TANCRED

OR

THE NEW CRUSADE

By Benjamin Disraeli

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CHAPTER I.

_A Matter of Importance_

IN THAT part of the celebrated parish of St. George which is bounded on
one side by Piccadilly and on the other by Curzon Street, is a district
of a peculiar character. 'Tis cluster of small streets of little houses,
frequently intersected by mews, which here are numerous, and sometimes
gradually, rather than abruptly, terminating in a ramification of those
mysterious regions. Sometimes a group of courts develops itself, and
you may even chance to find your way into a small market-place. Those,
however, who are accustomed to connect these hidden residences of
the humble with scenes of misery and characters of violence, need not
apprehend in this district any appeal to their sympathies, or any shock
to their tastes. All is extremely genteel; and there is almost as much
repose as in the golden saloons of the contiguous palaces. At any rate,
if there be as much vice, there is as little crime.

No sight or sound can be seen or heard at any hour, which could pain the
most precise or the most fastidious. Even if a chance oath may float on
the air from the stable-yard to the lodging of a French cook, 'tis of
the newest fashion, and, if responded to with less of novel charm, the
repartee is at least conveyed in the language of the most polite of
nations. They bet upon the Derby in these parts a little, are interested
in Goodwood, which they frequent, have perhaps, in general, a weakness
for play, live highly, and indulge those passions which luxury and
refinement encourage; but that is all.

A policeman would as soon think of reconnoitring these secluded streets
as of walking into a house in Park Lane or Berkeley Square, to which,
in fact, this population in a great measure belongs. For here reside the
wives of house-stewards and of butlers, in tenements furnished by the
honest savings of their husbands, and let in lodgings to increase their
swelling incomes; here dwells the retired servant, who now devotes
his practised energies to the occasional festival, which, with his
accumulations in the three per cents., or in one of the public-houses of
the quarter, secures him at the same time an easy living, and the casual
enjoyment of that great world which lingers in his memory. Here may be
found his grace's coachman, and here his lordship's groom, who keeps a
book and bleeds periodically too speculative footmen, by betting odds
on his master's horses. But, above all, it is in this district that
the cooks have ever sought a favourite and elegant abode. An air of
stillness and serenity, of exhausted passions and suppressed emotion,
rather than of sluggishness and of dullness, distinguishes this quarter
during the day.

When you turn from the vitality and brightness of Piccadilly, the
park, the palace, the terraced mansions, the sparkling equipages, the
cavaliers cantering up the hill, the swarming multitude, and enter
the region of which we are speaking, the effect is at first almost
unearthly. Not a carriage, not a horseman, scarcely a passenger; there
seems some great and sudden collapse in the metropolitan system, as if
a pest had been announced, or an enemy were expected in alarm by a
vanquished capital. The approach from Curzon Street has not this effect.
Hyde Park has still about it something of Arcadia. There are woods and
waters, and the occasional illusion of an illimitable distance of sylvan
joyance. The spirit is allured to gentle thoughts as we wander in what
is still really a lane, and, turning down Stanhope Street, behold that
house which the great Lord Chesterfield tells us, in one of his letters,
he was 'building among the fields.' The cawing of the rooks in his
gardens sustains the tone of mind, and Curzon Street, after a long,
straggling, sawney course, ceasing to be a thoroughfare, and losing
itself in the gardens of another palace, is quite in keeping with all
the accessories.

In the night, however, the quarter of which we are speaking is alive.
The manners of the population follow those of their masters. They keep
late hours. The banquet and the ball dismiss them to their homes at a
time when the trades of ordinary regions move in their last sleep, and
dream of opening shutters and decking the windows of their shops.

At night, the chariot whirls round the frequent corners of these little
streets, and the opening valves of the mews vomit forth their legion
of broughams. At night, too, the footman, taking advantage of a ball
at Holdernesse, or a concert at Lansdowne House, and knowing that,
in either instance, the link-boy will answer when necessary for his
summoned name, ventures to look in at his club, reads the paper, talks
of his master or his mistress, and perhaps throws a main. The shops of
this district, depending almost entirely for their custom on the classes
we have indicated, and kept often by their relations, follow the order
of the place, and are most busy when other places of business are
closed.

A gusty March morning had subsided into a sunshiny afternoon, nearly two
years ago, when a young man, slender, above the middle height, with a
physiognomy thoughtful yet delicate, his brown hair worn long, slight
whiskers, on his chin a tuft, knocked at the door of a house in
Carrington Street, May Fair. His mien and his costume denoted a
character of the class of artists. He wore a pair of green trousers,
braided with a black stripe down their sides, puckered towards the
waist, yet fitting with considerable precision to the boot of French
leather that enclosed a well-formed foot. His waistcoat was of maroon
velvet, displaying a steel watch-chain of refined manufacture, and a
black satin cravat, with a coral brooch. His bright blue frockcoat was
frogged and braided like his trousers. As the knocker fell from the
primrose-coloured glove that screened his hand, he uncovered, and
passing his fingers rapidly through his hair, resumed his new silk hat,
which he placed rather on one side of his head.

'Ah! Mr. Leander, is it you?' exclaimed a pretty girl, who opened the
door and blushed.

'And how is the good papa, Eugenie? Is he at home? For I want to see him
much.'

'I will show you up to him at once, Mr. Leander, for he will be very
happy to see you. We have been thinking of hearing of you,' she added,
talking as she ushered her guest up the narrow staircase. 'The good papa
has a little cold: 'tis not much, I hope; caught at Sir Wallinger's, a
large dinner; they would have the kitchen windows open, which spoilt all
the entrees, and papa got a cold; but I think, perhaps, it is as much
vexation as anything else, you know if anything goes wrong, especially
with the entrees------'

'He feels as a great artist must,' said Leander, finishing her sentence.
'However, I am not sorry at this moment to find him a prisoner, for I
am pressed to see him. It is only this morning that I have returned from
Mr. Coningsby's at Hellingsley: the house full, forty covers every
day, and some judges. One does not grudge one's labour if we are
appreciated,' added Leander; 'but I have had my troubles. One of my
marmitons has disappointed me: I thought I had a genius, but on the
third day he lost his head; and had it not been---- Ah! good papa,'
he exclaimed, as the door opened, and he came forward and warmly shook
the hand of a portly man, advanced in middle life, sitting in an easy
chair, with a glass of sugared water by his side, and reading a French
newspaper in his chamber robe, and with a white cotton nightcap on his
head.

'Ah! my child,' said Papa Prevost, 'is it you? You see me a prisoner;
Eugenie has told you; a dinner at a merchant's; dressed in a draught;
everything spoiled, and I------' and sighing, Papa Prevost sipped his
_eau sucree_.

'We have all our troubles,' said Leander, in a consoling tone; 'but
we will not speak now of vexations. I have just come from the country;
Daubuz has written to me twice; he was at my house last night; I found
him on my steps this morning. There is a grand affair on the tapis.
The son of the Duke of Bellamont comes of age at Easter; it is to be a
business of the thousand and one nights; the whole county to be feasted.
Camacho's wedding will do for the peasantry; roasted oxen, and a
capon in every platter, with some fountains of ale and good Porto. Our
marmitons, too, can easily serve the provincial noblesse; but there is
to be a party at the Castle, of double cream; princes of the blood,
high relatives and grandees of the Golden Fleece. The duke's cook is not
equal to the occasion. 'Tis an hereditary chef who gives dinners of the
time of the continental blockade. They have written to Daubuz to send
them the first artist of the age,' said Leander; 'and,' added he, with
some hesitation, 'Daubuz has written to me.'

'And he did quite right, my child,' said Prevost, 'for there is not a
man in Europe that is your equal. What do they say? That Abreu rivals
you in flavour, and that Gaillard has not less invention. But who can
combine _gout_ with new combinations? 'Tis yourself, Leander; and there
is no question, though you have only twenty-five years, that you are the
chef of the age.'

'You are always very good to me, sir,' said Leander, bending his head
with great respect; 'and I will not deny that to be famous when you are
young is the fortune of the gods. But we must never forget that I had an
advantage which Abreu and Gaillard had not, and that I was your pupil.'

'I hope that I have not injured you,' said Papa Prevost, with an air of
proud self-content. 'What you learned from me came at least from a good
school. It is something to have served under Napoleon,' added Prevost,
with the grand air of the Imperial kitchen. 'Had it not been for
Waterloo, I should have had the cross. But the Bourbons and the cooks
of the Empire never could understand each other: They brought over an
emigrant chef, who did not comprehend the taste of the age. He wished to
bring everything back to the time of the _oeil de bouf_. When Monsieur
passed my soup of Austerlitz untasted, I knew the old family was doomed.
But we gossip. You wished to consult me?'

'I want not only your advice but your assistance. This affair of the
Duke of Bellamont requires all our energies. I hope you will accompany
me; and, indeed, we must muster all our forces. It is not to be denied
that there is a want, not only of genius, but of men, in our art. The
cooks are like the civil engineers: since the middle class have taken to
giving dinners, the demand exceeds the supply.'

'There is Andrien,' said Papa Prevost; 'you had some hopes of him?'

'He is too young; I took him to Hellingsley, and he lost his head on
the third day. I entrusted the soufflees to him, and, but for the most
desperate personal exertions, all would have been lost. It was an affair
of the bridge of Areola.'

'Ah! _mon Dieu!_ those are moments!' exclaimed Prevost. 'Gaillard and
Abreu will not serve under you, eh? And if they would, they could not be
trusted. They would betray you at the tenth hour.'

'What I want are generals of division, not commanders-in-chief. Abreu is
sufficiently _bon garcon_, but he has taken an engagement with Monsieur
de Sidonia, and is not permitted to go out.'

'With Monsieur de Sidonia! You once thought of that, my Leander. And
what is his salary?'

'Not too much; four hundred and some perquisites. It would not suit me;
besides, I will take no engagement but with a crowned head. But Abreu
likes travelling, and he has his own carriage, which pleases him.'

'There are Philippon and Dumoreau,' said Prevost; 'they are very safe.'

'I was thinking of them,' said Leander, 'they are safe, under you.
And there is an Englishman, Smit, he is chef at Sir Stanley's, but his
master is away at this moment. He has talent.'

'Yourself, four chefs, with your marmitons; it would do,' said Prevost.

'For the kitchen,' said Leander; 'but who is to dress the tables?'

'A-h!' exclaimed Papa Prevost, shaking his head.

'Daubuz' head man, Trenton, is the only one I could trust; and he wants
fancy, though his style is broad and bold. He made a pyramid of pines
relieved with grapes, without destroying the outline, very good, this
last week, at Hellingsley. But Trenton has been upset on the railroad,
and much injured. Even if he recover, his hand will tremble so for the
next month that! could have no confidence in him.'

'Perhaps you might find some one at the Duke's?'

'Out of the question!' said Leander; 'I make it always a condition
that the head of every department shall be appointed by myself. I take
Pellerini with me for the confectionery. How often have I seen the
effect of a first-rate dinner spoiled by a vulgar dessert! laid flat on
the table, for example, or with ornaments that look as if they had been
hired at a pastrycook's: triumphal arches, and Chinese pagodas, and
solitary pines springing up out of ice-tubs surrounded with peaches, as
if they were in the window of a fruiterer of Covent Garden.'

'Ah! it is incredible what uneducated people will do,' said Prevost.
'The dressing of the tables was a department of itself in the Imperial
kitchen.'

'It demands an artist of a high calibre,' said Leander. 'I know only
one man who realises my idea, and he is at St. Petersburg. You do not
know Anastase? There is a man! But the Emperor has him secure. He can
scarcely complain, however, since he is decorated, and has the rank of
full colonel.'

'Ah!' said Prevost, mournfully, 'there is no recognition of genius in
this country. What think you of Vanesse, my child? He has had a regular
education.'

'In a bad school: as a pis aller one might put up with him. But his
eternal tiers of bonbons! As if they were ranged for a supper of the
Carnival, and my guests were going to pelt each other! No, I could not
stand Vanesse, papa.'

'The dressing of the table: 'tis a rare talent,' said Prevost,
mournfully, 'and always was. In the Imperial kitchen------'

'Papa,' said Eugenie, opening the door, and putting in her head, 'here
is Monsieur Vanillette just come from Brussels. He has brought you a
basket of truffles from Ardennes. I told him you were on business, but
to-night, if you be at home, he could come.'

'Vanillette!' exclaimed Prevost, starting in his chair, 'our little
Vanillette! There is your man, Le-ander. He was my first pupil, as you
were my last, my child. Bring up our little Vanillette, Eugenie. He is
in the household of King Leopold, and his forte is dressing the table!'




CHAPTER II.

