Free Ebooks - LOTHAIR

LOTHAIR

by Benjamin Disraeli

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 res, 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 if 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 a 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 R publique
fran 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
religious, 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 an 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 yon 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 thou 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 char- -banc, 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 out 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 no
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 criticism 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 be
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 entr es. 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 lev e?"

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 which 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,
jingled in the laughing air. There were stoppages in Bond Street, which
seems to cap the climax of civilization, after crowded clubs and
swarming parks.

But the great event of the season was the presentation of Lady
Corisande. Truly our bright maiden of Brentham 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 supreme; and from the moment her fair cheek was sealed by
the gracious approbation of majesty, all the critics of the court at
once recognized 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 every thing that took place at court without being 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 lev e and a drawing-room.

"Ah! then, you were so fortunate as to know the beauty before her
d but," 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 I 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- -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 contended, 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. Every one 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 dazzli, 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 no
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, peand 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 favor of the equal division of all
property, except land. Liberty depended on land, and the greater the
land-owners, the greater the liberty of a country. He would hold forth
on this topic even with energy, amazed at any one 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 favor 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 pries 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 yon 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 fa on; 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 be
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, be 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 be 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 h 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 r gle 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. II 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 lie 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 theme 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 bad 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 wag 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 S vres, 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; "be
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 late 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 be 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 ever 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, be
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 d but.
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, be thought that change of scene might be a diversion when
things were at the worst, and this was the reason that be 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 be 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 at 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 hit 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 got" 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 be 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 be 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 ca