invited herself, and she is to pick up
+a lady, and I was to look out for a couple of agreeable men. Hugo is
+coming, and you will complete the charm.”
+
+“The spell then is complete,” said Lothair; “I suppose a late eight.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 82 Lothair was breakfasting alone on the morrow, when his
+servant announced the arrival of Mr. Ruby, who had been ordered to be in
+attendance.
+
+“Show him up,” said Lothair, “and bring me the dispatch-box which is in
+my dressing-room.”
+
+Mr. Ruby was deeply gratified to be again in the presence of a nobleman
+so eminently distinguished, both for his property and his taste, as
+Lothair. He was profuse in his congratulations to his lordship on his
+return to his native land, while at the same time he was opening a bag,
+from which he extracted a variety of beautiful objects, none of them
+for sale, all executed commissions, which were destined to adorn the
+fortunate and the fair. “This is lovely, my lord, quite new, for the
+Queen of Madagascar; for the empress this, her majesty’s own design, at
+least almost. Lady Melton’s bridal necklace, and my lord’s George, the
+last given by King James II.; broken up during the revolution, but reset
+by us from an old drawing with picked stones.”
+
+“Very pretty,” said Lothair; “but it is not exactly this sort of thing
+that I want. See,” and he opened the dispatch-box, and took from out
+of it a crucifix. It was made of some Eastern wood, inlaid with
+mother-of-pearl; the figure carved in brass, though not without power,
+and at the end of each of the four terminations of the cross was a small
+cavity, enclosing something, and covered with glass.
+
+“See,” continued Lothair, “this is the crucifix, given with a carved
+shell to each pilgrim who visits the Holy Sepulchre. Within these four
+cavities is earth from the four holy places: Calvary, Sion, Bethlehem,
+and Gethsemane. Now, what I want is a crucifix, something of this
+dimension, but made of the most costly materials; the figure must be of
+pure gold; I should like the cross to be of choice emeralds, which I am
+told are now more precious even than brilliants, and I wish the earth of
+the sacred places to be removed from this crucifix, and introduced in a
+similar manner into the one which you are to make; and each cavity must
+be covered with a slit diamond. Do you understand?”
+
+“I follow you, my lord,” said Mr. Ruby, with glistening eyes. “It will
+be a rare jewel. Is there to be a limit as to the cost?”
+
+“None but such as taste and propriety suggest,” said Lothair. “You will
+of course make a drawing and an estimate, and send them to me; but I
+desire dispatch.”
+
+When Mr. Ruby had retired, Lothair took from the dispatch-box a sealed
+packet, and looked at it for some moments, and then pressed it to his
+lips.
+
+In the afternoon, Lothair found himself again in the saddle, and was
+riding about London, as if he had never quitted it. He left his cards
+at Crecy House, and many other houses, and he called at the St. Jeromes’
+late, but asked if they were at home. He had reckoned that they would
+not be, and his reckoning was right. It was impossible to conceal from
+himself that it was a relief. Mr. Putney Giles dined alone with Lothair
+this evening, and they talked over many things; among others the
+approaching marriage of Lady Corisande with the Duke of Brecon.
+
+“Everybody marries except myself,” said Lothair, rather peevishly.
+
+“But your lordship is too young to think of that yet,” said Mr. Putney
+Giles.
+
+“I feel very old,” said Lothair.
+
+At this moment there arrived a note from Bertram, saying his mother was
+quite surprised and disappointed that Lothair had not asked to see
+her in the morning. She had expected him, as a matter of course, at
+luncheon, and begged that he would come on the morrow.
+
+“I have had many pleasant luncheons in that house,” said Lothair, “but
+this will be the last. When all the daughters are married, nobody eats
+luncheon.”
+
+“That would hardly apply to this family,” said Mr. Putney Giles, who
+always affected to know every thing, and generally did. “They are so
+united, that I fancy the famous luncheons at Crecy House will always go
+on, and be a popular mode of their all meeting.”
+
+“I half agree with St. Aldegonde,” said Lothair, grumbling to himself,
+“that if one is to meet that Duke of Brecon every day at luncheon, for
+my part I had rather stay away.”
+
+In the course of the evening there also arrived invitations to all the
+impending balls and assemblies, for Lothair; and there seemed little
+prospect of his again being forced to dine with his faithful solicitor
+as a refuge from melancholy.
+
+On the morrow he went in his brougham to Crecy House, and he had such
+a palpitation of the heart when he arrived, that, for a moment, he
+absolutely thought he must retire. His mind was full of Jerusalem, the
+Mount of Olives, and the Sea of Galilee. He was never nervous there,
+never agitated, never harassed, no palpitations of the heart, no dread
+suspense. There was repose alike of body and soul. Why did he ever
+leave Palestine and Paraclete? He should have remained in Syria forever,
+cherishing, in a hallowed scene, a hallowed sorrow, of which even the
+bitterness was exalted and ennobling.
+
+He stood for a moment in the great hall at Crecy House, and the groom
+of the chambers in vain solicited his attention. It was astonishing
+how much passed through his mind while the great clock hardly described
+sixty seconds. But in that space he had reviewed his life, arrived at
+the conclusion that all was vanity and bitterness, that he had failed
+in every thing, was misplaced, had no object and no hope, and that a
+distant and unbroken solitude in some scene, where either the majesty of
+Nature was overwhelming, or its moral associations were equally sublime,
+must be his only refuge. In the meditation of the Cosmos, or in the
+divine reverie of sacred lands, the burden of existence might be
+endured.
+
+“Her grace is at luncheon, my lord,” at length said the groom of the
+chamber—and Lothair was ushered into the gay, and festive, and cordial
+scene. The number of the self-invited guests alone saved him. His
+confusion was absolute, and the duchess remarked afterward that Lothair
+seemed to have regained all his shyness.
+
+When Lothair had rallied and could survey the scene, he found he was
+sitting by his hostess; that the duke, not a luncheon man, was present,
+and, as it turned out afterward, for the pleasure of meeting Lothair.
+Bertram also was present, and several married daughters, and Lord
+Montairy, and Captain Mildmay, and one or two others; and next to Lady
+Corisande was the Duke of Brecon.
+
+So far as Lothair was concerned, the luncheon was unsuccessful. His
+conversational powers deserted him. He answered in monosyllables, and
+never originated a remark. He was greatly relieved when they rose and
+returned to the gallery, in which they seemed all disposed to linger.
+The duke approached him, and, in his mood, he found it easier to talk to
+men than to women. Male conversation is of a coarser grain, and does not
+require so much play of thought and manner; discourse about Suez Canal,
+and Arab horses, and pipes, and pachas, can be carried on without any
+psychological effort, and, by degrees, banishes all sensibility. And yet
+he was rather dreamy, talked better than he listened, did not look his
+companion in the face, as the duke spoke, which was his custom, and his
+eye was wandering. Suddenly, Bertram having joined them, and speaking to
+his father, Lothair darted away and approached Lady Corisande, whom Lady
+Montairy had just quitted.
+
+“As I may never have the opportunity again,” said Lothair, “let me thank
+you, Lady Corisande, for some kind thoughts which you deigned to bestow
+on me in my absence.”
+
+His look was serious; his tone almost sad. Neither were in keeping with
+the scene and the apparent occasion; and Lady Corisande, not displeased,
+but troubled, murmured: “Since I last met you, I heard you had seen much
+and suffered much.”
+
+“And that makes the kind thoughts of friends more precious,” said
+Lothair. “I have few; your brother is the chief, but even he never did
+me any kindness so great as when he told me that you had spoken of me
+with sympathy.”
+
+“Bertram’s friends are mine,” said Lady Corisande; “but, otherwise, it
+would be impossible for us all not to feel an interest in—, one of whom
+we had seen so much,” she added, with some hesitation.
+
+“Ah, Brentham!” said Lothair; “dear Brentham! Do you remember once
+saying to me that you hoped you should never leave Brentham?”
+
+“Did I say so?” said Lady Corisande.
+
+“I wish I had never left Brentham,” said Lothair; “it was the happiest
+time of my life. I had not then a sorrow or a care.”
+
+“But everybody has sorrows and cares,” said Lady Corisande; “you have,
+however, a great many things which ought to make you happy.”
+
+“I do not deserve to be happy,” said Lothair, “for I have made so many
+mistakes. My only consolation is that one great error, which you most
+deprecated, I have escaped.”
+
+“Take a brighter and a nobler view of your life,” said Lady Corisande;
+“feel rather you have been tried and not found wanting.”
+
+At this moment the duchess approached them, and interrupted their
+conversation; and, soon after this, Lothair left Crecy House, still
+moody, but less despondent.
+
+There was a ball at Lady Clanmorne’s in the evening, and Lothair was
+present. He was astonished at the number of new faces he saw, the new
+phrases he heard, the new fashions alike in dress and manner. He could
+not believe it was the same world that he had quitted only a year ago.
+He was glad to take refuge with Hugo Bohun as with an old friend, and
+could not refrain from expressing to that eminent person his surprise at
+the novelty of all around him.
+
+“It is you, my dear Lothair,” replied Hugo, “that is surprising, not the
+world—that has only developed in your absence. What could have induced
+a man like you to be away for a whole season from the scene? Our
+forefathers might afford to travel—the world was then stereotyped. It
+will not do to be out of sight now. It is very well for St. Aldegonde to
+do these things, for the great object of St. Aldegonde is not to be in
+society, and he has never succeeded in his object. But here is the new
+beauty.”
+
+There was a stir and a sensation. Men made way, and even women
+retreated—and, leaning on the arm of Lord Carisbrooke, in an exquisite
+costume that happily displayed her splendid figure, and, radiant
+with many charms, swept by a lady of commanding mien and stature,
+self-possessed, and even grave, when, suddenly turning her head, her
+pretty face broke into enchanting dimples, as she exclaimed: “Oh, cousin
+Lothair!”
+
+Yes, the beautiful giantesses of Muriel Towers had become the beauties
+of the season. Their success had been as sudden and immediate as it was
+complete and sustained. “Well, this is stranger than all!” said Lothair
+to Hugo Bohun when Lady Flora had passed on.
+
+“The only persons talked of,” said Hugo. “I am proud of my previous
+acquaintance with them. I think Carisbrooke has serious thoughts; but
+there are some who prefer Lady Grizell.”
+
+“Lady Corisande was your idol last season,” said Lothair.
+
+“Oh, she is out of the running,” said Hugo; “she is finished. But I have
+not heard yet of any day being fixed. I wonder, when he marries, whether
+Brecon will keep on his theatre?”