_The House of Bellamont_

THE Duke of Bellamont was a personage who, from his rank, his blood, and
his wealth, might almost be placed at the head of the English nobility.
Although the grandson of a mere country gentleman, his fortunate
ancestor, in the decline of the last century, had captivated the heiress
of the Montacutes, Dukes of Bellamont, a celebrated race of the times
of the Plantagenets. The bridegroom, at the moment of his marriage,
had adopted the illustrious name of his young and beautiful wife. Mr.
Montacute was by nature a man of energy and of an enterprising spirit.
His vast and early success rapidly developed his native powers. With the
castles and domains and boroughs of the Bellamonts, he resolved also to
acquire their ancient baronies and their modern coronets. The times were
favourable to his projects, though they might require the devotion of
a life. He married amid the disasters of the American war. The king and
his minister appreciated the independent support afforded them by Mr.
Montacute, who represented his county, and who commanded five votes
in the House besides his own. He was one of the chief pillars of their
cause; but he was not only independent, he was conscientious and had
scruples. Saratoga staggered him. The defection of the Montacute votes,
at this moment, would have at once terminated the struggle between
England and her colonies. A fresh illustration of the advantages of
our parliamentary constitution! The independent Mr. Montacute, however,
stood by his sovereign; his five votes continued to cheer the noble lord
in the blue ribbon, and their master took his seat and the oaths in the
House of Lords, as Earl of Bellamont and Viscount Montacute. This might
be considered sufficiently well for one generation; but the silver spoon
which some fairy had placed in the cradle of the Earl of Bellamont was
of colossal proportions. The French Revolution succeeded the American
war, and was occasioned by it. It was but just, therefore, that it also
should bring its huge quota to the elevation of the man whom a colonial
revolt had made an earl. Amid the panic of Jacobinism, the declamations
of the friends of the people, the sovereign having no longer Hanover for
a refuge, and the prime minister examined as a witness in favour of the
very persons whom he was trying for high treason, the Earl of Bellamont
made a calm visit to Downing Street, and requested the revival of all
the honours of the ancient Earls and Dukes of Bellamont in his own
person. Mr. Pitt, who was far from favourable to the exclusive character
which distinguished the English peerage in the last century, was
himself not disinclined to accede to the gentle request of his powerful
supporter; but the king was less flexible. His Majesty, indeed, was on
principle not opposed to the revival of titles in families to whom the
domains without the honours of the old nobility had descended; and he
recognised the claim of the present Earls of Bellamont eventually to
regain the strawberry leaf which had adorned the coronet of the father
of the present countess. But the king was of opinion that this supreme
distinction ought only to be conferred on the blood of the old house,
and that a generation, therefore, must necessarily elapse before a
Duke of Bellamont could again figure in the golden book of the English
aristocracy.

But George the Third, with all his firmness, was doomed to frequent
discomfiture. His lot was cast in troubled waters, and he had often to
deal with individuals as inflexible as himself. Benjamin Franklin was
not more calmly contumacious than the individual whom his treason had
made an English peer. In that age of violence, change and panic, power,
directed by a clear brain and an obdurate spirit, could not fail of its
aim; and so it turned out, that, in the very teeth of the royal will,
the simple country gentleman, whose very name was forgotten, became,
at the commencement of this century, Duke of Bellamont, Marquis of
Montacute, Earl of Bellamont, Dacre, and Villeroy, with all the baronies
of the Plantagenets in addition. The only revenge of the king was, that
he never would give the Duke of Bellamont the garter. It was as well
perhaps that there should be something for his son to desire.

The Duke and Duchess of Bellamont were the handsomest couple in England,
and devoted to each other, but they had only one child. Fortunately,
that child was a son. Precious life! The Marquis of Montacute was
married before he was of age. Not a moment was to be lost to find heirs
for all these honours. Perhaps, had his parents been less precipitate,
their object might have been more securely obtained. The union' was not
a happy one. The first duke had, however, the gratification of dying a
grandfather. His successor bore no resemblance to him, except in that
beauty which became a characteristic of the race. He was born to enjoy,
not to create. A man of pleasure, the chosen companion of the Regent in
his age of riot, he was cut off in his prime; but he lived long enough
to break his wife's heart and his son's spirit; like himself, too, an
only child.

The present Duke of Bellamont had inherited something of the clear
intelligence of his grandsire, with the gentle disposition of his
mother. His fair abilities, and his benevolent inclinations, had been
cultivated. His mother had watched over the child, in whom she found
alike the charm and consolation of her life. But, at a certain period of
youth, the formation of character requires a masculine impulse, and that
was wanting. The duke disliked his son; in time he became even jealous
of him. The duke had found himself a father at too early a period of
life. Himself in his lusty youth, he started with alarm at the form that
recalled his earliest and most brilliant hour, and who might prove a
rival. The son was of a gentle and affectionate nature, and sighed for
the tenderness of his harsh and almost vindictive parent. But he had not
that passionate soul which might have appealed, and perhaps not in vain,
to the dormant sympathies of the being who had created him. The young
Montacute was by nature of an extreme shyness, and the accidents of his
life had not tended to dissipate his painful want of self-confidence.
Physically courageous, his moral timidity was remarkable. He alternately
blushed or grew pale in his rare interviews with his father, trembled
in silence before the undeserved sarcasm, and often endured the unjust
accusation without an attempt to vindicate himself. Alone, and in
tears alike of woe and indignation, he cursed the want of resolution or
ability which had again missed the opportunity that, both for his mother
and himself, might have placed affairs in a happier position. Most
persons, under these circumstances, would have become bitter, but
Montacute was too tender for malice, and so he only turned melancholy.
On the threshold of manhood, Montacute lost his mother, and this seemed
the catastrophe of his unhappy life. His father neither shared his
grief, nor attempted to alleviate it. On the contrary, he seemed to
redouble his efforts to mortify his son. His great object was to prevent
Lord Montacute from entering society, and he was so complete a master
of the nervous temperament on which he was acting that there appeared
a fair chance of his succeeding in his benevolent intentions. When his
son's education was completed, the duke would not furnish him with the
means of moving in the world in a becoming manner, or even sanction his
travelling. His Grace was resolved to break his son's spirit by keeping
him immured in the country. Other heirs apparent of a rich seignory
would soon have removed these difficulties. By bill or by bond, by
living usury, or by post-obit liquidation, by all the means that private
friends or public offices could supply, the sinews of war would have
been forthcoming. They would have beaten their fathers' horses at
Newmarket, eclipsed them with their mistresses, and, sitting for their
boroughs, voted against their party. But Montacute was not one of those
young heroes who rendered so distinguished the earlier part of this
century. He had passed his life so much among women and clergymen that
he had never emancipated himself from the old law that enjoined him
to honour a parent. Besides, with all his shyness and timidity, he was
extremely proud. He never forgot that he was a Montacute, though he had
forgotten, like the world in general, that his grandfather once bore a
different and humbler name. All merged in the great fact, that he was
the living representative of those Montacutes of Bellamont, whose wild
and politic achievements, or the sustained splendour of whose stately
life had for seven hundred years formed a stirring and superb portion
of the history and manners of our country. Death was preferable, in
his view, to having such a name soiled in the haunts of jockeys and
courtesans and usurers; and, keen as was the anguish which the conduct
of the duke to his mother or himself had often occasioned him, it
was sometimes equalled in degree by the sorrow and the shame which he
endured when he heard of the name of Bellamont only in connection with
some stratagem of the turf or some frantic revel. Without a friend,
almost without an acquaintance, Montacute sought refuge in love. She who
shed over his mournful life the divine ray of feminine sympathy was
his cousin, the daughter of his mother's brother, an English peer, but
resident in the north of Ireland, where he had vast possessions. It was
a family otherwise little calculated to dissipate the reserve and gloom
of a depressed and melancholy youth; puritanical, severe and formal in
their manners, their relaxations a Bible Society, or a meeting for the
conversion of the Jews. But Lady Katherine was beautiful, and all were
kind to one to whom kindness was strange, and the soft pathos of whose
solitary spirit demanded affection.

Montacute requested his father's permission to marry his cousin, and was
immediately refused. The duke particularly disliked his wife's family;
but the fact is, he had no wish that his son should ever marry. He meant
to perpetuate his race himself, and was at this moment, in the midst of
his orgies, meditating a second alliance, which should compensate him
for his boyish blunder. In this state of affairs, Montacute, at length
stung to resistance, inspired by the most powerful of passions, and
acted upon by a stronger volition than his own, was planning a marriage
in spite of his father (love, a cottage by an Irish lake, and seven
hundred a-year) when intelligence arrived that his father, whose
powerful frame and vigorous health seemed to menace a patriarchal term,
was dead.

The new Duke of Bellamont had no experience of the world; but, though
long cowed by his father, he had a strong character. Though the circle
of his ideas was necessarily contracted, they were all clear and firm.
In his moody youth he had imbibed certain impressions and arrived at
certain conclusions, and they never quitted him. His mother was his
model of feminine perfection, and he had loved his cousin because she
bore a remarkable resemblance to her aunt. Again, he was of opinion
that the tie between the father and the son ought to be one of intimate
confidence and refined tenderness, and he resolved that, if Providence
favoured him with offspring, his child should ever find in him absolute
devotion of thought and feeling.

A variety of causes and circumstances had impressed him with a
conviction that what is called fashionable life was a compound of
frivolity and fraud, of folly and vice; and he resolved never to enter
it. To this he was, perhaps, in some degree unconsciously prompted by
his reserved disposition, and by his painful sense of inexperience, for
he looked forward to this world with almost as much of apprehension
as of dislike. To politics, in the vulgar sense of the word, he had an
equal repugnance. He had a lofty idea of his duty to his sovereign and
his country, and felt within him the energies that would respond to a
conjuncture. But he acceded to his title in a period of calmness, when
nothing was called in question, and no danger was apprehended; and as
for the fights of factions, the duke altogether held himself aloof from
them; he wanted nothing, not even the blue ribbon which he was soon
obliged to take. Next to his domestic hearth, all his being was
concentrated in his duties as a great proprietor of the soil. On
these he had long pondered, and these he attempted to fulfil. That
performance, indeed, was as much a source of delight to him as of
obligation. He loved the country and a country life. His reserve seemed
to melt away the moment he was on his own soil. Courteous he ever
was, but then he became gracious and hearty. He liked to assemble 'the
county' around him; to keep 'the county' together; 'the county' seemed
always his first thought; he was proud of 'the county,' where he reigned
supreme, not more from his vast possessions than from the influence of
his sweet yet stately character, which made those devoted to him who
otherwise were independent of his sway.

From straitened circumstances, and without having had a single fancy of
youth gratified, the Duke of Bellamont had been suddenly summoned to
the lordship of an estate scarcely inferior in size and revenue to
some continental principalities; to dwell in palaces and castles, to
be surrounded by a disciplined retinue, and to find every wish and want
gratified before they could be expressed or anticipated. Yet he showed
no elation, and acceded to his inheritance as serene as if he had never
felt a pang or proved a necessity. She whom in the hour of trial he had
selected for the future partner of his life, though a remarkable woman,
by a singular coincidence of feeling, for it was as much from her
original character as from sympathy with her husband, confirmed him in
all his moods.

Katherine, Duchess of Bellamont, was beautiful: small and delicate in
structure, with a dazzling complexion, and a smile which, though rare,
was of the most winning and brilliant character. Her rich brown hair
and her deep blue eye might have become a dryad; but her brow denoted
intellect of a high order, and her mouth spoke inexorable resolution.
She was a woman of fixed opinions, and of firm and compact prejudices.
Brought up in an austere circle, where on all matters irrevocable
judgment had been passed, which enjoyed the advantages of knowing
exactly what was true in dogma, what just in conduct, and what correct
in manners, she had early acquired the convenient habit of decision,
while her studious mind employed its considerable energies in mastering
every writer who favoured those opinions which she had previously
determined were the right ones.

The duchess was deep in the divinity of the seventeenth century. In the
controversies between the two churches, she could have perplexed St.
Omers or Maynooth. Chillingworth might be found her boudoir. Not that
her Grace's reading was confined to divinity; on the contrary, it was
various and extensive. Puritan in religion, she was precisian in morals;
but in both she was sincere. She was so in all things. Her nature was
frank and simple; if she were inflexible, she at least wished to be
just; and though very conscious of the greatness of her position, she
was so sensible of its duties that there was scarcely any exertion which
she would evade, or any humility from which she would shrink, if she
believed she were doing her duty to her God or to her neighbour.

It will be seen, therefore, that the Duke of Bellamont found no obstacle
in his wife, who otherwise much influenced his conduct, to the plans
which he had pre-conceived for the conduct of his life after marriage.
The duchess shrank, with a feeling of haughty terror from that world of
fashion which would have so willingly greeted her. During the greater
part of the year, therefore, the Bellamonts resided in their magnificent
castle, in their distant county, occupied with all the business and
the pleasures of the provinces. While the duke, at the head of the
magistracy, in the management of his estates, and in the sports of which
he was fond, found ample occupation, his wife gave an impulse to the
charity of the county, founded schools, endowed churches, received
their neighbours, read her books, and amused herself in the creation of
beautiful gardens, for which she had a passion.

After Easter, Parliament requiring their presence, the courtyard of one
of the few palaces in London opened, and the world learnt that the Duke
and Duchess of Bellamont had arrived at Bellamont House, from Montacute
Castle. During their stay in town, which they made as brief as they
well could, and which never exceeded three months, they gave a series
of great dinners, principally attended by noble relations and those
families of the county who were so fortunate as to have also a residence
in London. Regularly every year, also, there was a grand banquet
given to some members of the royal family by the Duke and Duchess of
Bellamont, and regularly every year the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont
had the honour of dining at the palace. Except at a ball or concert
under the royal roof, the duke and duchess were never seen anywhere
in the evening. The great ladies indeed, the Lady St. Julians and the
Marchionesses of Deloraine, always sent them invitations, though they
were ever declined. But the Bellamonts maintained a sort of
traditional acquaintance with a few great houses, either by the ties
of relationship, which, among the aristocracy, are very ramified, or
by occasionally receiving travelling magnificoes at their hospitable
castle.

To the great body, however, of what is called 'the world,' the world
that lives in St. James' Street and Pall Mall, that looks out of a club
window, and surveys mankind as Lucretius from his philosophic tower; the
world of the Georges and the Jemmys; of Mr. Cassilis and Mr. Melton; of
the Milfords and the Fitz-Herons, the Berners and the Egertons, the Mr.
Ormsbys and the Alfred Mountchesneys, the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont
were absolutely unknown.

All that the world knew was, that there was a great peer who was called
Duke of Bellamont; that there was a great house in London, with a
courtyard, which bore his name; that he had a castle in the country,
which was one of the boasts of England; and that this great duke had a
duchess; but they never met them anywhere, nor did their wives and their
sisters, and the ladies whom they admired, or who admired them,
either at ball or at breakfast, either at morning dances or at evening
dejeuners. It was clear, therefore, that the Bellamonts might be very
great people, but they were not in 'society.'

It must have been some organic law, or some fate which uses structure
for its fulfilment, but again it seemed that the continuance of the
great house of Montacute should depend upon the life of a single being.
The duke, like his father and his grandfather, was favoured only with
one child, but that child was again a son. From the moment of his birth,
the very existence of his parents seemed identified with his welfare.
The duke and his wife mutually assumed to each other a secondary
position, in comparison with that occupied by their offspring. From the
hour of his birth to the moment when this history opens, and when he was
about to complete his majority, never had such solicitude been lavished
on human being as had been continuously devoted to the life of the young
Lord Montacute. During his earlier education he scarcely quitted
home. He had, indeed, once been shown to Eton, surrounded by faithful
domestics, and accompanied by a private tutor, whose vigilance would
not have disgraced a superintendent of police; but the scarlet fever
happened to break out during his first half, and Lord Montacute was
instantly snatched away from the scene of danger, where he was never
again to appear. At eighteen he went to Christ-church. His mother, who
had nursed him herself, wrote to him every day; but this was not found
sufficient, and the duke hired a residence in the neighourhood of the
university, in order that they might occasionally see their son during
term.




CHAPTER III.

_A Discussion about Money_

'SAW Eskdale just now,' said Mr. Cassilis, at White's, 'going down to
the Duke of Bellamont's. Great doings there: son comes of age at Easter.
Wonder what sort of fellow he is? Anybody know anything about him?'

'I wonder what his father's rent-roll is?' said Mr. Ormsby.

'They say it is quite clear,' said Lord Fitz-Heron. 'Safe for that,'
said Lord Milford; 'and plenty of ready money, too, I should think, for
one never heard of the present duke doing anything.'

'He does a good deal in his county,' said Lord Valentine.

'I don't call that anything,' said Lord Milford; 'but I mean to say he
never played, was never seen at Newmarket, or did anything which anybody
can remember. In fact, he is a person whose name you never by any chance
hear mentioned.'

'He is a sort of cousin of mine,' said Lord Valentine; 'and we are all
going down to the coming of age: that is, we are asked.' 'Then you can
tell us what sort of fellow the son is.'

'I never saw him,' said Lord Valentine; 'but I know the duchess told
my mother last year, that Montacute, throughout his life, had never
occasioned her a single moment's pain.'

Here there was a general laugh.

'Well, I have no doubt he will make up for lost time,' said Mr. Ormsby,
demurely.

'Nothing like mamma's darling for upsetting a coach,' said Lord Milford.
'You ought to bring your cousin here, Valentine; we would assist the
development of his unsophisticated intelligence.'

'If I go down, I will propose it to him.'

'Why if?' said Mr. Cassilis; 'sort of thing I should like to see once
uncommonly: oxen roasted alive, old armour, and the girls of the village
all running about as if they were behind the scenes.'

'Is that the way you did it at your majority, George?' said Lord
Fitz-Heron.

'Egad! I kept my arrival at years of discretion at Brighton. I believe
it was the last fun there ever was at the Pavilion. The poor dear king,
God bless him! proposed my health, and made the devil's own speech; we
all began to pipe. He was Regent then. Your father was there, Valentine;
ask him if he remembers it. That was a scene! I won't say how it ended;
but the best joke is, I got a letter from my governor a few days after,
with an account of what they had all been doing at Brandingham, and
rowing me for not coming down, and I found out I had kept my coming of
age the wrong day.'

'Did you tell them?'

'Not a word: I was afraid we might have had to go through it over
again.'

'I suppose old Bellamont is the devil's own screw,' said Lord Milford.
'Rich governors, who have never been hard up, always are.'

'No: I believe he is a very good sort of fellow,' said Lord Valentine;
'at least my people always say so. I do not know much about him, for
they never go anywhere.'

'They have got Leander down at Montacute,'said Mr. Cassilis. 'Had
not such a thing as a cook in the whole county. They say Lord Eskdale
arranged the cuisine for them; so you will feed well, Valentine.'

'That is something: and one can eat before Easter; but when the balls
begin----'

'Oh! as for that, you will have dancing enough at Montacute; it is
expected on these occasions: Sir Roger de Coverley, tenants' daughters,
and all that sort of thing. Deuced funny, but I must say, if I am to
have a lark, I like Vauxhall.'

'I never met the Bellamonts,' said Lord Milford, musingly. 'Are there
any daughters?'

'None.'

'That is a bore. A single daughter, even if there be a son, may be made
something of; because, in nine cases out of ten, there is a round sum in
the settlements for the younger children, and she takes it all.'

'That is the case of Lady Blanche Bickerstaffe,' said Lord Fitz-Heron.
'She will have a hundred thousand pounds.'

'You don't mean that!' said Lord Valentine; 'and she is a very nice
girl, too.'

'You are quite wrong about the hundred thousand, Fitz,' said Lord
Milford; 'for I made it my business to inquire most particularly into
the affair: it is only fifty.'

'In these cases, the best rule is only to believe half,' said Mr.
Ormsby.

'Then you have only got twenty thousand a-year, Ormsby,' said Lord
Milford, laughing, 'because the world gives you forty.'

'Well, we must do the best we can in these hard times,' said Mr. Ormsby,
with an air of mock resignation. 'With your Dukes of Bellamont and all
these grandees on the stage, we little men shall be scarcely able to
hold up our heads.'

'Come, Ormsby,' said Lord Milford; 'tell us the amount of your income
tax.'

'They say Sir Robert quite blushed when he saw the figure at which you
were sacked, and declared it was downright spoliation.'

'You young men are always talking about money,' said Mr. Ormsby, shaking
his head; 'you should think of higher things.'

'I wonder what young Montacute will be thinking of this time next year,'
said Lord Fitz-Heron.

'There will be plenty of people thinking of him,' said Mr. Cassilis.
'Egad! you gentlemen must stir yourselves, if you mean to be turned off.
You will have rivals.'

'He will be no rival to me,' said Lord Milford; 'for I am an avowed
fortune-hunter, and that you say he does not care for, at least, at
present.'

'And I marry only for love,' said Lord Valentine, laughing; 'and so we
shall not clash.'

'Ay, ay; but if he will not go to the heiresses, the heiresses will go
to him,' said Mr. Ormsby. 'I have seen a good deal of these things, and
I generally observe the eldest son of a duke takes a fortune out of the
market. Why, there is Beaumanoir, he is like Valentine; I suppose
he intends to marry for love, as he is always in that way; but the
heiresses never leave him alone, and in the long run you cannot
withstand it; it is like a bribe; a man is indignant at the bare
thought, refuses the first offer, and pockets the second.'

'It is very immoral, and very unfair,' said Lord Milford, 'that any man
should marry for tin who does not want it.'




CHAPTER IV.

_Montacute Castle_

THE forest of Montacute, in the north of England, is the name given to
an extensive district, which in many parts offers no evidence of the
propriety of its title. The land, especially during the last century,
has been effectively cleared, and presents, in general, a champaign
view; rich and rural, but far from picturesque. Over a wide expanse, the
eye ranges on cornfields and rich hedgerows, many a sparkling spire, and
many a merry windmill. In the extreme distance, on a clear day, may
be discerned the blue hills of the Border, and towards the north the
cultivated country ceases, and the dark form of the old forest spreads
into the landscape. The traveller, however, who may be tempted to
penetrate these sylvan recesses, will find much that is beautiful, and
little that is savage. He will be struck by the capital road that winds
among the groves of ancient oak, and the turfy and ferny wilderness
which extends on each side, whence the deer gaze on him with haughty
composure, as if conscious that he was an intruder into their kingdom of
whom they need have no fear. As he advances, he observes the number of
cross routes which branch off from the main road, and which, though of
less dimensions, are equally remarkable for their masterly structure and
compact condition.

Sometimes the land is cleared, and he finds himself by the homestead
of a forest farm, and remarks the buildings, distinguished not only by
their neatness, but the propriety of their rustic architecture. Still
advancing, the deer become rarer, and the road is formed by an avenue
of chestnuts; the forest, on each side, being now transformed into
vegetable gardens. The stir of the population is soon evident. Persons
are moving to and fro on the side path of the road. Horsemen and carts
seem returning from market; women with empty baskets, and then the rare
vision of a stage-coach. The postilion spurs his horses, cracks his
whip, and dashes at full gallop into the town of Montacute, the capital
of the forest.

It is the prettiest little town in the world, built entirely of hewn
stone, the well-paved and well-lighted streets as neat as a Dutch
village. There are two churches: one of great antiquity, the other
raised by the present duke, but in the best style of Christian
architecture. The bridge that spans the little but rapid river Belle,
is perhaps a trifle too vast and Roman for its site; but it was built
by the first duke of the second dynasty, who was always afraid of
underbuilding his position. The town was also indebted to him for their
hall, a Palladian palace. Montacute is a corporate town, and, under
the old system, returned two members to Parliament. The amount of
its population, according to the rule generally observed, might have
preserved it from disfranchisement, but, as every house belonged to
the duke, and as he was what, in the confused phraseology of the
revolutionary war, was called a Tory, the Whigs took care to put
Montacute in Schedule A.

The town-hall, the market-place, a literary institution, and the new
church, form, with some good houses of recent erection, a handsome
square, in which there is a fountain, a gift to the town from the
present duchess.

At the extremity of the town, the ground rises, and on a woody steep,
which is in fact the termination of a long range of tableland, may be
seen the towers of the outer court of Montacute Castle. The principal
building, which is vast and of various ages, from the Plantagenets to
the Guelphs, rises on a terrace, from which, on the side opposite to the
town, you descend into a well-timbered inclosure, called the Home Park.
Further on, the forest again appears; the deer again crouch in their
fern, or glance along the vistas; nor does this green domain terminate
till it touches the vast and purple moors that divide the kingdoms of
Great Britain.

It was on an early day of April that the duke was sitting in his private
room, a pen in one hand, and looking up with a face of pleasurable
emotion at his wife, who stood by his side, her right arm sometimes on
the back of his chair, and sometimes on his shoulder, while with her
other hand, between the intervals of speech, she pressed a handkerchief
to her eyes, bedewed with the expression of an affectionate excitement.

'It is too much,' said her Grace.

'And done in such a handsome manner!' said the duke.

'I would not tell our dear child of it at this moment,' said the
duchess; 'he has so much to go through!'

'You are right, Kate. It will keep till the celebration is over. How
delighted he will be!'

'My dear George, I sometimes think we are too happy.'