+
+“His theatre!”
+
+“Yes; the high mode now for a real swell is to have a theatre. Brecon
+has the Frolic; Kate Simmons is his manager, who calls herself Athalie
+de Montfort. You ought to have a theatre, Lothair; and, if there is
+not one to hire, you should build one. It would show that you are alive
+again and had the spirit of an English noble, and atone for some of your
+eccentricities.”
+
+“But I have no Kate Simmons who calls herself Athalie de Montfort,” said
+Lothair. “I am not so favored, Hugo. However, I might succeed Brecon,
+as I hardly suppose he will maintain such an establishment when he is
+married.”
+
+“I beg your pardon,” rejoined Hugo. “It is the thing. Several of our
+greatest swells have theatres and are married. In fact, a first-rate man
+should have every thing, and therefore he ought to have both a theatre
+and a wife.”
+
+“Well, I do not think your manners have improved since last year, or
+your words,” said Lothair. “I have half a mind to go down to Muriel, and
+shut myself up there.”
+
+He walked away and sauntered into the ballroom. The first forms he
+recognized were Lady Corisande waltzing with the Duke of Brecon, who was
+renowned for this accomplishment. The heart of Lothair felt bitter. He
+remembered his stroll to the dairy with the Duchess at Brentham, and
+their conversation. Had his views then been acceded to, how different
+would have been his lot! And it was not his fault that they had been
+rejected. And yet, had they been accomplished, would they have been
+happy? The character of Corisande, according to her mother, was not then
+formed, nor easily scrutable. Was it formed now? and what were its bent
+and genius? And his own character? It could not be denied that his mind
+was somewhat crude then, and his general conclusions on life and duty
+hardly sufficiently matured and developed to offer a basis for domestic
+happiness on which one might confidently depend.
+
+And Theodora? Had he married then, he should never have known Theodora.
+In this bright saloon, amid the gayety of festive music, and surrounded
+by gliding forms of elegance and brilliancy, his heart was full of
+anguish when he thought of Theodora. To have known such a woman and to
+have lost her! Why should a man live after this? Yes; he would retire to
+Muriel, once hallowed by her presence, and he would raise to her memory
+some monumental fane, beyond the dreams ever of Artemisia, and which
+should commemorate alike her wondrous life and wondrous mind.
+
+A beautiful hand was extended to him, and a fair face, animated with
+intelligence, welcomed him without a word. It was Lady St. Jerome.
+Lothair bowed lowly and touched her hand with his lip.
+
+“I was sorry to have missed you yesterday. We had gone down to Vauxe for
+the day, but I heard of you from my lord with great pleasure. We are all
+of us so happy that you have entirely recovered your health.”
+
+“I owe that to you, dearest lady,” said Lothair, “and to those under
+your roof. I can never forget your goodness to me. Had it not been for
+you, I should not have been here or anywhere else.”
+
+“No, no; we did our best for the moment. But I quite agree with my lord,
+now, that you stayed too long at Rome under the circumstances. It was a
+good move—that going to Sicily, and so wise of you to travel in Egypt.
+Men should travel.”
+
+“I have not been to Egypt,” said Lothair; “I have been to the Holy Land,
+and am a pilgrim. I wish you would tell Miss Arundel that I shall ask
+her permission to present her with my crucifix, which contains the earth
+of the holy places. I should have told her this myself, if I had seen
+her yesterday. Is she here?”
+
+“She is at Vauxe; she could not tear herself away from the roses.”
+
+“But she might have brought them with her as companions,” said Lothair,
+“as you have, I apprehend, yourself.”
+
+“I will give you this in Clare’s name,” said Lady St. Jerome, as she
+selected a beautiful flower and presented it to Lothair. “It is in
+return for your crucifix, which I am sure she will highly esteem. I only
+wish it were a rose of Jericho.”
+
+Lothair started. The name brought up strange and disturbing
+associations: the procession in the Jesuits’ church, the lighted tapers,
+the consecrated children, one of whom had been supernaturally presented
+with the flower in question. There was an awkward silence, until
+Lothair, almost without intending it, expressed a hope that the cardinal
+was well.
+
+“Immersed in affairs, but I hope well,” replied Lady St. Jerome. “You
+know what has happened? But you will see him. He will speak to you of
+these matters himself.”
+
+“But I should like also to hear from you.”
+
+“Well, they are scarcely yet to be spoken of,” said Lady St. Jerome. “I
+ought not perhaps even to have alluded to the subject; but I know how
+deeply devoted you are to religion. We are on the eve of the greatest
+event of this century. When I wake in the morning, I always fancy that I
+have heard of it only in dreams. And many—all this room—will not believe
+in the possibility of its happening. They smile when the contingency
+is alluded to, and if I were not present they would mock. But it will
+happen—I am assured it will happen,” exclaimed Lady St. Jerome, speaking
+with earnestness, though in a hushed voice. “And no human imagination
+can calculate or conceive what may be its effect on the destiny of the
+human race.”
+
+“You excite my utmost curiosity,” said Lothair.
+
+“Hush! there are listeners. But we shall soon meet again. You will come
+and see us, and soon. Come down to Vauxe on Saturday; the cardinal
+will be there. And the place is so lovely now. I always say Vauxe at
+Whitsuntide, or a little later, is a scene for Shakespeare. You know you
+always liked Vauxe.”
+
+“More than liked it,” said Lothair; “I have passed at Vauxe some of the
+happiest hours of my life.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 83 On the morning of the very Saturday on which Lothair was
+to pay his visit to Vauxe, riding in the park, he was joined by that
+polished and venerable nobleman who presides over the destinies of art
+in Great Britain. This distinguished person had taken rather a fancy to
+Lothair, and liked to talk to him about the Phoebus family; about the
+great artist himself, and all his theories and styles; but especially
+about the fascinating Madame Phoebus and the captivating Euphrosyne.
+
+“You have not found time, I dare say,” said the nobleman, “to visit the
+exhibition of the Royal Academy?”
+
+“Well, I have only been here a week,” said Lothair, “and have had so
+many things to think of, and so many persons to see.”
+
+“Naturally,” said the nobleman; “but I recommend you to go. I am now
+about to make my fifth visit there; but it is only to a single picture,
+and I envy its owner.”
+
+“Indeed!” said Lothair. “Pray tell me its subject, that I may not fail
+to see it.”
+
+“It is a portrait,” said the nobleman, “only a portrait, some would
+say, as if the finest pictures in the world were not only portraits. The
+masterpieces of the English school are portraits, and some day when you
+have leisure and inclination, and visit Italy, you will see portraits
+by Titian and Raffaelle and others, which are the masterpieces of art.
+Well, the picture in question is a portrait by a young English painter
+at Rome and of an English lady. I doubt not the subject was equal to
+the genius of the artist, but I do not think that the modern pencil
+has produced any thing equal to it, both, in design and color and
+expression. You should see it, by all means, and I have that opinion of
+your taste that I do not think you will be content by seeing it once.
+The real taste for fine art in this country is proved by the crowd that
+always surrounds that picture; and yet only a portrait of an English
+lady, a Miss Arundel.”
+
+“A Miss Arundel?” said Lothair.
+
+“Yes, of a Roman Catholic family; I believe a relative of the St.
+Jeromes. They were at Rome last year, when this portrait was executed.”
+
+“If you will permit me,” said Lothair, “I should like to accompany you
+to the Academy. I am going out of town this afternoon, but not far, and
+could manage it.”
+
+So they went together. It was the last exhibition of the Academy in
+Trafalgar Square. The portrait in question was in the large room, and
+hung on the eye line; so, as the throng about it was great, it was not
+easy immediately to inspect it. But one or two R. A’s who were gliding
+about, and who looked upon the noble patron of art as a sort of
+divinity, insensibly controlled the crowd, and secured for their friend
+and his companion the opportunity which they desired.
+
+“It is the finest thing since the portrait of the Cenci,” said the noble
+patron.
+
+The painter had represented Miss Arundel in her robe of a sister of
+mercy, but with uncovered head. A wallet was at her side, and she held a
+crucifix. Her beautiful eyes, full of mystic devotions met those of the
+spectator with a fascinating power that kept many spell-bound. In the
+background of the picture was a masterly glimpse of the papal gardens
+and the wondrous dome.
+
+“That must be a great woman,” said the noble patron of art.
+
+Lothair nodded assent in silence.
+
+The crowd about the picture seemed breathless and awe-struck. There were
+many women, and in some eyes there were tears.
+
+“I shall go home,” said one of the spectators; “I do not wish to see any
+thing else.”
+
+“That is religion,” murmured her companion. “They may say what they
+like, but it would be well for us if we were all like her.”
+
+It was a short half-hour by the railroad to Vauxe, and the station
+was close to the park gates. The sun was in its last hour when Lothair
+arrived, but he was captivated by the beauty of the scene, which he had
+never witnessed in its summer splendor. The rich foliage of the great
+avenues, the immense oaks that stood alone, the deer glancing in the
+golden light, and the quaint and stately edifice itself, so finished and
+so fair, with its freestone pinnacles and its gilded vanes glistening
+and sparkling in the warm and lucid sky, contrasted with the chilly
+hours when the cardinal and himself had first strolled together in that
+park, and when they tried to flatter themselves that the morning mist
+clinging to the skeleton trees was perhaps the burst of spring.
+
+Lothair found himself again in his old rooms, and, as his valet unpacked
+his toilet, he fell into one of his reveries.
+
+“What,” he thought to himself, “if life after all be only a dream? I can
+scarcely realize what is going on. It seems to me; I have passed through
+a year of visions. That I should be at Vauxe again! A roof I once
+thought rife with my destiny. And perhaps it may prove so. And, were it
+not for the memory of one event, I should be a ship without a rudder.”
+
+There were several guests in the house, and, when Lothair entered the
+drawing-room, he was glad to find that it was rather full. The cardinal
+was by the side of Lady St. Jerome when Lothair entered, and immediately
+after saluting his hostess it was his duty to address his late guardian.
+Lothair had looked forward to this meeting with apprehension. It seemed
+impossible that it should not to a certain degree be annoying. Nothing
+of the kind. It was impossible to greet him more cordially, more
+affectionately than did Cardinal Grandison.
+
+“You have seen a great deal since we parted,” said the cardinal.
+“Nothing could be wiser than your travelling. You remember that at
+Muriel I recommended you to go to Egypt, but I thought it better that
+you should see Rome first. And it answered: you made the acquaintance of
+its eminent men, men whose names will be soon in everybody’s mouth,
+for before another year elapses Rome will be the cynosure of the world.