'You are not half as happy as you deserve to be,' replied her husband,
looking up with a smile of affection; and then he finished his reply to
the letter of Mr. Hungerford, one of the county members, informing
the duke, that now Lord Montacute was of age, he intended at once to
withdraw from Parliament, having for a long time fixed on the majority
of the heir of the house of Bellamont as the signal for that event. 'I
accepted the post,' said Mr. Hungerford, 'much against my will. Your
Grace behaved to me at the time in the handsomest manner, and, indeed,
ever since, with respect to this subject. But a Marquis of Montacute is,
in my opinion, and, I believe I may add, in that of the whole county,
our proper representative; besides, we want young blood in the House.'

'It certainly is done in the handsomest manner,' said the duke.

'But then you know, George, you behaved to him in the handsomest manner;
he says so, as you do indeed to everybody; and this is your reward.'

'I should be very sorry, indeed, if Hungerford did not withdraw with
perfect satisfaction to himself, and his family too,' urged the duke;
'they are most respectable people, one of the most respectable families
in the county; I should be quite grieved if this step were taken without
their entire and hearty concurrence.'

'Of course it is,' said the duchess, 'with the entire and hearty
concurrence of every one. Mr. Hungerford says so. And I must say that,
though few things could have gratified me more, I quite agree with Mr.
Hungerford that a Lord Montacute is the natural member for the county;
and I have no doubt that if Mr. Hungerford, or any one else in his
position, had not resigned, they never could have met our child without
feeling the greatest embarrassment.'

'A man though, and a man of Hungerford's position, an old family in
the county, does not like to figure as a warming-pan,' said the duke,
thoughtfully. 'I think it has been done in a very handsome manner.'

'And we will show our sense of it,' said the duchess. 'The Hungerfords
shall feel, when they come here on Thursday, that they are among our
best friends.'

'That is my own Kate! Here is a letter from your brother. They will be
here to-morrow. Eskdale cannot come over till Wednesday. He is at home,
but detained by a meeting about his new harbour.'

'I am delighted that they will be here to-morrow,' said the duchess. 'I
am so anxious that he should see Kate before the castle is full, when he
will have a thousand calls upon his time! I feel persuaded that he will
love her at first sight. And as for their being cousins, why, we were
cousins, and that did not hinder us from loving each other.'

'If she resemble you as much as you resembled your aunt ----' said the
duke, looking up.

'She is my perfect image, my very self, Harriet says, in disposition, as
well as face and form.'

'Then our son has a good chance of being a very happy man,' said the
duke.

'That he should come of age, enter Parliament, and marry in the same
year! We ought to be very thankful. What a happy year!'

'But not one of these events has yet occurred,' said the duke, smiling.

'But they all will,' said the duchess, 'under Providence.'

'I would not precipitate marriage.'

'Certainly not; nor should I wish him to think of it before the autumn.
I should like him to be married on our wedding-day.'




CHAPTER V.

_The Heir Comes of Age_

THE sun shone brightly, there was a triumphal arch at every road;
the market-place and the town-hall were caparisoned like steeds for a
tournament, every house had its garland; the flags were flying on every
tower and steeple. There was such a peal of bells you could scarcely
hear your neighbour's voice; then came discharges of artillery, and then
bursts of music from various bands, all playing different tunes. The
country people came trooping in, some on horseback, some in carts, some
in procession. The Temperance band made an immense noise, and the
Odd Fellows were loudly cheered. Every now and then one of the duke's
yeomanry galloped through the town in his regimentals of green and
silver, with his dark flowing plume and clattering sabre, and with an
air of business-like desperation, as if he were carrying a message from
the commander-in-chief in the thickest of the fight.

Before the eventful day of which this, merry morn was the harbinger, the
arrivals of guests at the castle had been numerous and important. First
came the brother of the duchess, with his countess, and their fair
daughter the Lady Katherine, whose fate, unconsciously to herself, had
already been sealed by her noble relatives. She was destined to be the
third Katherine of Bellamont that her fortunate house had furnished to
these illustrious walls. Nor, if unaware of her high lot, did she seem
unworthy of it. Her mien was prophetic of the state assigned to her.
This was her first visit to Montacute since her early childhood, and she
had not encountered her cousin since their nursery days. The day after
them, Lord Eskdale came over from his principal seat in the contiguous
county, of which he was lord-lieutenant. He was the first cousin of the
duke, his father and the second Duke of Bellamont having married two
sisters, and of course intimately related to the duchess and her family.
Lord Eskdale exercised a great influence over the house of Montacute,
though quite unsought for by him. He was the only man of the world
whom they knew, and they never decided upon anything out of the limited
circle of their immediate experience without consulting him. Lord
Eskdale had been the cause of their son going to Eton; Lord Eskdale had
recommended them to send him to Christ-church. The duke had begged his
cousin to be his trustee when he married; he had made him his executor,
and had intended him as the guardian of his son. Although, from the
difference of their habits, little thrown together in their earlier
youth, Lord Eskdale had shown, even then, kind consideration for his
relative; he had even proposed that they should travel together, but
the old duke would not consent to this. After his death, however, being
neighbours as well as relatives, Lord Eskdale had become the natural
friend and counsellor of his Grace.

The duke deservedly reposed in him implicit confidence, and entertained
an almost unbounded admiration of his cousin's knowledge of mankind. He
was scarcely less a favourite or less an oracle with the duchess, though
there were subjects on which she feared Lord Eskdale did not entertain
views as serious as her own; but Lord Eskdale, with an extreme
carelessness of manner, and an apparent negligence of the minor arts
of pleasing, was a consummate master of the feminine idiosyncrasy, and,
from a French actress to an English duchess, was skilled in guiding
women without ever letting the curb be felt. Scarcely a week elapsed,
when Lord Eskdale was in the country, that a long letter of difficulties
was not received by him from Montacute, with an earnest request for his
immediate advice. His lordship, singularly averse to letter writing, and
especially to long letter writing, used generally in reply to say that,
in the course of a day or two, he should be in their part of the world,
and would talk the matter over with them.

And, indeed, nothing was more amusing than to see Lord Eskdale,
imperturbable, yet not heedless, with his peculiar calmness, something
between that of a Turkish pasha and an English jockey, standing up
with his back to the fire and his hands in his pockets, and hearing the
united statement of a case by the Duke and Duchess of Bellamont;
the serious yet quiet and unexaggerated narrative of his Grace, the
impassioned interruptions, decided opinions, and lively expressions
of his wife, when she felt the duke was not doing justice to the
circumstances, or her view of them, and the Spartan brevity with which,
when both his clients were exhausted, their counsel summed up the whole
affair, and said three words which seemed suddenly to remove all
doubts, and to solve all difficulties. In all the business of life, Lord
Eskdale, though he appreciated their native ability, and respected
their considerable acquirements, which he did not share, looked upon his
cousins as two children, and managed them as children; but he was really
attached to them, and the sincere attachment of such a character is
often worth more than the most passionate devotion. The last great
domestic embarrassment at Montacute had been the affair of the cooks.
Lord Eskdale had taken this upon his own shoulders, and, writing to
Daubuz, had sent down Leander and his friends to open the minds and
charm the palates of the north.

Lord Valentine and his noble parents, and their daughter, Lady
Florentina, who was a great horsewoman, also arrived. The countess, who
had once been a beauty with the reputation of a wit, and now set up for
being a wit on the reputation of having been a beauty, was the lady of
fashion of the party, and scarcely knew anybody present, though there
were many who were her equals and some her superiors in rank. Her way
was to be a little fine, always smiling and condescendingly amiable;
when alone with her husband shrugging her shoulders somewhat, and vowing
that she was delighted that Lord Eskdale was there, as she had somebody
to speak to. It was what she called 'quite a relief.' A relief, perhaps,
from Lord and Lady Mountjoy, whom she had been avoiding all her life;
unfortunate people, who, with a large fortune, lived in a wrong square,
and asked to their house everybody who was nobody; besides, Lord
Mountjoy was vulgar, and laughed too loud, and Lady Mountjoy called you
'my dear,' and showed her teeth. A relief, perhaps, too, from the Hon.
and Rev. Montacute Mountjoy, who, with Lady Eleanor, four daughters
and two sons, had been invited to celebrate the majority of the future
chieftain of their house. The countess had what is called 'a horror of
those Mountjoys, and those Montacute Mountjoys,' and what added to her
annoyance was, that Lord Valentine was always flirting with the Misses
Montacute Mountjoy.

The countess could find no companions in the Duke and Duchess of
Clanronald, because, as she told her husband, as they could not speak
English and she could not speak Scotch, it was impossible to exchange
ideas. The bishop of the diocese was there, toothless and tolerant,
and wishing to be on good terms with all sects, provided they pay
church-rates, and another bishop far more vigorous and of greater fame.
By his administration the heir of Bellamont had entered the Christian
Church, and by the imposition of his hands had been confirmed in it. His
lordship, a great authority with the duchess, was specially invited to
be present on the interesting occasion, when the babe that he had held
at the font, and the child that he had blessed at the altar, was about
thus publicly to adopt and acknowledge the duties and responsibility of
a man. But the countess, though she liked bishops, liked them, as she
told her husband, 'in their place.' What that exactly was, she did not
define; but probably their palaces or the House of Lords.

It was hardly to be expected that her ladyship would find any relief
in the society of the Marquis and Marchioness of Hampshire; for his
lordship passed his life in being the President of scientific and
literary societies, and was ready for anything from the Royal, if his
turn ever arrived, to opening a Mechanics' Institute in his neighbouring
town. Lady Hampshire was an invalid; but her ailment was one of those
mysteries which still remained insoluble, although, in the most liberal
manner, she delighted to afford her friends all the information in her
power. Never was a votary endowed with a faith at once so lively and
so capricious. Each year she believed in some new remedy, and announced
herself on the eve of some miraculous cure. But the saint was scarcely
canonised before his claims to beatitude were impugned. One year Lady
Hampshire never quitted Leamington; another, she contrived to combine
the infinitesimal doses of Hahnemann with the colossal distractions
of the metropolis. Now her sole conversation was the water cure. Lady
Hampshire was to begin immediately after her visit to Montacute, and she
spoke in her sawney voice of factitious enthusiasm, as if she pitied the
lot of all those who were not about to sleep in wet sheets.

The members for the county, with their wives and daughters, the
Hungerfords and the Ildertons, Sir Russell Malpas, or even Lord Hull,
an Irish peer with an English estate, and who represented one of the
divisions, were scarcely a relief. Lord Hull was a bachelor, and had
twenty thousand a year, and would not have been too old for Florentina,
if Lord Hull had only lived in 'society,' learnt how to dress and how
to behave, and had avoided that peculiar coarseness of manners and
complexion which seem the inevitable results of a provincial life. What
are forty-five or even forty-eight years, if a man do not get up too
early or go to bed too soon, if he be dressed by the right persons, and,
early accustomed to the society of women, he possesses that flexibility
of manner and that readiness of gentle repartee which a feminine
apprenticeship can alone confer? But Lord Hull was a man with a red face
and a grey head on whom coarse indulgence and the selfish negligence of
a country life had already conferred a shapeless form; and who,
dressed something like a groom, sat at dinner in stolid silence by Lady
Hampshire, who, whatever were her complaints, had certainly the art,
if only from her questions, of making her neighbours communicative. The
countess examined Lord Hull through her eye-glass with curious pity at
so fine a fortune and so good a family being so entirely thrown away.
Had he been brought up in a civilised manner, lived six months in May
Fair, passed his carnival at Paris, never sported except in Scotland,
and occasionally visited a German bath, even Lord Hull might have 'fined
down.' His hair need not have been grey if it had been attended to; his
complexion would not have been so glaring; his hands never could have
grown to so huge a shape.

What a party, where the countess was absolutely driven to speculate on
the possible destinies of a Lord Hull! But in this party there was not a
single young man, at least not a single young man one had ever heard
of, except her son, and he was of no use. The Duke of Bellamont knew
no young men; the duke did not even belong to a club; the Duchess of
Bellamont knew no young men; she never gave and she never attended an
evening party. As for the county youth, the young Hungerfords and the
young Ildertons, the best of them formed part of the London crowd.

Some of them, by complicated manouvres, might even have made their way
into the countess's crowded saloons on a miscellaneous night. She knew
the length of their tether. They ranged, as the Price Current says, from
eight to three thousand a year. Not the figure that purchases a Lady
Florentina!

There were many other guests, and some of them notable, though not
of the class and character to interest the fastidious mother of Lord
Valentine; but whoever and whatever they might be, of the sixty
or seventy persons who were seated each day in the magnificent
banqueting-room of Montacute Castle, feasting, amid pyramids of gold
plate, on the masterpieces of Leander, there was not a single individual
who did not possess one of the two great qualifications: they were all
of them cousins of the Duke of Bellamont, or proprietors in his county.

But we must not anticipate, the great day of the festival having hardly
yet commenced.




CHAPTER VI.

_A Festal Day_

IN THE Home Park was a colossal pavilion, which held more than two
thousand persons, and in which the townsfolk of Montacute were to dine;
at equal distances were several smaller tents, each of different colours
and patterns, and each bearing on a standard the name of one of the
surrounding parishes which belonged to the Duke of Bellamont, and to
the convenience and gratification of whose inhabitants these tents were
to-day dedicated. There was not a man of Buddleton or Fuddleton; not a
yeoman or peasant of Montacute super Mare or Montacute Abbotts, nor
of Percy Bellamont nor Friar's Bellamont, nor Winch nor Finch, nor of
Mandeville Stokes nor Mandeville Bois; not a goodman true of Carleton
and Ingleton and Kirkby and Dent, and Gillamoor and Padmore and Hutton
le Hale; not a stout forester from the glades of Thorp, or the sylvan
homes of Hurst Lydgate and Bishopstowe, that knew not where foamed and
flowed the duke's ale, that was to quench the longings of his thirsty
village. And their wives and daughters were equally welcome. At the
entrance of each tent, the duke's servants invited all to enter,
supplied them with required refreshments, or indicated their appointed
places at the approaching banquet. In general, though there were many
miscellaneous parties, each village entered the park in procession, with
its flag and its band.

At noon the scene presented the appearance of an immense but
well-ordered fair. In the background, men and boys climbed poles or
raced in sacks, while the exploits of the ginglers, their mischievous
manoeuvres and subtle combinations, elicited frequent bursts of
laughter. Further on, two long-menaced cricket matches called forth all
the skill and energy of Fuddleton and Buddleton, and Winch and Finch.
The great throng of the population, however, was in the precincts of the
terrace, where, in the course of the morning, it was known that the duke
and duchess, with the hero of the day and all their friends, were to
appear, to witness the sports of the people, and especially the feats
of the morrice-dancers, who were at this moment practising before a
very numerous and delighted audience. In the meantime, bells, drums, and
trumpets, an occasional volley, and the frequent cheers and laughter
of the multitude, combined with the brilliancy of the sun and the
brightness of the ale to make a right gladsome scene.

'It's nothing to what it will be at night,' said one of the duke's
footmen to his family, his father and mother, two sisters and a young
brother, listening to him with open mouths, and staring at his state
livery with mingled feelings of awe and affection. They had come over
from Bellamont Friars, and their son had asked the steward to give him
the care of the pavilion of that village, in order that he might
look after his friends. Never was a family who esteemed themselves so
fortunate or felt so happy. This was having a friend at court, indeed.

'It's nothing to what it will be at night,' said Thomas. 'You will have
"Hail, star of Bellamont!" and "God save the Queen!" a crown, three
stars,' four flags, and two coronets, all in coloured lamps, letters six
feet high, on the castle. There will be one hundred beacons lit over
the space of fifty miles the moment a rocket is shot off from the
Round Tower; and as for fireworks, Bob, you'll see them at last. Bengal
lights, and the largest wheels will be as common as squibs and crackers;
and I have heard say, though it is not to be mentioned----' And he
paused.

''We'll not open our mouths,' said his father, earnestly.

'You had better not tell us,' said his mother, in a nervous paroxysm;
'for I am in such a fluster, I am sure I cannot answer for myself, and
then Thomas may lose his place for breach of conference.'

'Nonsense, mother,' said his sisters, who snubbed their mother almost as
readily as is the gracious habit of their betters. 'Pray tell us, Tom.'

'Ay, ay, Tom,' said his younger brother.

'Well,' said Tom, in a confidential whisper, 'won't there be a
transparency! I have heard say the Queen never had anything like it. You
won't be able to see it for the first quarter of an hour, there will be
such a blaze of fire and rockets; but when it does come, they say it's
like heaven opening; the young markiss on a cloud, with his hand on his
heart, in his new uniform.'

'Dear me!' said the mother. 'I knew him before he was weaned. The
duchess suckled him herself, which shows her heart is very true; for
they may say what they like, but if another's milk is in your child's
veins, he seems, in a sort of way, as much her bairn as your own.'

'Mother's milk makes a true born Englishman,' said the father; 'and I
make no doubt our young markiss will prove the same.'

'How I long to see him!' exclaimed one of the daughters.

'And so do I!' said her sister; 'and in his uniform! How beautiful it
must be!'

'Well, I don't know,' said the mother; 'and perhaps you will laugh at me
for saying so, but after seeing my Thomas in his state livery, I don't
care much for seeing anything else.'

'Mother, how can you say such things? I am afraid the crowd will be very
great at the fireworks. We must try to get a good place.'

'I have arranged all that,' said Thomas, with a triumphant look. 'There
will be an inner circle for the steward's friends, and you will be let
in.'

'Oh!' exclaimed his sisters.

'Well, I hope I shall get through the day,' said his mother; 'but it's
rather a trial, after our quiet life.'

'And when will they come on the terrace, Thomas?'

'You see, they are waiting for the corporation, that's the mayor and
town council of Montacute; they are coming up with an address. There! Do
you hear that? That's the signal gun. They are leaving the town-hall at
this same moment. Now, in three-quarters of an hour's time or so, the
duke and duchess, and the young markiss, and all of them, will come on
the terrace. So you be alive, and draw near, and get a good place. I
must look after these people.'

About the same time that the cannon announced that the corporation
had quitted the town-hall, some one tapped at the chamber-door of Lord
Eskdale, who was sealing a letter in his private room.

'Well, Harris?' said Lord Eskdale, looking up, and recognising his
valet.

'His Grace has been inquiring for your lordship several times,' replied
Mr. Harris, with a perplexed air.

'I shall be with him in good time,' replied his lordship, again looking
down.

'If you could manage to come down at once, my lord,' said Mr. Harris.

'Why?'

'Mr. Leander wishes to see your lordship very much.'

'Ah! Leander!' said Lord Eskdale, in a more interested tone. 'What does
he want?'

'I have not seen him,' said Mr. Harris; 'but Mr. Prevost tells me that
his feelings are hurt.'

'I hope he has not struck,' said Lord Eskdale, with a comical glance.

'Something of that sort,' said Mr. Harris, very seriously.

Lord Eskdale had a great sympathy with artists; he was well acquainted
with that irritability which is said to be the characteristic of the
creative power; genius always found in him an indulgent arbiter. He was
convinced that if the feelings of a rare spirit like Leander were hurt,
they were not to be trifled with. He felt responsible for the presence
of one so eminent in a country where, perhaps, he was not properly
appreciated; and Lord Eskdale descended to the steward's room with the
consciousness of an important, probably a difficult, mission.

The kitchen of Montacute Castle was of the old style, fitted for
baronial feasts. It covered a great space, and was very lofty. Now
they build them in great houses on a different system; even more
distinguished by height, but far more condensed in area, as it is
thought that a dish often suffers from the distances which the cook
has to move over in collecting its various component parts. The new
principle seems sound; the old practice, however, was more picturesque.
The kitchen at Montacute was like the preparation for the famous wedding
feast of Prince Riquet with the Tuft, when the kind earth opened, and
revealed that genial spectacle of white-capped cooks, and endless stoves
and stewpans. The steady blaze of two colossal fires was shrouded by
vast screens. Everywhere, rich materials and silent artists; business
without bustle, and the all-pervading magic of method. Philippon was
preparing a sauce; Dumoreau, in another quarter of the spacious chamber,
was arranging some truffles; the Englishman, Smit, was fashioning
a cutlet. Between these three generals of division aides-de-camp
perpetually passed, in the form of active and observant marmitons, more
than one of whom, as he looked on the great masters around him, and
with the prophetic faculty of genius surveyed the future, exclaimed to
himself, like Cor-reggio, 'And I also will be a cook.'

In this animated and interesting scene was only one unoccupied
individual, or rather occupied only with his own sad thoughts. This was
Papa Prevost, leaning against rather than sitting on a dresser, with his
arms folded, his idle knife stuck in his girdle, and the tassel of his
cap awry with vexation. His gloomy brow, however, lit up as Mr. Harris,
for whom he was waiting with anxious expectation, entered, and summoned
him to the presence of Lord Eskdale, who, with a shrewd yet lounging
air, which concealed his own foreboding perplexity, said, 'Well,
Prevost, what is the matter? The people here been impertinent?'

Prevost shook his head. 'We never were in a house, my lord, where they
were more obliging. It is something much worse.'

'Nothing wrong about your fish, I hope? Well, what is it?'

'Leander, my lord, has been dressing dinners for a week: dinners, I will
be bound to say, which were never equalled in the Imperial kitchen,
and the duke has never made a single observation, or sent him a single
message. Yesterday, determined to outdo even himself, he sent up some
_escalopes de laitances de carpes a la Bellamont_. In my time I have
seen nothing like it, my lord. Ask Philippon, ask Dumoreau, what they
thought of it! Even the Englishman, Smit, who never says anything,
opened his mouth and exclaimed; as for the marmitons, they were
breathless, and I thought Achille, the youth of whom I spoke to you, my
lord, and who appears to me to be born with the true feeling, would have
been overcome with emotion. When it was finished, Leander retired to
his room--I attended him--and covered his face with his hands. Would you
believe it, my lord! Not a word; not even a message. All this morning
Leander has waited in the last hope. Nothing, absolutely nothing! How
can he compose when he is not appreciated? Had he been appreciated, he
would to-day not only have repeated the _escalopes a la Bellamont_, but
perhaps even invented what might have outdone it. It is unheard of,
my lord. The late lord Monmouth would have sent for Leander the very
evening, or have written to him a beautiful letter, which would have
been preserved in his family; M. de Sidonia would have sent him a
tankard from his table. These things in themselves are nothing; but they
prove to a man of genius that he is understood. Had Leander been in the
Imperial kitchen, or even with the Emperor of Russia, he would have been
decorated!'

'Where is he?' said Lord Eskdale.

'He is alone in the cook's room.'

'I will go and say a word to him.'

Alone, in the cook's room, gazing in listless vacancy on the fire,
that fire which, under his influence, had often achieved so many
master-works, was the great artist who was not appreciated. No longer
suffering under mortification, but overwhelmed by that exhaustion which
follows acute sensibility and the over-tension of the creative faculty,
he looked round as Lord Eskdale entered, and when he perceived who was
his visitor, he rose immediately, bowed very low, and then sighed.

'Prevost thinks we are not exactly appreciated here,' said Lord Eskdale.

Leander bowed again, and still sighed.

'Prevost does not understand the affair,' continued Lord Eskdale. 'Why
I wished you to come down here, Leander, was not to receive the applause
of my cousin and his guests, but to form their taste.'

Here was a great idea; exciting and ennobling. It threw quite a new
light upon the position of Leander. He started; his brow seemed to
clear. Leander, then, like other eminent men, had duties to perform as
well as rights to enjoy; he had a right to fame, but it was also his
duty to form and direct public taste. That then was the reason he
was brought down to Bellamont Castle; because some of the greatest
personages in England, who never had eaten a proper dinner in their
lives, would have an opportunity, for the first time, of witnessing art.
What could the praise of the Duke of Clanronald, or Lord Hampshire,
or Lord Hull, signify to one who had shared the confidence of a Lord
Monmouth, and whom Sir Alexander Grant, the first judge in Europe,
had declared the only man of genius of the age? Leander erred too
in supposing that his achievements had been lost upon the guests at
Bellamont. Insensibly his feats had set them a-thinking. They had been
like Cossacks in a picture-gallery; but the Clanronalds, the Hampshires,
the Hulls, would return to their homes impressed with a great truth,
that there is a difference between eating and dining. Was this nothing
for Leander to have effected? Was it nothing, by this development of
taste, to assist in supporting that aristocratic influence which he
wished to cherish, and which can alone encourage art? If anything can
save the aristocracy in this levelling age, it is an appreciation of men
of genius. Certainly it would have been very gratifying to Leander
if his Grace had only sent him a message, or if Lord Montacute had
expressed a wish to see him. He had been long musing over some dish
_a la Montacute_ for this very day. The young lord was reputed to have
talent; this dish might touch his fancy; the homage of a great artist
flatters youth; this offering of genius might colour his destiny. But
what, after all, did this signify? Leander had a mission to perform.

'If I were you, I would exert myself, Leander,' said Lord Eskdale.

'Ah! my lord, if all men were like you! If artists were only sure of
being appreciated; if we were but understood, a dinner would become a
sacrifice to the gods, and a kitchen would be Paradise.'