+Then, when the great questions come on which will decide the fate of
+the human race for centuries, you will feel the inestimable advantage
+of being master of the situation, and that you are familiar with every
+place and every individual. I think you were not very well at Rome; but
+next time you must choose your season. However, I may congratulate you
+on your present looks. The air of the Levant seems to have agreed with
+you.”
+
+Dinner was announced almost at this moment, and Lothair, who had to take
+out Lady Clanmorne, had no opportunity before dinner of addressing
+any one else except his hostess and the cardinal. The dinner-party was
+large, and it took some time to reconnoitre all the guests. Lothair
+observed Miss Arundel, who was distant from him and on the same side of
+the table, but neither Monsignore Capel nor Father Coleman were present.
+
+Lady Clanmorne chatted agreeably. She was content to talk, and did not
+insist on conversational reciprocity. She was a pure free-trader in
+gossip. This rather suited Lothair. It pleased Lady Clanmorne to-day to
+dilate upon marriage and the married state, but especially on all her
+acquaintances, male and female, who were meditating the surrender of
+their liberty and about to secure the happiness of their lives.
+
+“I suppose the wedding of the season—the wedding of weddings—will be the
+Duke of Brecon’s,” she said. “But I do not hear of any day being fixed.”
+
+“Ah!” said Lothair, “I have been abroad and am very deficient in these
+matters. But I was travelling with the lady’s brother, and he has never
+yet told me that his sister was going to be married.”
+
+“There is no doubt about that,” said Lady Clanmorne. “The duchess said
+to a friend of mine the other day, who congratulated her, that there was
+no person in whom she should have more confidence as a son-in-law than
+the duke.”
+
+“But most marriages turn out unhappy,” said Lothair, rather morosely.
+
+“Oh! my dear lord, what can you mean?”
+
+“Well I think so,” he said doggedly. “Among the lower orders, if we may
+judge from the newspapers, they are always killing their wives, and in
+our class we get rid of them in a more polished way, or they get rid of
+us.”
+
+“You quite astonish me with such sentiments,” said Lady Clanmorne. “What
+would Lady St. Jerome think if she heard you, who told me the other day
+that she believed you to be a faultless character? And the duchess too,
+your friend’s mamma, who thinks you so good, and that it is so fortunate
+for her son to have such a companion?”
+
+“As for Lady St. Jerome, she believes in every thing,” said Lothair;
+“and it is no compliment that she believes in me. As for my friend’s
+mamma, her ideal character, according to you, is the Duke of Brecon, and
+I cannot pretend to compete with him. He may please the duchess, but I
+cannot say the Duke of Brecon is a sort of man I admire.”
+
+“Well, he is no great favorite of mine,” said Lady Clanmorne; “I think
+him overbearing and selfish, and I should not like at all to be his
+wife.”
+
+“What do you think of Lady Corisande?” said Lothair.
+
+“I admire her more than any girl in society, and I think she will be
+thrown away on the Duke of Brecon. She is clever and she has strong
+character, and, I am told, is capable of great affections. Her manners
+are good, finished, and natural; and she is beloved by her young
+friends, which I always think a test.”
+
+“Do you think her handsome?”
+
+“There can be no question about that: she is beautiful, and her beauty
+is of a high class. I admire her much more than all her sisters. She has
+a grander mien.”
+
+“Have you seen Miss Arundel’s picture at the Academy?”
+
+“Everybody has seen that: it has made a fury.”
+
+“I heard an eminent judge say to-day, that it was the portrait of one
+who must be a great woman.”
+
+“Well, Miss Arundel is a remarkable person.”
+
+“Do you admire her?”
+
+“I have heard first-rate critics say that there was no person to be
+compared to Miss Arundel. And unquestionably it is a most striking
+countenance: that profound brow and those large deep eyes—and then her
+figure is so fine; but, to tell you the truth, Miss Arundel is a person
+I never could make out.”
+
+“I wonder she does not marry,” said Lothair.
+
+“She is very difficult,” said Lady Clanmorne. “Perhaps, too, she is of
+your opinion about marriage.”
+
+“I have a good mind to ask her after dinner whether she is,” said
+Lothair. “I fancy she would not marry a Protestant?”
+
+“I am no judge of such matters,” said Lady Clanmorne; “only I cannot
+help thinking that there would be more chance of a happy marriage when
+both were of the same religion.”
+
+“I wish we were all of the same religion. Do not you?”
+
+“Well, that depends a little on what the religion might be.”
+
+“Ah!” sighed Lothair, “what between religion and marriage and some other
+things, it appears to me one never has a tranquil moment. I wonder what
+religious school the Duke of Brecon belongs to? Very high and dry, I
+should think.”
+
+The moment the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, Lothair singled
+out Miss Arundel, and attached himself to her.
+
+“I have been to see your portrait today,” he said. She changed color.
+
+“I think it,” he continued, “the triumph of modern art, and I could not
+easily fix on any production of the old masters that excels it.”
+
+“It was painted at Rome,” she said, in a low voice.
+
+“So I understood. I regret that, when I was at Rome, I saw so little of
+its art. But my health, you know, was wretched. Indeed, if it had not
+been for some friends—I might say for one friend—I should not have been
+here or in this world. I can never express to that person my gratitude,
+and it increases every day. All that I have dreamed of angels was then
+realized.”
+
+“You think too kindly of us.”
+
+“Did Lady St. Jerome give you my message about the earth from the holy
+places which I had placed in a crucifix, and which I hope you will
+accept from me, in remembrance of the past and your Christian kindness
+to me? I should have left it at St. James’s Square before this, but it
+required some little arrangement after its travels.”
+
+“I shall prize it most dearly, both on account of its consecrated
+character and for the donor’s sake, whom I have ever wished to see the
+champion of our Master.”
+
+“You never had a wish, I am sure,” said Lothair, “that was not sublime
+and pure.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 84 They breakfasted at Vauxe, in the long gallery. It was always
+a merry meal, and it was the fashion of the house that all should be
+present. The cardinal was seldom absent. He used to say: “I feel more on
+equal terms with my friends at breakfast, and rather look forward to my
+banquet of dry toast.” Lord St. Jerome was quite proud of receiving
+his letters and newspapers at Vauxe earlier by far than he did at
+St. James’s Square; and, as all were supplied with their letters
+and journals, there was a great demand, for news, and a proportional
+circulation of it. Lady Clanmorne indulged this passion for gossip
+amusingly one morning, and read a letter from her correspondent, written
+with the grace of a Sevigne, but which contained details of marriages,
+elopements, and a murder among their intimate acquaintance, which made
+all the real intelligence quite insipid, and was credited for at least
+half an hour.
+
+The gallery at Vauxe was of great length, and the breakfast-table was
+laid at one end of it. The gallery was of panelled oak, with windows of
+stained glass in the upper panes, and the ceiling, richly and heavily
+carved, was entirely gilt, but with deadened gold. Though stately, the
+general effect was not free from a certain character of gloom. Lit,
+as it was, by sconces, this was at night much softened; but, on a rich
+summer morn, the gravity and repose of this noble chamber were grateful
+to the senses.
+
+The breakfast was over; the ladies had retired, stealing off with the
+Morning Post, the gentlemen gradually disappearing for the solace of
+their cigars. The cardinal, who was conversing with Lothair, continued
+their conversation while walking up and down the gallery, far from the
+hearing of the servants, who were disembarrassing the breakfast-table,
+and preparing it for luncheon. A visit to a country-house, as Pinto
+says, is a series of meals mitigated by the new dresses of the ladies.
+
+“The more I reflect on your travels,” said the cardinal, “the more I am
+satisfied with what has happened. I recognize the hand of Providence in
+your preliminary visit to Rome and your subsequent one to Jerusalem. In
+the vast events which are impending, that man is in a strong position
+who has made a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. Yo remember our walk in
+the park here,” continued the cardinal; “I felt then that we were on
+the eve of some mighty change, but it was then indefinite, though to me
+inevitable. You were destined, I was persuaded, to witness it, even, as
+I hoped, to take no inconsiderable share in its fulfilment. But I hardly
+believed that I should have been spared for this transcendent day, and,
+when it is consummated, I will gratefully exclaim, ‘Nunc me dimittis!’”
+
+“You, allude, sir, to some important matter which Lady St. Jerome a few
+days ago intimated to me, but it was only an intimation, and purposely
+very vague.”
+
+“There is no doubt,” said the cardinal, speaking with solemnity, “of
+what I now communicate to you. The Holy Father, Pius IX., has resolved
+to summon an Oecumenical Council.”
+
+“An Oecumenical Council!” said Lothair.
+
+“It is a weak phrase,” resumed the cardinal, “to say it will be the
+greatest event of this century. I believe it will be the greatest event
+since the Episcopate of St. Peter; greater, in its consequences to the
+human race, than the fall of the Roman Empire, the pseudo-Reformation,
+or the Revolution of France. It is much more than three hundred years
+since the last Oecumenical Council, the Council of Trent, and the world
+still vibrates with its decisions. But the Council of Trent, compared
+with the impending Council of the Vatican, will be as the mediaeval
+world of Europe compared with the vast and complete globe which man has
+since discovered and mastered.”
+
+“Indeed!” said Lothair.
+
+“Why, the very assembly of the Fathers of the Church will astound the
+Freemasons, and the secret societies, and the atheists. That alone will
+be a demonstration of power on the part of the Holy Father which no
+conqueror from Sesostris to Napoleon has ever equalled. It was only the
+bishops of Europe that assembled at Trent, and, inspired by the Holy
+Spirit, their decisions have governed man for more than three hundred
+years. But now the bishops of the whole world will assemble round the
+chair of St. Peter, and prove by their presence the catholic character
+of the Church. Asia will send its patriarchs and pontiffs, and America
+and Australia its prelates; and at home, my dear young friend, the
+Council of the Vatican will offer a striking contrast to the Council
+of Trent; Great Britain will be powerfully represented. The bishops of
+Ireland might have been counted on, but it is England also that will
+send her prelates now, and some of them will take no ordinary share in
+transactions that will give a new form and color to human existence.”
+
+“Is it true, sir, that the object of the council is to declare the
+infallibility of the pope?”