In the meantime, the mayor and town-councillors of Montacute, in their
robes of office, and preceded by their bedels and their mace-bearer,
have entered the gates of the castle. They pass into the great hall,
the most ancient part of the building, with its open roof of Spanish
chestnut, its screen and gallery and dais, its painted windows and
marble floor. Ascending the dais, they are ushered into an antechamber,
the first of that suite of state apartments that opens on the terrace.
Leaving on one side the principal dining-room and the library, they
proceeded through the green drawing-room, so called from its silken
hangings, the red drawing-room, covered with ruby velvet, and both
adorned, but not encumbered, with pictures of the choicest art, into the
principal or duchesses' drawing-room, thus entitled from its complete
collection of portraits of Duchesses of Bellamont. It was a spacious and
beautifully proportioned chamber, hung with amber satin, its ceiling by
Zucchero, whose rich colours were relieved by the burnished gilding.
The corporation trod tremblingly over the gorgeous carpet of Axminster,
which displayed, in vivid colours and colossal proportions, the shield
and supporters of Bellamont, and threw a hasty glance at the vases of
porphyry and malachite, and mosaic tables covered with precious toys,
which were grouped about.

Thence they were ushered into the Montacute room, adorned, among many
interesting pictures, by perhaps the finest performance of Lawrence,
a portrait of the present duke, just after his marriage. Tall and
graceful, with a clear dark complexion, regular features, eyes of liquid
tenderness, a frank brow, and rich clustering hair, the accomplished
artist had seized and conveyed the character of a high-spirited but
gentle-hearted cavalier. From the Montacute chamber they entered
the ball-room; very spacious, white and gold, a coved ceiling, large
Venetian lustres, and the walls of looking-glass, enclosing friezes of
festive sculpture. Then followed another antechamber, in the centre
of which was one of the masterpieces of Canova. This room, lined with
footmen in state liveries, completed the suite that opened on the
terrace. The northern side of this chamber consisted of a large door,
divided, and decorated in its panels with emblazoned shields of arms.

The valves being thrown open, the mayor and town-council of Montacute
were ushered into a gallery one hundred feet long, and which occupied
a great portion of the northern side of the castle. The panels of this
gallery enclosed a series of pictures in tapestry, which represented the
principal achievements of the third crusade. A Montacute had been one
of the most distinguished knights in that great adventure, and had saved
the life of Cour de Lion at the siege of Ascalon. In after-ages a Duke
of Bellamont, who was our ambassador at Paris, had given orders to
the Gobelins factory for the execution of this series of pictures from
cartoons by the most celebrated artists of the time. The subjects of the
tapestry had obtained for the magnificent chamber, which they adorned
and rendered so interesting, the title of 'The Crusaders' Gallery.'

At the end of this gallery, surrounded by their guests, their relatives,
and their neighbours; by high nobility, by reverend prelates, by the
members and notables of the county, and by some of the chief tenants of
the duke, a portion of whom were never absent from any great carousing
or high ceremony that occurred within his walls, the Duke and Duchess
of Bellamont and their son, a little in advance of the company, stood
to receive the congratulatory addresses of the mayor and corporation
of their ancient and faithful town of Montacute; the town which their
fathers had built and adorned, which they had often represented in
Parliament in the good old days, and which they took care should then
enjoy its fair proportion of the good old things; a town, every house in
which belonged to them, and of which there was not an inhabitant who, in
his own person or in that of his ancestry, had not felt the advantages
of the noble connection.

The duke bowed to the corporation, with the duchess on his left hand;
and on his right there stood a youth, above the middle height and of a
frame completely and gracefully formed. His dark brown hair, in those
hyacinthine curls which Grecian poets have celebrated, and which Grecian
sculptors have immortalised, clustered over his brow, which,
however, they only partially concealed. It was pale, as was his whole
countenance, but the liquid richness of the dark brown eye, and the
colour of the lip, denoted anything but a languid circulation. The
features were regular, and inclined rather to a refinement which might
have imparted to the countenance a character of too much delicacy, had
it not been for the deep meditation of the brow, and for the lower part
of the visage, which intimated indomitable will and an iron resolution.

Placed for the first time in his life in a public position, and under
circumstances which might have occasioned some degree of embarrassment
even to those initiated in the world, nothing was more remarkable in the
demeanour of Lord Montacute than his self-possession; nor was there
in his carriage anything studied, or which had the character of being
preconceived. Every movement or gesture was distinguished by what may be
called a graceful gravity. With a total absence of that excitement which
seemed so natural to his age and situation, there was nothing in his
manner which approached to nonchalance or indifference. It would
appear that he duly estimated the importance of the event they were
commemorating, yet was not of a habit of mind that overestimated
anything.




CHAPTER VII.

_A Strange Proposal_

THE week of celebration was over: some few guests remained, near
relatives, and not very rich, the Montacute Mountjoys, for example.
They came from a considerable distance, and the duke insisted that they
should remain until the duchess went to London, an event, by-the-bye,
which was to occur very speedily. Lady Eleanor was rather agreeable, and
the duchess a little liked her; there were four daughters, to be sure,
and not very lively, but they sang in the evening.

It was a bright morning, and the duchess, with a heart prophetic of
happiness, wished to disburthen it to her son; she meant to propose to
him, therefore, to be her companion in her walk, and she had sent to his
rooms in vain, and was inquiring after him, when she was informed that
'Lord Montacute was with his Grace.'

A smile of satisfaction flitted over her face, as she recalled the
pleasant cause of the conference that was now taking place between the
father and the son.

Let us see how it advanced.

The duke is in his private library, consisting chiefly of the statutes
at large, Hansard, the Annual Register, Parliamentary Reports, and legal
treatises on the powers and duties of justices of the peace. A portrait
of his mother is over the mantel-piece: opposite it a huge map of the
county. His correspondence on public business with the secretary of
state, and the various authorities of the shire, is admirably arranged:
for the duke was what is called an excellent man of business, that is
to say, methodical, and an adept in all the small arts of routine. These
papers were deposited, after having been ticketed with a date and a
summary of their contents, and tied with much tape, in a large cabinet,
which occupied nearly one side of the room, and on the top of which were
busts in marble of Mr. Pitt, George III., and the Duke of Wellington.

The duke was leaning back in his chair, which it seemed, from his air
and position, he had pushed back somewhat suddenly from his writing
table, and an expression of painful surprise, it cannot be denied, dwelt
on his countenance. Lord Montacute was on his legs, leaning with his
left arm on the chimney-piece, very serious, and, if possible, paler
than usual.

'You take me quite by surprise,' said the duke; 'I thought it was an
arrangement that would have deeply gratified you.'

Lord Montacute slightly bowed his head, but said nothing. His father
continued.

'Not wish to enter Parliament at present! Why, that is all very well,
and if, as was once the case, we could enter Parliament when we liked,
and how we liked, the wish might be very reasonable. If I could ring my
bell, and return you member for Montacute with as much ease as I could
send over to Bellamont to engage a special train to take us to town, you
might be justified in indulging a fancy. But how and when, I should like
to know, are you to enter Parliament now? This Parliament will last:
it will go on to the lees. Lord Eskdale told me so not a week ago. Well
then, at any rate, you lose three years: for three years you are an
idler. I never thought that was your character. I have always had an
impression you would turn your mind to public business, that the county
might look up to you. If you have what are called higher views, you
should not forget there is a great opening now in public life, which
may not offer again. The Duke is resolved to give the preference, in
carrying on the business of the country, to the aristocracy. He believes
this is our only means of preservation. He told me so himself. If it be
so, I fear we are doomed. I hope we may be of some use to our country
without being ministers of state. But let that pass. As long as the
Duke lives, he is omnipotent, and will have his way. If you come into
Parliament now, and show any disposition for office, you may rely upon
it you will not long be unemployed. I have no doubt I could arrange that
you should move the address of next session. I dare say Lord Eskdale
could manage this, and, if he could not, though I abhor asking a
minister for anything, I should, under the circumstances, feel perfectly
justified in speaking to the Duke on the subject myself, and,' added his
Grace, in a lowered tone, but with an expression of great earnestness
and determination, 'I flatter myself that if the Duke of Bellamont
chooses to express a wish, it would not be disregarded.'

Lord Montacute cast his dark, intelligent eyes upon the floor, and
seemed plunged in thought.

'Besides,' added the duke, after a moment's pause, and inferring, from
the silence of his son, that he was making an impression, 'suppose
Hungerford is not in the same humour this time three years which he is
in now. Probably he may be; possibly he may not. Men do not like to
be baulked when they think they are doing a very kind and generous and
magnanimous thing. Hungerford is not a warming-pan; we must remember
that; he never was originally, and if he had been, he has been member
for the county too long to be so considered now. I should be placed in
a most painful position, if, this time three years, I had to withdraw my
support from Hungerford, in order to secure your return.'

'There would be no necessity, under any circumstances, for that, my dear
father,' said Lord Montacute, looking up, and speaking in a voice which,
though somewhat low, was of that organ that at once arrests attention; a
voice that comes alike from the brain and from the heart, and seems made
to convey both profound thought and deep emotion. There is no index of
character so sure as the voice. There are tones, tones brilliant and
gushing, which impart a quick and pathetic sensibility: there are others
that, deep and yet calm, seem the just interpreters of a serene and
exalted intellect. But the rarest and the most precious of all voices
is that which combines passion and repose; and whose rich and restrained
tones exercise, perhaps, on the human frame a stronger spell than even
the fascination of the eye, or that bewitching influence of the hand,
which is the privilege of the higher races of Asia.

'There would be no necessity, under any circumstances, for that, my dear
father,' said Lord Montacute, 'for, to be frank, I believe I should feel
as little disposed to enter Parliament three years hence as now.'

The duke looked still more surprised. 'Mr. Fox was not of age when he
took his seat,' said his Grace. 'You know how old Mr. Pitt was when
he was a minister. Sir Robert, too, was in harness very early. I have
always heard the good judges say, Lord Esk-dale, for example, that a man
might speak in Parliament too soon, but it was impossible to go in too
soon.'

'If he wished to succeed in that assembly,' replied Lord Montacute,
'I can easily believe it. In all things an early initiation must be of
advantage. But I have not that wish.'

'I don't like to see a man take his seat in the House of Lords who has
not been in the House of Commons. He seems to me always, in a manner,
unfledged.'

'It will be a long time, I hope, my dear father, before I take my seat
in the House of Lords,' said Lord Montacute, 'if, indeed, I ever do.'

'In the course of nature 'tis a certainty.'

'Suppose the Duke's plan for perpetuating an aristocracy do not
succeed,' said Lord Montacute, 'and our house ceases to exist?'

His father shrugged his shoulders. 'It is not our business to suppose
that. I hope it never will be the business of any one, at least
seriously. This is a great country, and it has become great by its
aristocracy.'

'You think, then, our sovereigns did nothing for our greatness,--Queen
Elizabeth, for example, of whose visit to Montacute you are so proud?'

'They performed their part.'

'And have ceased to exist. We may have performed our part, and may meet
the same fate.'

'Why, you are talking liberalism!'

'Hardly that, my dear father, for I have not expressed an opinion.'

'I wish I knew what your opinions were, my dear boy, or even your
wishes.'

'Well, then, to do my duty.'

'Exactly; you are a pillar of the State; support the State.'

'Ah! if any one would but tell me what the State is,' said Lord
Montacute, sighing. 'It seems to me your pillars remain, but they
support nothing; in that case, though the shafts may be perpendicular,
and the capitals very ornate, they are no longer props, they are a
ruin.'

'You would hand us over, then, to the ten-pounders?'

'They do not even pretend to be a State,' said Lord Montacute; 'they do
not even profess to support anything; on the contrary, the essence of
their philosophy is, that nothing is to be established, and everything
is to be left to itself.'

'The common sense of this country and the fifty pound clause will carry
us through,' said the duke.

'Through what?' inquired his son.

'This--this state of transition,' replied his father.

'A passage to what?'

'Ah! that is a question the wisest cannot answer.'

'But into which the weakest, among whom I class myself, have surely a
right to inquire.'

'Unquestionably; and I know nothing that will tend more to assist you in
your researches than acting with practical men.'

'And practising all their blunders,' said Lord Montacute. 'I can
conceive an individual who has once been entrapped into their haphazard
courses, continuing in the fatal confusion to which he has contributed
his quota; but I am at least free, and I wish to continue so.'

'And do nothing?'

'But does it follow that a man is infirm of action because he declines
fighting in the dark?'

'And how would you act, then? What are your plans? Have you any?'

'I have.'

'Well, that is satisfactory,' said the duke, with animation. 'Whatever
they are, you know you may count upon my doing everything that is
possible to forward your wishes. I know they cannot be unworthy ones,
for I believe, my child, you are incapable of a thought that is not good
or great.'

'I wish I knew what was good and great,' said Lord Montacute; 'I would
struggle to accomplish it.'

'But you have formed some views; you have some plans. Speak to me of
them, and without reserve; as to a friend, the most affectionate, the
most devoted.'