+
+“In matters of faith and morals,” said the cardinal quickly. “There is
+no other infallibility. That is a secret with God. All that we can know
+of the decision of the council on this awful head is, that its decision,
+inspired by the Holy Spirit, must infallibly be right. We must await
+that decision, and, when made known, we must embrace it, not only with
+obedience, but with the interior assent of mind and will. But there are
+other results of the council on which we may speculate; and which, I
+believe, it will certainly accomplish: first, it will show in a manner
+that cannot be mistaken that there is only one alternative for the human
+intellect: Rationalism or Faith; and, secondly, it will exhibit to
+the Christian powers the inevitable future they are now preparing for
+themselves.”
+
+“I am among the faithful,” said Lothair.
+
+“Then you must be a member of the Church Catholic,” said the cardinal.
+“The basis on which God has willed that His revelation should rest in
+the world is the testimony of the Catholic Church, which, if considered
+only as a human and historical witness, affords the highest and
+most certain evidence for the fact and the contents of the Christian
+religion. If this be denied, there is no such thing as history. But the
+Catholic Church is not only a human and historical witness of its own
+origin, constitution, and authority, it is also a supernatural and
+divine witness, which can neither fail nor err. When it oecumenically
+speaks, it is not merely the voice of the fathers of the world; it
+declares what ‘it hath seemed good to the Holy Ghost and to us.’”
+
+There was a pause, and then Lothair remarked: “You said, air, that
+the council would show to the civil powers of the Christian world the
+inevitable future they are preparing for themselves?”
+
+“Even so. Now mark this, my child. At the Council of Trent the Christian
+powers were represented, and properly so. Their seats will be empty at
+the Council of the Vatican. What does that mean? The separation between
+Church and State, talked of for a long time, now demonstrated. And what
+does separation between Church and State mean? That society is no longer
+consecrated. The civil governments of the world no longer profess to be
+Catholic. The faithful indeed among their subjects will be represented
+at the council by their pastors, but the civil powers have separated
+themselves from the Church; either by royal edict, or legislative
+enactment, or revolutionary changes, they have abolished the legal
+status of the Catholic Church within their territory. It is not their
+choice; they are urged on by an invisible power that is anti-Christian,
+and which is the true, natural, and implacable enemy of the one visible
+and universal Church. The coming anarchy is called progress, because it
+advances along the line of departure from the old Christian order of the
+world. Christendom was the offspring of the Christian family, and the
+foundation of the Christian family is the sacrament of matrimony, the
+sprit of all domestic and public morals. The anti-Christian societies
+are opposed to the principle of home. When they have destroyed the
+hearth, the morality of society will perish. A settlement in the
+foundations may be slow in sinking, but it brings all down at last.
+The next step in de-Christianizing the political life of nations is
+to establish national education without Christianity. This is
+systematically aimed at wherever the revolution has its way. The period
+and policy of Julian are returning. Some think this bodes ill for the
+Church; no, it is the State that will suffer. The secret societies are
+hurrying the civil governments of the world, and mostly the governments
+who disbelieve in their existence, to the brink of a precipice, over
+which monarchies, and law, and civil order, will ultimately fall and
+perish together.”
+
+“Then all is hopeless,” said Lothair.
+
+“To human speculation,” said the cardinal; “but none can fathom the
+mysteries of Divine interposition. This coming council may save society,
+and on that I would speak to you most earnestly. His holiness has
+resolved to invite the schismatic priesthoods to attend it, and labor to
+bring about the unity of Christendom. He will send an ambassador to the
+patriarch of the heresy of Photius, which is called the Greek Church. He
+will approach Lambeth. I have little hope of the latter, though there is
+more than one of the Anglican bishops who revere the memory and example
+of Laud. But I by no means despair of your communion being present in
+some form at the council. There are true spirits at Oxford who sigh for
+unity. They will form, I hope, a considerable deputation; but, as
+not yet being prelates, they cannot take their seats formally in the
+council, I wish, in order to increase and assert their influence, that
+they should be accompanied by a band of powerful laymen, who shall
+represent the pious and pure mind of England—the coming guardians of
+the land in the dark hour that may be at hand. Considering your previous
+knowledge of Rome, your acquaintance with its eminent men and its
+language, and considering too, as I well know, that the Holy Father
+looks to you as one marked out by Providence to assert the truth, it
+would please me—and, trust me, it would be wise in you—were you to visit
+Rome on this sublime occasion, and perhaps put your mark on the world’s
+history.”
+
+“It must yet be a long time before the council meets,” said Lothair,
+after a pause.
+
+“Not too long for preparation,” replied the cardinal. “From this hour,
+until its assembling, the pulse of humanity will throb. Even at this
+hour they are speaking of the same matters as ourselves alike on
+the Euphrates and the St. Lawrence. The good Catesby is in Ireland,
+conferring with the bishops, and awakening them to the occasion. There
+is a party among them narrow-minded and local, the effects of their
+education. There ought not to be an Irish priest who was not brought
+up at the Propaganda. You know that admirable institution. We had some
+happy hours at Rome together—may we soon repeat them! You were very
+unwell there; next time you will judge of Rome in health and vigor.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 85 They say there is a skeleton in every house; it may be
+doubted. What is more certain are the sorrow and perplexity which
+sometimes, without a warning and preparation, suddenly fall upon a
+family living in a world of happiness and ease, and meriting their
+felicity by every gift of fortune and disposition.
+
+Perhaps there never was a circle that enjoyed life more, and deserved
+to enjoy life more, than the Brentham family. Never was a family more
+admired and less envied. Nobody grudged them their happy gifts and
+accidents, for their demeanor was so winning, and their manners so
+cordial and sympathetic, that every one felt as if he shared their
+amiable prosperity. And yet, at this moment, the duchess, whose
+countenance was always as serene as her soul, was walking with disturbed
+visage and agitated step up and down the private room of the duke;
+while his grace, seated, his head upon his arm, and with his eyes on the
+ground, was apparently in anxious thought.
+
+Now, what had happened? It seems that these excellent parents had
+become acquainted, almost at the same moment, with two astounding and
+disturbing facts: their son wanted to marry Euphrosyne Cantacuzene, and
+their daughter would not marry the Duke of Brecon.
+
+“I was so perfectly unprepared for the communication,” said the duke,
+looking up, “that I have no doubt I did not express myself as I ought to
+have done. But I do not think I said any thing wrong. I showed surprise,
+sorrow—no anger. I was careful not to say any thing to hurt his
+feelings—that is a great point in these matters—nothing disrespectful of
+the young lady. I invited him to speak to me again about it when I had a
+little got over my surprise.”
+
+“It is really a catastrophe,” exclaimed the duchess; “and only think,
+I came to you for sympathy in my sorrow, which, after all, though
+distressing, is only a mortification!”
+
+“I am very sorry about Brecon,” said the duke, “who is a man of honor,
+and would have suited us very well; but, my dear Augusta, I never took
+exactly the same view of this affair as you did—I was never satisfied
+that Corisande returned his evident, I might say avowed, admiration of
+her.”
+
+“She spoke of him always with great respect,” said the duchess, “and
+that is much in a girl of Corisande’s disposition. I never heard her
+speak of any of her admirers in the same tone—certainly not of Lord
+Carisbrooke; I was quite prepared for her rejection of him. She never
+encouraged him.”
+
+“Well,” said the duke, “I grant you it is mortifying—infinitely
+distressing; and Brecon is the last man I could have wished that it
+should occur to; but, after all, our daughter must decide for herself
+in such affairs. She is the person most interested in the event. I never
+influenced her sisters in their choice, and she also must be free. The
+other subject is more grave.”
+
+“If we could only ascertain who she really is,” said the duchess.
+
+“According to Bertram, fully our equal; but I confess I am no judge of
+Levantine nobility,” his grace added, with a mingled expression of pride
+and despair.
+
+“That dreadful travelling abroad!” exclaimed the duchess. “I always had
+a foreboding of something disastrous from it. Why should he have gone
+abroad, who has never been to Ireland, or seen half the counties of his
+own country?”
+
+“They all will go,” said the duke; “and I thought, with St. Aldegonde,
+he was safe from getting into any scrape of this kind.”
+
+“I should like to speak to Granville about it,” said the duchess. “When
+he is serious, his judgment is good.”
+
+“I am to see St. Aldegonde before I speak to Bertram,” said the duke. “I
+should not be surprised if he were here immediately.”
+
+One of the social mysteries is, “how things get about!” It is not the
+interest of any of the persons immediately connected with the subject
+that society should be aware that the Lady Corisande had declined the
+proposal of the Duke of Brecon. Society had no right even to assume that
+such a proposal was either expected or contemplated. The Duke of Brecon
+admired Lady Corisande, so did many others; and many others were admired
+by the Duke of Brecon. The duchess even hoped that, as the season was
+waning, it might break up, and people go into the country or abroad, and
+nothing be observed. And yet it “got about.” The way things get about
+is through the Hugo Bohuns. Nothing escapes their quick eyes and
+slow hearts. Their mission is to peer into society, like professional
+astronomers ever on the watch to detect the slightest change in the
+phenomena. Never embarrassed by any passion of their own, and their only
+social scheming being to maintain their transcendent position, all their
+life and energy are devoted to the discovery of what is taking place
+around them; and experience, combined with natural tact, invests them
+with almost a supernatural skill in the detection of social secrets.
+And so it happened that scarcely a week had passed before Hugo began to
+sniff the air, and then to make fine observations at balls, as to whom
+certain persons danced with, or did not dance with; and then he began
+the curious process of what he called putting two and two together, and
+putting two and two together proved in about a fortnight that it was all
+up between Lady Corisande and the Duke of Brecon.
+
+Among others he imparted this information to Lothair, and it set Lothair
+a thinking; and he went to a ball that evening solely with the purpose
+of making social observations like Hugo Bohun. But Lady Corisande was
+not there, though the Duke of Brecon was, apparently in high spirits,
+and waltzing more than once with Lady Grizell Falkirk. Lothair was not
+very fortunate in his attempts to see Bertram. He called more than once
+at Crecy House too, but in vain. The fact is, Bertram was naturally
+entirely engrossed with his own difficulties, and the duchess, harassed
+and mortified, could no longer be at home in the morning.
+
+Her grace, however, evinced the just appreciation of character for which
+women are remarkable, in the confidence which she reposed in the good
+sense of Lord St. Aldegonde at this crisis. St. Aldegonde was the only
+one of his sons-in-law whom the duke really considered and a little
+feared. When St. Aldegonde was serious, his influence over men
+was powerful. And he was serious now. St. Aldegonde, who was not
+conventional, had made the acquaintance of Mr. Cantacuzene immediately
+on his return to England, and they had become friends. He had dined in
+the Tyburnian palace of the descendant of the Greek emperors more than
+once, and had determined to make his second son, who was only four years
+of age, a Greek merchant. When the duke therefore consulted him on “the
+catastrophe,” St. Aldegonde took high ground, spoke of Euphrosyne in
+the way she deserved, as one equal to an elevated social position, and
+deserving it. “But if you ask me my opinion, sir,” he continued, “I do
+not think, except for Bertram’s sake, that you have any cause to fret
+yourself. The family wish her to marry her cousin, the eldest son of the
+Prince of Samos. It is an alliance of the highest, and suits them much
+better than any connection with us. Besides, Cantacuzene will give
+his children large fortunes, and they like the money to remain in
+the family. A hundred or a hundred and fifty thousand pounds—perhaps
+more—goes a great way on the coasts of Asia Minor. You might buy up half
+the Archipelago. The Cantacuzenes are coming to dine with us next week.
+Bertha is delighted with them. Mr. Cantacuzene is so kind as to say he
+will take Clovis into his counting-house. I wish I could induce your
+grace to come and meet him: then you could judge for yourself. You would
+not be in the least shocked were Bertram to marry the daughter of some
+of our great merchants or bankers. This is a great merchant and
+banker, and the descendant of princes, and his daughter one of the most
+beautiful and gifted of women and worthy to be a princess.”
+
+“There is a good deal in what St. Aldegonde says,” said the duke
+afterward to his wife. “The affair takes rather a different aspect. It
+appears they are really people of high consideration, and great wealth
+too. Nobody could describe them as adventurers.”
+
+“We might gain a little time,” said the duchess. “I dislike peremptory
+decisions. It is a pity we have not an opportunity of seeing the young
+lady.”
+
+“Granville says she is the most beautiful woman he ever met, except her
+sister.”
+
+“That is the artist’s wife?” said the duchess.
+
+“Yes,” said the duke, “I believe a most distinguished man, but it rather
+adds to the imbroglio. Perhaps things may turn out better than they
+first promised. The fact is, I am more amazed than annoyed. Granville
+knows the father, it seems, intimately. He knows so many odd people. He
+wants me to meet him at dinner. What do you think about it? It is a good
+thing sometimes to judge for one’s self. They say this Prince of Samos
+she is half betrothed to is attaché to the Turkish embassy at Vienna,
+and is to visit England.”
+
+“My nervous system is quite shaken,” said the duchess. “I wish we could
+all go to Brentham. I mentioned it to Corisande this morning, and I was
+surprised to find that she wished to remain in town.”
+
+“Well, we will decide nothing, my dear, in a hurry. St. Aldegonde says
+that, if we decide in that sense, he will undertake to break off the
+whole affair. We may rely on that. We need consider the business only
+with reference to Bertram’s happiness and feelings. That is an important
+issue, no doubt, but it is a limited one. The business is not of so
+disagreeable a nature as it seemed. It is not an affair of a rash
+engagement, in a discreditable quarter, from which he cannot extricate
+himself. There is no doubt they are thoroughly reputable people, and
+will sanction nothing which is not decorous and honorable. St. Aldegonde
+has been a comfort to me in this matter; and you will find out a great
+deal when you speak to him about it. Things might be worse. I wish I was
+as easy about the Duke of Brecon. I met him this morning and rode with
+him—to show there was no change in my feelings.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 86 The world goes on with its aching hearts and its smiling
+faces, and very often, when a year has revolved, the world finds out
+there was no sufficient cause for the sorrows or the smiles. There is
+too much unnecessary anxiety in the world, which is apt too hastily to
+calculate the consequences of any unforeseen event, quite forgetting
+that, acute as it is in observation, the world, where the future is
+concerned, is generally wrong. The duchess would have liked to have
+buried herself in the shades of Brentham, but Lady Corisande, who
+deported herself as if there were no care at Crecy House except that
+occasioned by her brother’s rash engagement, was of opinion that “mamma
+would only brood over this vexation in the country,” and that it would
+be much better not to anticipate the close of the waning season. So the
+duchess and her lovely daughter were seen everywhere where they ought to
+be seen, and appeared the pictures of serenity and satisfaction.
+
+As for Bertram’s affair itself, under the manipulation of St. Aldegonde,
+it began to assume a less anxious and more practicable aspect. The duke
+was desirous to secure his son’s happiness, but wished nothing to be
+done rashly. If, for example, in a year’s time or so, Bertram continued
+in the same mind, his father would never be an obstacle to his
+well-considered wishes. In the mean time, an opportunity might offer of
+making the acquaintance of the young lady and her friends.
+
+And, in the mean time, the world went on dancing, and betting, and
+banqueting, and making speeches, and breaking hearts and heads, till
+the time arrived when social stock is taken, the results of the campaign
+estimated and ascertained, and the question asked, “Where do you think
+of going this year?”
+
+“We shall certainly winter at Rome,” said Lady St. Jerome to Lady
+Clanmorne, who was paying a morning visit. “I wish you could induce Lord
+Clanmorne to join us.”
+
+“I wish so, too,” said the lady, “but that is impossible. He never will
+give up his hunting.”
+
+“I am sure there are more foxes in the Campagna than at Vauxe,” said
+Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“I suppose you have heard of what they call the double event?” said Lady
+Clanmorne.
+
+“No.”
+
+“Well, it is quite true; Mr. Bohun told me last night, and he always
+knows every thing.”
+
+“Every thing!” said Lady St. Jerome; “but what is it that he knows now?”
+
+“Both the Ladies Falkirk are to be married! And on the same day.”
+
+“But to whom?”
+
+“Whom should you think?”
+
+“I will not even guess,” said Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“Clare,” she said to Miss Arundel, who was engaged apart, “you always
+find out conundrums. Lady Clanmorne has got some news for us. Lady Flora
+Falkirk and her sister are going to be married, and on the same day. And
+to whom, think you?”
+
+“Well, I should think that somebody has made Lord Carisbrooke a happy
+man,” said Miss Arundel.
+
+“Very good,” said Lady Clanmorne. “I think Lady Flora will make an
+excellent Lady Carisbrooke. He is not quite as tall as she is, but he is
+a man of inches. And now for Lady Grizell.”
+
+“My powers of divination are quite exhausted,” said Miss Arundel.
+
+“Well, I will not keep you in suspense,” said Lady Clanmorne. “Lady
+Grizell is to be Duchess of Brecon.”
+
+“Duchess of Brecon!” exclaimed both Miss Arundel and Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“I always admired the ladies,” said Miss Arundel. “We met them at
+a country-house last year, and I thought them pleasing in every
+way—artless and yet piquant; but I did not anticipate their fate being
+so soon sealed.”
+
+“And so brilliantly,” added Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“You met them at Muriel Towers,” said Lady Clanmorne. “I heard of you
+there: a most distinguished party. There was an American lady there, was
+there not? a charming person, who sang, and acted, and did all sorts of
+things.”
+
+“Yes; there was. I believe, however, she was an Italian, married to an
+American.”
+
+“Have you seen much of your host at Muriel Towers?” said Lady Clanmorne.
+
+“We see him frequently,” said Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“Ah! yes, I remember; I met him at Vauxe the other day. He is a great
+admirer of yours,” Lady Clanmorne added, addressing Miss Arundel.
+
+“Oh! we are friends, and have long been so,” said Miss Arundel, and she
+left the room.
+
+“Clare does not recognize admirers,” said Lady St. Jerome, gravely.
+
+“I hope the ecclesiastical fancy is not reviving,” said Lady Clanmorne.
+“I was half in hopes that the lord of Muriel Towers might have deprived
+the Church of its bride.”
+
+“That could never be,” said Lady St. Jerome; “though, if it could have
+been, a source of happiness to Lord St. Jerome and myself would not have
+been wanting. We greatly regard our kinsman, but, between ourselves,”
+added Lady St. Jerome in a low voice, “it was supposed that he was
+attached to the American lady of whom you were speaking.”
+
+“And where is she now?”
+
+“I have heard nothing of late. Lothair was in Italy at the same time as
+ourselves, and was ill there, under our roof; so we saw a great deal of
+him. Afterward he travelled for his health, and has now just returned
+from the East.”
+
+A visitor was announced, and Lady Clanmorne retired.
+
+Nothing happens as you expect. On his voyage home Lothair had indulged
+in dreams of renewing his intimacy at Crecy House, around whose hearth
+all his sympathies were prepared to cluster. The first shock to
+this romance was the news he received of the impending union of Lady
+Corisande with the Duke of Brecon. And, what with this unexpected
+obstacle to intimacy, and the domestic embarrassments occasioned by
+Bertram’s declaration, he had become a stranger to a roof which had so
+filled his thoughts. It seemed to him that he could not enter the house
+either as the admirer of the daughter or as the friend of her brother.
+She was probably engaged to another, and, as Bertram’s friend and
+fellow-traveller, he fancied he was looked upon by the family as one who
+had in some degree contributed to their mortification. Much of this was
+imaginary, but Lothair was very sensitive, and the result was that he
+ceased to call at Crecy House, and for some time, kept aloof from the
+duchess and her daughter, when he met them in general society. He was
+glad to hear from Bertram and St. Aldegonde that the position of the
+former was beginning to soften at home, and that the sharpness of his
+announcement was passing away. And, when he had clearly ascertained that
+the contemplated union of Lady Corisande with the duke was certainly
+not to take place, Lothair began to reconnoitre, and try to resume his
+original position. But his reception was not encouraging, at least not
+sufficiently cordial for one who by nature was retiring and reserved.
+Lady Corisande was always kind, and after some time he danced with her
+again. But there were no invitations to luncheon from the duchess; they
+never asked him to dinner. His approaches were received with courtesy,
+but he was not courted.
+
+The announcement of the marriage of the Duke of Brecon did not,
+apparently, in any degree, distress Lady Corisande. On the contrary, she
+expressed much satisfaction at her two young friends settling in life
+with such success and splendor. The ambition both of Lady Flora and
+Lady Grizell was that Corisande should be a bridesmaid. This would be a
+rather awkward post to occupy under the circumstances, so she embraced
+both, and said that she loved them both so equally, that she would not
+give a preference to either, and therefore, though she certainly
+would attend their wedding, she would refrain from taking part in the
+ceremony.
+
+The duchess went with Lady Corisande one morning to Mr. Ruby’s to choose
+a present from her daughter to each of the young ladies. Mr. Ruby in
+a back shop poured forth his treasures of bracelets, and rings, and
+lockets. The presents must be similar in value and in beauty, and yet
+there must be some difference between them; so it was a rather long and
+troublesome investigation, Mr. Ruby, as usual, varying its monotony, or
+mitigating its wearisomeness, by occasionally, or suddenly, exhibiting
+some splendid or startling production of his art. The parure of an
+empress, the bracelets of grand-duchesses, a wonderful fan that was to
+flutter in the hands of majesty, had all in due course appeared, as well
+as the black pearls and yellow diamonds that figure and flash on such
+occasions, before eyes so favored and so fair.