'My father,' said Lord Montacute, and moving, he drew a chair to the
table, and seated himself by the duke, 'you possess and have a right to
my confidence. I ought not to have said that I doubted about what was
good; for I know you.'

'Sons like you make good fathers.'

'It is not always so,' said Lord Montacute; 'you have been to me more
than a father, and I bear to you and to my mother a profound and fervent
affection; an affection,' he added, in a faltering tone, 'that is rarer,
I believe, in this age than it was in old days. I feel it at this moment
more deeply,' he continued, in a firmer tone, 'because I am about to
propose that we should for a time separate.'

The duke turned pale, and leant forward in his chair, but did not speak.

'You have proposed to me to-day,' continued Lord Montacute, after a
momentary pause, 'to enter public life. I do not shrink from its duties.
On the contrary, from the position in which I am born, still more from
the impulse of my nature, I am desirous to fulfil them. I have meditated
on them, I may say, even for years. But I cannot find that it is part of
my duty to maintain the order of things, for I will not call it system,
which at present prevails in our country. It seems to me that it cannot
last, as nothing can endure, or ought to endure, that is not founded
upon principle; and its principle I have not discovered. In nothing,
whether it be religion, or government, or manners, sacred or political
or social life, do I find faith; and if there be no faith, how can there
be duty? Is there such a thing as religious truth? Is there such a thing
as political right? Is there such a thing as social propriety? Are these
facts, or are they mere phrases? And if they be facts, where are they
likely to be found in England? Is truth in our Church? Why, then, do
you support dissent? Who has the right to govern? The monarch? You have
robbed him of his prerogative. The aristocracy? You confess to me that
we exist by sufferance. The people? They themselves tell you that they
are nullities. Every session of that Parliament in which you wish to
introduce me, the method by which power is distributed is called in
question, altered, patched up, and again impugned. As for our morals,
tell me, is charity the supreme virtue, or the greatest of errors? Our
social system ought to depend on a clear conception of this point. Our
morals differ in different counties, in different towns, in different
streets, even in different Acts of Parliament. What is moral in London
is immoral in Montacute; what is crime among the multitude is only vice
among the few.'

'You are going into first principles,' said the duke, much surprised.

'Give me then second principles,' replied his son; 'give me any.'

'We must take a general view of things to form an opinion,' said his
father, mildly. 'The general condition of England is superior to that of
any other country; it cannot be denied that, on the whole, there is more
political freedom, more social happiness, more sound religion, and more
material prosperity among us, than in any nation in the world.'

'I might question all that,' said his son; 'but they are considerations
that do not affect my views. If other States are worse than we are, and
I hope they are not, our condition is not mended, but the contrary, for
we then need the salutary stimulus of example.'

'There is no sort of doubt,' said the duke, 'that the state of England
at this moment is the most flourishing that has ever existed, certainly
in modern times. What with these railroads, even the condition of the
poor, which I admit was lately far from satisfactory, is infinitely
improved. Every man has work who needs it, and wages are even high.'

'The railroads may have improved, in a certain sense, the condition of
the working classes almost as much as that of members of Parliament.
They have been a good thing for both of them. And if you think that more
labour is all that is wanted by the people of England, we may be
easy for a time. I see nothing in this fresh development of material
industry, but fresh causes of moral deterioration. You have announced to
the millions that there welfare is to be tested by the amount of their
wages. Money is to be the cupel of their worth, as it is of all other
classes. You propose for their conduct the least ennobling of all
impulses. If you have seen an aristocracy invariably become degraded
under such influence; if all the vices of a middle class may be traced
to such an absorbing motive; why are we to believe that the people
should be more pure, or that they should escape the catastrophe of the
policy that confounds the happiness with the wealth of nations?'

The duke shook his head and then said, 'You should not forget we live in
an artificial state.'

'So I often hear, sir,' replied his son; 'but where is the art? It seems
to me the very quality wanting to our present condition. Art is order,
method, harmonious results obtained by fine and powerful principles. I
see no art in our condition. The people of this country have ceased to
be a nation. They are a crowd, and only kept in some rude provisional
discipline by the remains of that old system which they are daily
destroying.'

'But what would you do, my dear boy?' said his Grace, looking up
very distressed. 'Can you remedy the state of things in which we find
ourselves?'

'I am not a teacher,' said Lord Montacute, mournfully; 'I only ask you,
I supplicate you, my dear father, to save me from contributing to this
quick corruption that surrounds us.'

'You shall be master of your own actions. I offer you counsel, I give no
commands; and, as for the rest, Providence will guard us.'

'If an angel would but visit our house as he visited the house of Lot!'
said Montacute, in a tone almost of anguish.

'Angels have performed their part,' said the duke. 'We have received
instructions from one higher than angels. It is enough for all of us.'

'It is not enough for me,' said Lord Montacute, with a glowing cheek,
and rising abruptly. 'It was not enough for the Apostles; for though
they listened to the sermon on the mount, and partook of the first
communion, it was still necessary that He should appear to them
again, and promise them a Comforter. I require one,' he added, after
a momentary pause, but in an agitated voice. 'I must seek one. Yes! my
dear father, it is of this that I would speak to you; it is this which
for a long time has oppressed my spirit, and filled me often with
intolerable gloom. We must separate. I must leave you, I must leave
that dear mother, those beloved parents, in whom are concentred all
my earthly affections; but I obey an impulse that I believe comes
from above. Dearest and best of men, you will not thwart me; you will
forgive, you will aid me!' And he advanced and threw himself into the
arms of his father.

The duke pressed Lord Montacute to his heart, and endeavoured, though
himself agitated and much distressed, to penetrate the mystery of this
ebullition. 'He says we must separate,' thought the duke to himself.
'Ah! he has lived too much at home, too much alone; he has read and
pondered too much; he has moped. Eskdale was right two years ago. I wish
I had sent him to Paris, but his mother was so alarmed; and, indeed,
'tis a precious life! The House of Commons would have been just the
thing for him. He would have worked on committees and grown practical.
But something must be done for him, dear child! He says we must
separate; he wants to travel. And perhaps he ought to travel. But a life
on which so much depends! And what will Katherine say? It will kill her.
I could screw myself up to it. I would send him well attended. Brace
should go with him; he understands the Continent; he was in the
Peninsular war; and he should have a skilful physician. I see how it is;
I must act with decision, and break it to his mother.'

These ideas passed through the duke's mind during the few seconds
that he embraced his son, and endeavoured at the same time to convey
consolation by the expression of his affection, and his anxiety at all
times to contribute to his child's happiness.

'My dear son,' said the duke, when Lord Montacute had resumed his seat,
'I see how it is; you wish to travel?'

Lord Montacute bent his head, as if in assent.

'It will be a terrible blow to your mother; I say nothing of myself.
You know what I feel for you. But neither your mother nor myself have a
right to place our feelings in competition with any arrangement for your
welfare. It would be in the highest degree selfish and unreasonable;
and perhaps it will be well for you to travel awhile; and, as for
Parliament, I am to see Hungerford this morning at Bellamont. I will try
and arrange with him to postpone his resignation until the autumn,
or, if possible, for some little time longer. You will then have
accomplished your purpose. It will do you a great deal of good. You will
have seen the world, and you can take your seat next year.'

The duke paused. Lord Montacute looked perplexed and distressed; he
seemed about to reply, and then, leaning on the table, with his face
concealed from his father, he maintained his silence. The duke rose,
looked at his watch, said he must be at Bellamont by two o'clock,
hoped that Brace would dine at the castle to-day, thought it not at
all impossible Brace might, would send on to Montacute for him, perhaps
might meet him at Bellamont. Brace understood the Continent, spoke
several languages, Spanish among them, though it was not probable his
son would have any need of that, the present state of Spain not being
very inviting to the traveller.

'As for France,' said the duke, 'France is Paris, and I suppose that
will be your first step; it generally is. We must see if your cousin,
Henry Howard, is there. If so, he will put you in the way of everything.
With the embassy and Brace, you would manage very well at Paris. Then, I
suppose, you would like to go to Italy; that, I apprehend, is your great
point. Your mother will not like your going to Rome. Still, at the same
time, a man, they say, should see Rome before he dies. I never did. I
have never crossed the sea except to go to Ireland. Your grandfather
would never let me travel; I wanted to, but he never would. Not,
however, for the same reasons which have kept you at home. Suppose you
even winter at Rome, which I believe is the right thing, why, you might
very well be back by the spring. However, we must manage your mother a
little about remaining over the winter, and, on second thoughts, we will
get Bernard to go with you, as well as Brace and a physician, and then
she will be much more easy. I think, with Brace, Bernard, and a medical
man whom we can really trust, Harry Howard at Paris, and the best
letters for every other place, which we will consult Lord Eskdale about,
I think the danger will not be extreme.'

'I have no wish to see Paris,' said Lord Montacute, evidently
embarrassed, and making a great effort to relieve his mind of some
burthen. 'I have no wish to see Paris.'

'I am very glad to hear that,' said his father, eagerly.

'Nor do I wish either to go to Rome,' continued his son.

'Well, well, you have taken a load off my mind, my dear boy. I would not
confess it, because I wish to save you pain; but really, I believe
the idea of your going to Rome would have been a serious shock to your
mother. It is not so much the distance, though that is great, nor the
climate, which has its dangers, but, you understand, with her peculiar
views, her very strict----' The duke did not care to finish his
sentence.

'Nor, my dear father,' continued Lord Montacute, 'though I did not like
to interrupt you when you were speaking with so much solicitude and
consideration for me, is it exactly travel, in the common acceptation of
the term, that I feel the need of. I wish, indeed, to leave England; I
wish to make an expedition; a progress to a particular point; without
wandering, without any intervening residence. In a word, it is the Holy
Land that occupies my thought, and I propose to make a pilgrimage to the
sepulchre of my Saviour.'

The duke started, and sank again into his chair. 'The Holy Land! The
Holy Sepulchre!' he exclaimed, and repeated to himself, staring at his
son.

'Yes, sir, the Holy Sepulchre,' repeated Lord Mon-tacute, and now
speaking with his accustomed repose. 'When I remember that the Creator,
since light sprang out of darkness, has deigned to reveal Himself to His
creature only in one land, that in that land He assumed a manly form,
and met a human death, I feel persuaded that the country sanctified by
such intercourse and such events must be endowed with marvellous and
peculiar qualities, which man may not in all ages be competent
to penetrate, but which, nevertheless, at all times exercise an
irresistible influence upon his destiny. It is these qualities that many
times drew Europe to Asia during the middle centuries. Our castle has
before this sent forth a De Montacute to Palestine. For three days and
three nights he knelt at the tomb of his Redeemer. Six centuries and
more have elapsed since that great enterprise. It is time to restore and
renovate our communications with the Most High. I, too, would kneel at
that tomb; I, too, surrounded by the holy hills and sacred groves of
Jerusalem, would relieve my spirit from the bale that bows it down;
would lift up my voice to heaven, and ask, What is duty, and what is
faith? What ought I to do, and what ought I to believe?'

The Duke of Bellamont rose from his seat, and walked up and down the
room for some minutes, in silence and in deep thought. At length,
stopping and leaning against the cabinet, he said, 'What has occurred
to-day between us, my beloved child, is, you may easily believe, as
strange to me as it is agitating. I will think of all you have said;
I will try to comprehend all you mean and wish. I will endeavour to do
that which is best and wisest; placing above all things your happiness,
and not our own. At this moment I am not competent to the task: I need
quiet, and to be alone. Your mother, I know, wishes to walk with you
this morning. She may be speaking to you of many things. Be silent upon
this subject, until I have communicated with her. At present I will ride
over to Bellamont. I must go; and, besides, it will do me good. I never
can think very well except in the saddle. If Brace comes, make him dine
here. God bless you.'

The duke left the room; his son remained in meditation. The first step
was taken. He had poured into the interview of an hour the results of
three years of solitary thought. A sound roused him; it was his mother.
She had only learnt casually that the duke was gone; she was surprised
he had not come into her room before he went; it seemed the first time
since their marriage that the duke had gone out without first coming to
speak to her. So she went to seek her son, to congratulate him on being
a member of Parliament, on representing the county of which they were
so fond, and of breaking to him a proposition which she doubted not he
would find not less interesting and charming. Happy mother, with her
only son, on whom she doted and of whom she was so justly proud, about
to enter public life in which he was sure to distinguish himself, and to
marry a woman who was sure to make him happy! With a bounding heart the
duchess opened the library door, where she had been informed she should
find Lord Montacute. She had her bonnet on, ready for the walk of
confidence, and, her face flushed with delight, she looked even
beautiful. 'Ah!' she exclaimed, 'I have been looking for you, Tancred!'

[Illustration: frontis-p72]


CHAPTER VIII.