+
+At last—for, like a prudent general, Mr. Ruby had always a great
+reserve—opening a case, he said, “There!” and displayed a crucifix of
+the most exquisite workmanship and the most precious materials.
+
+“I have no hesitation in saying the rarest jewel which this century has
+produced. See! the figure by Monti; a masterpiece. Every emerald in
+the cross a picked stone. These corners, your grace is aware,” said
+Mr. Ruby, condescendingly, “contain the earth of the holy places at
+Jerusalem. It has been shown to no one but your grace.”
+
+“It is indeed most rare and beautiful,” said the duchess, “and most
+interesting, too, from containing the earth of the holy places. A
+commission, of course?”
+
+“From one of our most eminent patrons,” and then he mentioned Lothair’s
+name.
+
+Lady Corisande looked agitated.
+
+“Not for himself,” said Mr. Ruby.
+
+Lady Corisande seemed relieved.
+
+“It is a present to a young lady—Miss Arundel.”
+
+Lady Corisande changed color, and, turning away, walked toward a case
+of works of art, which was in the centre of the shop, and appeared to be
+engrossed in their examination.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 87 A day or two after this adventure of the crucifix, Lothair
+met Bertram, who said to him, “By-the-by, if you want to see my people
+before they leave town, you must call at once.”
+
+“You do not mean that,” replied Lothair, much surprised. “Why, the
+duchess told me, only three or four days ago, that they should not leave
+town until the end of the first week of August. They are going to the
+weddings.”
+
+“I do not know what my mother said to you, my dear fellow, but they go
+to Brentham the day after to-morrow, and will not return. The duchess
+has been for a long time wishing this, but Corisande would stay. She
+thought they would only bother themselves about my affairs, and there
+was more distraction for them in town. But now they are going, and it is
+for Corisande they go. She is not well, and they have suddenly resolved
+to depart.”
+
+“Well, I am very sorry to hear it,” said Lothair; “I shall call at Crecy
+House. Do you think they will see me?”
+
+“Certain.”
+
+“And what are your plans?”
+
+“I have none,” said Bertram. “I suppose I must not leave my father alone
+at this moment. He has behaved well; very kindly, indeed. I have nothing
+to complain of. But still all is vague, and I feel somehow or other I
+ought to be about him.”
+
+“Have you heard from our dear friends abroad?”
+
+“Yes,” said Bertram, with a sigh, “Euphrosyne writes to me; but I
+believe St. Aldegonde knows more about their views and plans than I do.
+He and Mr. Phoebus correspond much. I wish to Heaven they were here, or
+rather that we were with them!” he added, with another sigh. “How happy
+we all were, at Jerusalem! How I hate London! And Brentham worse. I
+shall have to go to a lot of agricultural dinners and all sorts of
+things. The duke expects it, and I am bound now to do every thing to
+please him. What do you think of doing?”
+
+“I neither know nor care,” said Lothair, in a tone of great despondency.
+
+“You are a little hipped.”
+
+“Not a little. I suppose it is the excitement of the last two years that
+has spoiled me for ordinary life. But I find the whole thing utterly
+intolerable, and regret now that I did not rejoin the staff of the
+general. I shall never have such a chance again. It was a mistake; but
+one is born to blunder.”
+
+Lothair called at Crecy House. The hall-porter was not sure whether the
+duchess was at home, and the groom of the chambers went to see. Lothair
+had never experienced this form. When the groom of the chambers came
+down again, he gave her grace’s compliments; but she had a headache, and
+was obliged to lie down, and was sorry she could not see Lothair, who
+went away livid.
+
+Crecy House was only yards from St. James’s Square, and Lothair repaired
+to an accustomed haunt. He was not in a humor for society, and yet he
+required sympathy. There were some painful associations with the
+St. Jerome family, and yet they had many charms. And the painful
+associations had been greatly removed by their easy and cordial
+reception of him, and the charms had been renewed and increased by
+subsequent intercourse. After all, they were the only people who had
+always been kind to him. And, if they had erred in a great particular,
+they had been animated by pure, and even sacred, motives. And had
+they erred? Were not his present feelings of something approaching to
+desolation a fresh proof that the spirit of man can alone be sustained
+by higher relations than merely human ones? So he knocked at the door,
+and Lady St. Jerome was at home. She had not a headache; there were no
+mysterious whisperings between hall-porters and grooms of the chamber,
+to ascertain whether he was one of the initiated. Whether it were London
+or Vauxe, the eyes of the household proved that he was ever a welcome
+and cherished guest.
+
+Lady St. Jerome was alone, and rose from her writing-table to receive
+him. And then—for she was a lady who never lost a moment—she resumed
+some work, did not interfere with their conversation. Her talking
+resources were so happy and inexhaustible, that it signified little that
+her visitor, who was bound in that character to have something to say,
+was silent and moody.
+
+“My lord,” she continued, “has taken the Palazzo Agostini for a term. I
+think we should always pass our winters at Rome under any circumstances,
+but—the cardinal has spoken to you about the great event—if that comes
+off, of which, between ourselves, whatever the world may say, I believe
+there is no sort of doubt, we should not think of being absent from Rome
+for a day during the council.”
+
+“Why! it may last years,” said Lothair. “There is no reason why it
+should not last the Council of Trent. It has in reality much more to
+do.”
+
+“We do things quicker now,” said Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“That depends on what there is to do. To revive faith is more difficult
+than to create it.”
+
+“There will be no difficulty when the Church has assembled,” said
+Lady St. Jerome. “This sight of the universal Fathers coming from the
+uttermost ends of the earth to bear witness to the truth will at once
+sweep away all the vain words and vainer thoughts of this unhappy
+century. It will be what they call a great fact, dear Lothair; and when
+the Holy Spirit descends upon their decrees, my firm belief is the whole
+world will rise as it were from a trance, and kneel before the divine
+tomb of St. Peter.”
+
+“Well, we shall see,” said Lothair.
+
+“The cardinal wishes you very much to attend the council. He wishes you
+to attend it as an Anglican, representing with a few others our laity.
+He says it would have the very best effect for religion.”
+
+“He spoke to me.”
+
+“And you agreed to go?”
+
+“I have not refused him. If I thought I could do any good I am not sure
+I would not go,” said Lothair; “but, from what I have seen of the Roman
+court, there is little hope of reconciling our differences. Rome is
+stubborn. Now, look at the difficulty they make about the marriage of a
+Protestant and one of their own communion. It is cruel, and I think on
+their part unwise.”
+
+“The sacrament of marriage is of ineffable holiness,” said Lady St.
+Jerome.
+
+“I do not wish to deny that,” said Lothair, “but I see no reason why I
+should not marry a Roman Catholic if I liked, without the Roman Church
+interfering and entirely regulating my house and home.”
+
+“I wish you would speak to Father Coleman about this,” said Lady St.
+Jerome.
+
+“I have had much talk with Father Coleman about many things in my time,”
+said Lothair, “but not about this. By-the-by, have you any news of the
+monsignore?”
+
+“He is in Ireland, arranging about the Oecumenical Council. They do
+not understand these matters there as well as we do in England, and
+his holiness, by the cardinal’s advice, has sent the monsignore to put
+things right.”
+
+“All the Father Colemans in the world cannot alter the state of affairs
+about mixed marriages,” said Lothair; “they can explain, but they cannot
+alter. I want change in this matter, and Rome never changes.”
+
+“It is impossible for the Church to change,” said Lady St. Jerome,
+“because it is Truth.”
+
+“Is Miss Arundel at home?” said Lothair.
+
+“I believe so,” said Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“I never see her now,” he said, discontentedly. “She never goes to
+balls, and she never rides. Except occasionally under this roof, she is
+invisible.”
+
+‘“Clare does not go any longer into society,” said Lady St. Jerome.
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Well, it is a secret,” said Lady St. Jerome, with some disturbance of
+countenance and speaking in a lower tone; “at least at present; and yet
+I can hardly on such a subject wish that there should be a secret from
+you—Clare is about to take the veil.”
+
+“Then I have not a friend left in the world,” said Lothair, in a
+despairing tone.
+
+Lady St. Jerome looked at him with an anxious glance. “Yes,” she
+continued; “I do not wish to conceal it from you, that for a time we
+could have wished it otherwise—it has been, it is a trying event for
+my lord and myself—but the predisposition, which was always strong,
+has ended in a determination so absolute, that we recognize the Divine
+purpose in her decision, and we bow to it.”
+
+“I do not bow to it,” said Lothair; “I think it barbarous and unwise.”
+
+“Hush, hush! dear friend.”
+
+“And does the cardinal approve of this step?”
+
+“Entirely.”
+
+“Then my confidence in him is entirely destroyed,” said Lothair.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 88 It was August, and town was thinning fast. Parliament still
+lingered, but only for technical purposes; the political struggle of the
+session having terminated at the end of July. One social event was yet
+to be consummated—the marriages of Lothair’s cousins. They were to
+be married on the same day, at the same time, and in the same place.
+Westminster Abbey was to be the scene, and, as it was understood that
+the service was to be choral, great expectations of ecclesiastical
+splendor and effect were much anticipated by the fair sex. They were,
+however, doomed to disappointment, for, although the day was fine, the
+attendance numerous and brilliant beyond precedent, Lord Culloden would
+have “no popery.” Lord Carisbrooke, who was a ritualist, murmured, and
+was encouraged in his resistance by Lady Clanmorne and a party, but, as
+the Duke of Brecon was high and dry, there was a want of united action,
+and Lord Culloden had his way.
+
+After the ceremony, the world repaired to the mansion of Lord Culloden
+in Belgrave Square, to inspect the presents, and to partake of a dinner
+called a breakfast. Cousin Lothair wandered about the rooms, and had
+the satisfaction of seeing a bracelet with a rare and splendid sapphire
+which he had given to Lady Flora, and a circlet of diamond stars which
+he had placed on the brow of the Duchess of Brecon. The St. Aldegondes
+were the only members of the Brentham family who were present. St.
+Aldegonde had a taste for marriages and public executions, and Lady
+St. Aldegonde wandered about with Lothair, and pointed out to him
+Corisande’s present to his cousins.
+
+“I never was more disappointed than by your family leaving town so early
+this year,” he said.
+
+“We were quite surprised.”
+
+“I am sorry to bear your sister is indisposed.”
+
+“Corisande! she is perfectly well.”
+
+“I hope the duchess’s headache is better,” said Lothair. “She could not
+receive me when I called to say farewell, because she had a headache.”
+
+“I never knew mamma to have a headache,” said Lady St. Aldegonde.
+
+“I suppose you will be going to Brentham?”
+
+“Next week.”’
+
+“And Bertram too?”
+
+“I fancy that we shall be all there.”
+
+“I suppose we may consider now that the season is really over!”
+
+“Yes; they stayed for this. I should not be surprised if every one in
+these rooms had disappeared by to-morrow.”
+
+“Except myself,” said Lothair.
+
+“Do you think of going abroad again?”
+
+“One might as well go,” said Lothair, “as remain.”
+
+“I wish Granville would take me to Paris. It seems so odd not to have
+seen Paris. All I want is to see the new streets and dine at a caf.”
+
+“Well, you have an object; that is something,” said Lothair. “I have
+none.”
+
+“Men have always objects,” said Lady St. Aldegonde. “They make business
+when they have none, or it makes itself. They move about, and it comes.”
+
+“I have moved about a great deal,” said Lothair, “and nothing has come
+to me but disappointment. I think I shall take to croquet, like that
+curious gentleman I remember at Brentham.”
+
+“Ah! you remember every thing.”
+
+“It is not easy to forget any thing at Brentham,” said Lothair. “It is
+just two years ago. That was a happy time.”
+
+“I doubt whether our reassembling will be quite as happy this year,”
+said Lady St. Aldegonde, in a serious tone. “This engagement of Bertram
+is an anxious business; I never saw papa before really fret. And there
+are other things which are not without vexation—at least to mamma.”
+
+“I do not think I am a great favorite of your mamma,” said Lothair. “She
+once used to be very kind to me, but she is so no longer.”
+
+“I am sure you mistake her,” said Lady St. Aldegonde, but not in a tone
+which indicated any confidence in her remark. “Mamma is anxious about my
+brother, and all that.”
+
+“I believe the duchess thinks that I am in some way or other connected
+with this embarrassment; but I really had nothing to do with it, though
+I could not refuse my testimony to the charms of the young lady, and my
+belief she would make Bertram a happy man.”
+
+“As for that, you know, Granville saw a great deal more of her, at least
+at Jerusalem, than you did, and he has said to mamma a great deal more
+than you have done.”
+
+“Yes; but she thinks that, had it not been for me, Bertram would never
+have known the Phoebus family. She could not conceal that from me, and
+it has poisoned her mind.”
+
+“Oh! do not use such words.”
+
+“Yes; but they are true. And your sister is prejudiced against me also.”
+
+“That I am sure she is not,” said Lady St. Aldegonde, quickly.
+“Corisande was always your friend.”
+
+“Well, they refused to see me, when we may never meet again for months,
+perhaps for years,” said Lothair, “perhaps never.”
+
+“What shocking things you are saying, my dear lord, to-day! Here, Lord
+Culloden wants you to return thanks for the bridesmaids. You must put on
+a merry face.”
+
+The dreary day at last arrived, and very quickly, when Lothair was the
+only person left in town. When there is nobody you know in London, the
+million that go about are only voiceless phantoms. Solitude in a city is
+a trance. The motion of the silent beings with whom you have no speech
+or sympathy, only makes the dreamlike existence more intense. It is not
+so in the country; the voices of Nature are abundant, and, from the hum
+of insects to the fall of the avalanche, something is always talking to
+you.
+
+Lothair shrank from the streets. He could not endure the dreary glare of
+St. James’s and the desert sheen of Pall Mall. He could mount his horse
+in the park, and soon lose himself in suburban roads that he once loved.
+Yes; it was irresistible; and he made a visit to Belmont. The house
+was dismantled, and the gardens shorn of their lustre, but still it
+was there; very fair in the sunshine, and sanctified in his heart. He
+visited every room that he had frequented, and lingered in her boudoir.
+He did not forget the now empty pavilion, and he plucked some flowers
+that she once loved, and pressed them to his lips, and placed them near
+his heart. He felt now what it was that made him unhappy: it was the
+want of sympathy.
+
+He walked through the park to the residence of Mr. Phoebus, where he had
+directed his groom to meet him. His heart beat as he wandered along, and
+his eye was dim with tears. What characters and what scenes had he not
+become acquainted with since his first visit to Belmont! And, even now,
+when they had departed, or were absent, what influence were they not
+exercising over his life, and the life of those most intimate with him!
+Had it not been for his pledge to Theodora, it was far from improbable
+that he would now have been a member of the Roman Catholic Church, and
+all his hopes at Brentham, and his intimacy with the family on which he
+had most reckoned in life for permanent friendship and support,
+seemed to be marred and blighted by the witching eyes of that mirthful
+Euphrosyne, whose mocking words on the moonlit terrace at Belmont first
+attracted his notice to her. And then, by association of ideas, he
+thought of the general, and what his old commander had said at their
+last interview, reminding him of his fine castle, and expressing his
+conviction that the lord of such a domain must have much to do.
+
+“I will try to do it,” said Lothair; “and will go down to Muriel
+tomorrow.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER 89 Lothair, who was very sensible to the charms of Nature, found
+at first relief in the beauties of Muriel. The season was propitious to
+the scene. August is a rich and leafy month, and the glades and avenues
+and stately trees of his parks and pleasaunces seemed, at the same time,
+to soothe and gladden his perturbed spirit. Muriel was still new to him,
+and there was much to examine and explore for the first time. He found a
+consolation also in the frequent remembrance that these scenes had been
+known to those whom he loved. Often in the chamber, and often in the
+bower, their forms arose; sometimes their voices lingered in his ear; a
+frolic laugh, or whispered words of kindness and enjoyment. Such a
+place as Muriel should always be so peopled. But that is impossible.
+One cannot always have the most agreeable people in the world assembled
+under one’s roof. And yet the alternative should not be the loneliness
+he now experienced. The analytical Lothair resolved that there was no
+happiness without sympathy.
+
+The most trying time were the evenings. A man likes to be alone in the
+morning. He writes his letters and reads the newspapers, attempts to
+examine his steward’s accounts, and if he wants society can gossip with
+his stud-groom. But a solitary evening in the country is gloomy, however
+brilliant the accessories. As Mr. Phoebus was not present, Lothair
+violated the prime principles of a first-class Aryan education, and
+ventured to read a little. It is difficult to decide which is the most
+valuable companion to a country eremite at his nightly studies, the
+volume that keeps him awake or the one that sets him a-slumbering.
+
+At the end of a week Lothair had some good sport on his moors—and this
+reminded him of the excellent Campian, who had received and answered his
+letter. The colonel, however, held out but a faint prospect of returning
+at present to Europe, though, whenever he did, he promised to be the
+guest of Lothair. Lothair asked some of his neighbors to dinner, and he
+made two large parties to slaughter his grouse. They were grateful and
+he was popular, but “we have not an idea in common,” thought Lothair,
+as, wearied and uninterested, he bade his last guest his last
+good-night. Then Lothair paid a visit to the lord-lieutenant, and stayed
+two nights at Agramont Castle. Here he met many county notables, and
+“great was the company of the preachers;” but the talk was local
+or ecclesiastical, and, after the high-spiced condiments of the
+conversation to which he was accustomed, the present discourse was
+insipid even to nausea. He sought some relief in the society of Lady
+Ida Alice, but she blushed when she spoke to him, and tittered when he
+replied to her; and at last he found refuge in pretty Mrs. Ardenne, who
+concluded by asking him for his photograph.
+
+On the morrow of his return to Muriel, the servant bringing in his
+letters, he seized one in the handwriting of Bertram, and, discarding
+the rest, devoured the communication of his friend, which was eventful.
+
+It seems that the Phoebus family had returned to England, and were at
+Brentham, and had been there a week. The family were delighted with
+them, and Euphrosyne was an especial favorite. But this was not all. It
+seems that Mr. Cantacuzene had been down to Brentham, and stayed, which
+he never did anywhere, a couple of days. And the duke was particularly
+charmed with Mr. Cantacuzene. This gentleman, who was only in the
+earlier term of middle age, and looked younger than his age, was
+distinguished in appearance, highly polished, and singularly acute. He
+appeared to be the master of great wealth, for he offered to make upon
+Euphrosyne any settlement which the duke desired. He had no son, and
+did not wish his sons-in-law to be sighing for his death. He wished his
+daughters, therefore, to enjoy the bulk of their inheritances in his
+lifetime. He told the duke that he had placed one hundred thousand
+pounds in the names of trustees on the marriage of Madame Phoebus, to
+accumulate, “and when the genius and vanity of her husband are both
+exhausted, though I believe they are inexhaustible,” remarked Mr.
+Cantacuzene, “it will be a nest’s-egg for them to fall back upon, and at
+least save them from penury.” The duke had no doubt that Mr. Cantacuzene
+was of imperial lineage. But the latter portion of the letter was the
+most deeply interesting to Lothair. Bertram wrote that his mother had
+just observed that she thought the Phoebus family would like to meet
+Lothair, and begged Bertram to invite him to Brentham. The letter ended
+by an urgent request, that, if disengaged, he should arrive immediately.
+
+Mr. Phoebus highly approved of Brentham. All was art, and art of a high
+character. He knew no residence with an aspect so thoroughly Aryan.
+Though it was really a family party, the house was quite full; at least,
+as Bertram said to Lothair on his arrival, “there is only room for
+you—and you are in your old quarters.”
+
+“That is exactly what I wished,” said Lothair.
+
+He had to escort the duchess to dinner. Her manner was of old days. “I
+thought you would like to meet your friends,” she said.
+
+“It gives me much pleasure, but much more to find myself at Brentham.”
+
+“There seems every prospect of Bertram being happy. We are enchanted
+with the young lady. You know her, I believe, well? The duke is highly
+pleased with her father, Mr. Cantacuzene—he says one of the most
+sensible men he ever met, and a thorough gentleman, which he may
+well be, for I believe there is no doubt he is of the highest
+descent—emperors they say, princes even now. I wish you could have met
+him, but he would only stay eight-and-forty hours. I understand his
+affairs are vast.”
+
+“I have always heard a considerable person; quite the head of the Greek
+community in this country—indeed, in Europe generally.”
+
+“I see by the morning papers that Miss Arundel has taken the veil.”
+
+“I missed my papers to-day,” said Lothair, a little agitated, “but I
+have long been aware of her intention of doing so.”
+
+“Lady St. Jerome will miss her very much. She was quite the soul of the
+house.”
+
+“It must be a great and painful sacrifice,” said Lothair; “but, I
+believe, long meditated. I remember when I was at Vauxe, nearly two
+years ago, that I was told this was to be her fate. She was quite
+determined on it.”
+
+“I saw the beautiful crucifix you gave her, at Mr. Ruby’s.”
+
+“It was an homage to her for her great goodness to me when I was ill at
+Rome—and it was difficult to find any thing that would please or suit
+her. I fixed on the crucifix, because it permitted me to transfer to it
+the earth of the holy places, which were included in the crucifix,
+that was given to me by the monks of the Holy Sepulchre, when I made my
+pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”
+
+In the evening St. Aldegonde insisted on their dancing, and he
+engaged himself to Madame Phoebus. Bertram and Euphrosyne seemed never
+separated; Lothair was successful in inducing Lady Corisande to be his
+partner.
+
+“Do you remember your first ball at Crecy House?” asked Lothair. “You
+are not nervous now?”
+
+“I would hardly say that,” said Lady Corisande, “though I try not to
+show it.”
+
+“It was the first ball for both of us,” said Lothair. “I have not danced
+so much in the interval as you have. Do you know, I was thinking, just
+now, I have danced oftener with you than with any one else?”
+
+“Are not you glad about Bertram’s affair ending so well?”
+
+“Very; he will be a happy man. Every body is happy, I think, except
+myself.”
+
+In the course of the evening, Lady St. Aldegonde, on the arm of Lord
+Montairy, stopped for a moment as she passed Lothair, and said: “Do you
+remember our conversation at Lord Culloden’s breakfast? Who was right
+about mamma?”
+
+They passed their long summer days in rambling and riding, and in
+wondrous new games which they played in the hall. The striking feature,
+however, were the matches at battledore and shuttlecock between Madame
+Phoebus and Lord St. Aldegonde, in which the skill and energy displayed
+were supernatural, and led to betting. The evenings were always gay;
+sometimes they danced; more or less they always had some delicious
+singing. And Mr. Phoebus arranged some tableaux most successfully.
+
+All this time, Lothair hung much about Lady Corisande; he was by her
+side in the riding-parties, always very near her when they walked, and
+sometimes he managed unconsciously to detach her from the main party,
+and they almost walked alone. If he could not sit by her at dinner,
+he joined her immediately afterward, and whether it were a dance, a
+tableau, or a new game, somehow or other he seemed always to be her
+companion.
+
+It was about a week after the arrival of Lothair, and they were at
+breakfast at Brentham, in that bright room full of little round tables
+which Lothair always admired, looking, as it did, upon a garden of many
+colors.
+
+“How I hate modern gardens!” said St. Aldegonde. “What a horrid thing
+this is! One might as well have a mosaic pavement there. Give me
+cabbage-roses, sweet-peas, and wall-flowers. That is my idea of a
+garden. Corisande’s garden is the only sensible thing of the sort.”
+
+“One likes a mosaic pavement to look like a garden,” said Euphrosyne,
+“but not a garden like a mosaic pavement.”
+
+“The worst of these mosaic beds,” said Madame Phoebus, “is, you can
+never get a nosegay, and if it were not for the kitchen-garden, we
+should be destitute of that gayest and sweetest of creations.”
+
+“Corisande’s garden is, since your first visit to Brentham,” said the
+duchess to Lothair. “No flowers are admitted that have not perfume. It
+is very old-fashioned. You must get her to show it you.”
+
+It was agreed that after breakfast they should go and see Corisande’s
+garden. And a party did go—all the Phoebus family, and Lord and Lady St.
+Aldegonde, and Lady Corisande, and Bertram, and Lothair.
+
+In the pleasure-grounds of Brentham were the remains of an ancient
+garden of the ancient house that had long ago been pulled down. When the
+modern pleasure-grounds were planned and created, notwithstanding the
+protests of the artists in landscape, the father of the present duke
+would not allow this ancient garden to be entirely destroyed, and you
+came upon its quaint appearance in the dissimilar world in which it was
+placed, as you might in some festival of romantic costume upon a person
+habited in the courtly dress of the last century. It was formed upon a
+gentle southern slope, with turfen terraces walled in on three sides,
+the fourth consisting of arches of golden yew. The duke had given this
+garden to Lady Corisande, in order that she might practise her theory,
+that flower-gardens should be sweet and luxuriant, and not hard and
+scentless imitations of works of art. Here, in their season, flourished
+abundantly all those productions of Nature which are now banished from
+our once delighted senses; huge bushes of honey-suckle, and bowers of
+sweet-pea and sweet-brier, and jessamine clustering over the walls, and
+gillyflowers scenting with their sweet breath the ancient bricks from
+which they seemed to spring. There were banks of violets which the
+southern breeze always stirred, and mignonette filled every vacant nook.
+As they entered now, it seemed a blaze of roses and carnations, though
+one recognized in a moment the presence of the lily, the heliotrope, and
+the stock. Some white peacocks were basking on the southern wall, and
+one of them, as their visitors entered, moved and displayed its plumage
+with scornful pride. The bees were busy in the air, but their homes were
+near, and you might watch them laboring in their glassy hives.
+
+“Now, is not Corisande quite right?” said Lord St. Aldegonde, as he
+presented Madame Phoebus with a garland of woodbine, with which she said
+she would dress her head at dinner. All agreed with him, and Bertram and
+Euphrosyne adorned each other with carnations, and Mr. Phoebus placed
+a flower on the uncovered head of Lady St. Aldegonde, according to the
+principles of high art, and they sauntered and rambled in the sweet and
+sunny air amid a blaze of butterflies and the ceaseless hum of bees.
+
+Bertram and Euphrosyne had disappeared; and the rest were lingering
+about the hives while Mr. Phoebus gave them a lecture on the apiary and
+its marvellous life. The bees understood Mr. Phoebus, at least he said
+so, and thus his friends had considerable advantage in this lesson in
+entomology. Lady Corisande and Lothair were in a distant corner of the
+garden, and she was explaining to him her plans; what she had done and
+what she meant to do.
+
+“I wish I had a garden like this at Muriel,” said Lothair.
+
+“You could easily make one.”
+
+“If you helped me.”
+
+“I have told you all my plans,” said Lady Corisande.
+
+“Yes; but I was thinking of something else when you spoke,” said
+Lothair.
+
+“That was not very complimentary.”
+
+“I do not wish to be complimentary,” said Lothair, “if compliments mean
+less than they declare. I was not thinking of your garden, but of you.”
+
+“Where can they have all gone?” said Lady Corisande, looking round. “We
+must find them.”
+
+“And leave this garden?” said Lothair. “And I without a flower, the only
+one without a flower? I am afraid that is significant of my lot.”
+
+“You shall choose a rose,” said Lady Corisande.
+
+“Nay; the charm is, that it should be your choice.”
+
+But choosing the rose lost more times and, when Corisande and Lothair
+reached the arches of golden yew, there were no friends in sight.
+
+“I think I hear sounds this way,” said Lothair, and he led his companion
+farther from home.
+
+“I see no one,” said Lady Corisande, distressed, and when they had
+advanced a little way.
+
+“We are sure to find them in good time,” said Lothair. “Besides, I
+wanted to speak to you about the garden at Muriel. I wanted to induce
+you to go there and help me to make it. Yes,” he added, after some
+hesitation, “on this spot—I believe on this very spot—I asked the
+permission of your mother two years ago to express to you my love. She
+thought me a boy, and she treated me as a boy. She said I knew nothing
+of the world, and both our characters were unformed. I know the world
+now. I have committed many mistakes, doubtless many follies—have formed
+many opinions, and have changed many opinions; but to one I have been
+constant, in one I am unchanged—and that is my adoring love to you.”
+
+She turned pale, she stopped, then, gently taking his arm, she hid her
+face in his breast.
+
+He soothed and sustained her agitated frame, and sealed with an embrace
+her speechless form. Then, with soft thoughts and softer words, clinging
+to him, he induced her to resume their stroll, which both of them now
+wished might assuredly be undisturbed. They had arrived at the limit
+of the pleasure-grounds, and they wandered into the park and its most
+sequestered parts. All this time Lothair spoke much, and gave her the
+history of his life since he first visited her home. Lady Corisande
+said little, but, when she was more composed, she told him that from the
+first her heart had been his, but every thing seemed to go against her
+hopes. Perhaps at last, to please her parents, she would have married
+the Duke of Brecon, had not Lothair returned; and what he had said to
+her that morning at Crecy House had decided her resolution, whatever
+might be her lot; to unite it to no one else but him. But then came the
+adventure of the crucifix, and she thought all was over for her, and she
+quitted town in despair.
+
+“Let us rest here for a while;” said Lothair, “under the shade of this
+oak;” and Lady Corisande reclined against its mighty trunk, and Lothair
+threw himself at her feet. He had a great deal still to tell her, and,
+among other things, the story of the pearls, which he had wished to give
+to Theodora.
+
+“She was, after all, your good genius,” said Lady Corisande. “I always
+liked her.”
+
+“Well, now,” said Lothair, “that case has never been opened. The year
+has elapsed, but I would not open it, for I had always a wild wish that
+the person who opened it should be yourself. See, here it is.” And he
+gave her the case.
+
+“We will not break the seal,” said Corisande. “Let us respect it for her
+sake—ROMA!” she said, examining it; and then they opened the case. There
+was the slip of paper which Theodora, at the time, had placed upon the
+pearls, and on which she had written some unseen words. They were read
+now, and ran thus:
+
+“THE OFFERING OF THEODORA TO LOTHAIR’S BRIDE.”
+
+“Let me place them on you now,” said Lothair.
+
+“I will wear them as your chains,” said Corisande.
+
+The sun began to tell them that some hours had elapsed since they
+quitted Brentham House. At last a soft hand, which Lothair retained,
+gave him a slight pressure, and a sweet voice whispered: “Dearest, I
+think we ought to return.”
+
+And they returned almost in silence. They rather calculated that, taking
+advantage of the luncheon-hour, Corisande might escape to her room, but
+they were a little too late. Luncheon was over, and they met the duchess
+and a large party on the terrace.
+
+“What has become of you, my good people?” said her grace; “bells have
+been ringing for you in every direction. Where can you have been?”
+
+“I have been in Corisande’s garden,” said Lothair, “and she has given me
+a rose.”
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lothair, by Benjamin Disraeli
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