_The Decision_

THE duke returned rather late from Bellamont, and went immediately to
his dressing-room. A few minutes before dinner the duchess knocked at
his door and entered. She seemed disconcerted, and reminded him, though
with great gentleness, that he had gone out to-day without first bidding
her adieu; she really believed it was the only time he had done so since
their marriage. The duke, who, when she entered, anticipated something
about their son, was relieved by her remark, embraced her, and would
have affected a gaiety which he did not really feel.

'I am glad to hear that Brace dines here to-day, Kate, for I
particularly wanted to see him.'

The duchess did not reply, and seemed absent; the duke, to say
something, tying his cravat, kept harping upon Brace.

'Never mind Brace, George,' said the duchess; 'tell me what is this
about Tancred? Why is his coming into Parliament put off?'

The duke was perplexed; he wished to know how far at this moment his
wife was informed upon the matter; the feminine frankness of the
duchess put him out of suspense. 'I have been walking with Tancred,'
she continued, 'and intimated, but with great caution, all our plans and
hopes. I asked him what he thought of his cousin; he agrees with us
she is by far the most charming girl he knows, and one of the
most agreeable. I impressed upon him how good she was. I wished to
precipitate nothing. I never dreamed of their marrying until late in the
autumn. I wished him to become acquainted with his new life, which would
not prevent him seeing a great deal of Katherine in London, and then to
visit them in Ireland, as you visited us, George; and then, when I was
settling everything in the most delightful manner, what he was to do
when he was kept up very late at the House, which is the only part I
don't like, and begging him to be very strict in making his servant
always have coffee ready for him, very hot, and a cold fowl too, or
something of the sort, he tells me, to my infinite astonishment, that
the vacancy will not immediately occur, that he is not sorry for it, as
he thinks it may be as well that he should go abroad. What can all this
mean? Pray tell me; for Tancred has told me nothing, and, when I pressed
him, waived the subject, and said we would all of us consult together.'

'And so we will, Kate,' said the duke, 'but hardly at this moment, for
dinner must be almost served. To be brief,' he added, speaking in a
light tone, 'there are reasons which perhaps may make it expedient that
Hungerford should not resign at the present moment; and as Tancred has a
fancy to travel a little, it may be as well that we should take it into
consideration whether he might not profitably occupy the interval in
this manner.'

'Profitably!' said the duchess. 'I never can understand how going
to Paris and Rome, which young men always mean when they talk of
travelling, can be profitable to him; it is the very thing which, all my
life, I have been endeavouring to prevent. His body and his soul will be
both imperilled; Paris will destroy his constitution, and Rome, perhaps,
change his faith.'

'I have more confidence in his physical power and his religious
principle than you, Kate,' said the duke, smiling. 'But make yourself
easy on these heads; Tancred told me this morning that he had no wish to
visit either Rome or Paris.'

'Well!' exclaimed the duchess, somewhat relieved, 'if he wants to make
a little tour in Holland, I think I could bear it; it is a Protestant
country, and there are no vermin. And then those dear Disbrowes, I am
sure, would take care of him at The Hague.'

'We will talk of all this to-night, my love,' said the duke; and
offering his arm to his wife, who was more composed, if not more
cheerful, they descended to their guests.

Colonel Brace was there, to the duke's great satisfaction. The colonel
had served as a cornet in a dragoon regiment in the last campaign of
the Peninsular war, and had marched into Paris. Such an event makes an
indelible impression on the memory of a handsome lad of seventeen, and
the colonel had not yet finished recounting his strange and fortunate
adventures.

He was tall, robust, a little portly, but, well buckled, still presented
a grand military figure. He was what you call a fine man; florid, with
still a good head of hair though touched with grey, splendid moustaches,
large fat hands, and a courtly demeanour not unmixed with a slight
swagger. The colonel was a Montacute man, and had inherited a large
house in the town and a small estate in the neighbourhood. Having
sold out, he had retired to his native place, where he had become a
considerable personage. The duke had put him in the commission, and
he was the active magistrate of the district; he had reorganised the
Bellamont regiment of yeomanry cavalry, which had fallen into sad
decay during the late duke's time, but which now, with Brace for its
lieutenant-colonel, was second to none in the kingdom. Colonel Brace was
one of the best shots in the county; certainly the boldest rider among
the heavy weights; and bore the palm from all with the rod, in a county
famous for its feats in lake and river.

The colonel was a man of great energy, of good temper, of ready
resource, frank, a little coarse, but hearty and honest. He adored the
Duke and Duchess of Bellamont. He was sincere; he was not a parasite;
he really believed that they were the best people in the world, and I am
not sure that he had not some foundation for his faith. On the whole,
he might be esteemed the duke's right-hand man. His Grace generally
consulted the colonel on county affairs; the command of the yeomanry
alone gave him a considerable position; he was the chief also of the
militia staff; could give his opinion whether a person was to be made a
magistrate or not; and had even been called into council when there was
a question of appointing a deputy-lieutenant. The colonel, who was a
leading member of the corporation of Montacute, had taken care to be
chosen mayor this year; he had been also chairman of the Committee of
Management during the celebration of Tancred's majority; had had the
entire ordering of the fireworks, and was generally supposed to have
given the design, or at least the leading idea, for the transparency.

We should notice also Mr. Bernard, a clergyman, and recently the private
tutor of Lord Montacute, a good scholar; in ecclesiastical opinions,
what is called high and dry. He was about five-and-thirty; well-looking,
bashful. The duke intended to prefer him to a living when one was
vacant; in the meantime he remained in the family, and at present
discharged the duties of chaplain and librarian at Montacute, and
occasionally assisted the duke as private secretary. Of his life, one
third had been passed at a rural home, and the rest might be nearly
divided between school and college.

These gentlemen, the distinguished and numerous family of the Montacute
Mountjoys, young Hunger-ford, whom the duke had good-naturedly brought
over from Bellamont for the sake of the young ladies, the duke and
duchess, and their son, formed the party, which presented rather a
contrast, not only in its numbers, to the series of recent banquets.
They dined in the Montacute chamber. The party, without intending
it, was rather dull and silent. The duchess was brooding over the
disappointment of the morning; the duke trembled for the disclosures
of the morrow. The Misses Mountjoy sang better than they talked; their
mother, who was more lively, was seated by the duke, and confined her
powers of pleasing to him. The Honourable and Reverend Montacute himself
was an epicure, and disliked conversation during dinner. Lord Montacute
spoke to Mr. Hungerford across the table, but Mr. Hungerford was
whispering despairing nothings in the ear of Arabella Mountjoy, and
replied to his question without originating any in return, which of
course terminates talk.

When the second course had arrived, the duke, who wanted a little more
noise and distraction, fired off in despair a shot at Colonel Brace,
who was on the left hand of the duchess, and set him on his yeomanry
charger. From this moment affairs improved. The colonel made continual
charges, and carried all before him. Nothing could be more noisy in a
genteel way. His voice sounded like the bray of a trumpet amid the din
of arms; it seemed that the moment he began, everybody and everything
became animated and inspired by his example. All talked; the duke set
them the fashion of taking wine with each other; Lord Montacute managed
to entrap Arminta Mountjoy into a narrative in detail of her morning's
ride and adventures; and, affecting scepticism as to some of the
incidents, and wonder at some of the feats, produced a considerable
addition to the general hubbub, which he instinctively felt that his
father wished to encourage.

'I don't know whether it was the Great Western or the South Eastern,'
continued Colonel Brace; 'but I know his leg is broken.'

'God bless me!' said the duke; 'and only think of my not hearing of it
at Bellamont to-day!'

'I don't suppose they know anything about it,' replied the colonel. 'The
way I know it is this: I was with Roby to-day, when the post came in,
and he said to me, "Here is a letter from Lady Malpas; I hope nothing
is the matter with Sir Russell or any of the children." And then it all
came out. The train was blown up behind; Sir Russell was in a centre
carriage, and was pitched right into a field. They took him into an inn,
put him to bed, and sent for some of the top-sawyers from London, Sir
Benjamin Brodie, and that sort of thing; and the moment Sir Russell came
to himself, he said, "I must have Roby, send for Roby, Roby knows my
constitution." And they sent for Roby. And I think he was right. The
quantity of young officers I have seen sent rightabout in the Peninsula,
because they were attended by a parcel of men who knew nothing of their
constitution! Why, I might have lost my own leg once, if I had not been
sharp. I got a scratch in a little affair at Almeidas, charging the
enemy a little too briskly; but we really ought not to speak of these
things before the ladies----'

'My dear colonel,' said Lord Montacute, 'on the contrary, there
is nothing more interesting to them. Miss Mountjoy was saying only
yesterday, that there was nothing she found so difficult to understand
as the account of a battle, and how much she wished to comprehend it.'

'That is because, in general, they are not written by soldiers,' said
the colonel; 'but Napier's battles are very clear. I could fight every
one of them on this table. That's a great book, that history of Napier;
it has faults, but they are rather omissions than mistakes. Now that
affair of Almeidas of which I was just speaking, and which nearly cost
me my leg, it is very odd, but he has omitted mentioning it altogether.'

'But you saved your leg, colonel,' said the duke.

'Yes, I had the honour of marching into Paris, and that is an event
not very easy to be forgotten, let me tell your Grace. I saved my leg
because I knew my constitution. For the very same reason by which I hope
Sir Russell Malpas will save his leg. Because he will be attended by
a person who knows his constitution. He never did a wiser thing than
sending for Roby. For my part, if I were in garrison at Gibraltar
to-morrow, and laid up, I would do the same; I would send for Roby. In
all these things, depend upon it, knowing the constitution is half the
battle.'

All this time, while Colonel Brace was indulging in his garrulous
comments, the Duke of Bellamont was drawing his moral. He had a great
opinion of Mr. Roby, who was the medical attendant of the castle, and an
able man. Mr. Roby was perfectly acquainted with the constitution of
his son; Mr. Roby must go to the Holy Sepulchre. Cost what it might, Mr.
Roby must be sent to Jerusalem. The duke was calculating all this time
the income that Mr. Roby made. He would not put it down at more than
five hundred pounds per annum, and a third of that was certainly
afforded by the castle. The duke determined to offer Roby a thousand and
his expenses to attend Lord Montacute. He would not be more than a
year absent, and his practice could hardly seriously suffer while away,
backed as he would be, when he returned, by the castle. And if it did,
the duke must guarantee Roby against loss; it was a necessity, absolute
and of the first class, that Tancred should be attended by a medical man
who knew his constitution. The duke agreed with Colonel Brace that it
was half the battle.




CHAPTER IX.

_Tancred, the New Crusader_

'MISERABLE mother that I am!' exclaimed the duchess, and she clasped her
hands in anguish.

'My dearest Katherine!' said the duke, 'calm yourself.'

'You ought to have prevented this, George; you ought never to have let
things come to this pass.'

'But, my dearest Katherine, the blow was as unlooked-for by me as by
yourself. I had not, how could I have, a remote suspicion of what was
passing through his mind?'

'What, then, is the use of your boasted confidence with your child,
which you tell me you have always cultivated? Had I been his father, I
would have discovered his secret thoughts.'

'Very possibly, my dear Katherine; but you are at least his mother,
tenderly loving him, and tenderly loved by him. The intercourse between
you has ever been of an extreme intimacy, and especially on the subjects
connected with this fancy of his, and yet, you see, even you are
completely taken by surprise.' 'I once had a suspicion he was inclined
to the Puseyite heresy, and I spoke to Mr. Bernard on the subject, and
afterwards to him, but I was convinced that I was in error. I am sure,'
added the duchess, in a mournful tone, 'I have lost no opportunity of
instilling into him the principles of religious truth. It was only
last year, on his birthday, that I sent him a complete set of the
publications of the Parker Society, my own copy of Jewel, full of
notes, and my grandfather, the primate's, manuscript commentary on
Chillingworth; a copy made purposely by myself.'

'I well know,' said the duke, 'that you have done everything for his
spiritual welfare which ability and affection combined could suggest.'

'And it ends in this!' exclaimed the duchess. 'The Holy Land! Why, if he
even reach it, the climate is certain death. The curse of the Almighty,
for more than eighteen centuries, has been on that land. Every year
it has become more sterile, more savage, more unwholesome, and more
unearthly. It is the abomination of desolation. And now my son is to go
there! Oh! he is lost to us for ever!'

'But, my dear Katherine, let us consult a little.' 'Consult! Why should
I consult? You have settled everything, you have agreed to everything.
You do not come here to consult me; I understand all that; you come here
to break a foregone conclusion to a weak and miserable woman.'

'Do not say such things, Katherine!' 'What should I say? What can I
say?' 'Anything but that. I hope that nothing will be ever done in this
family without your full sanction.' I Rest assured, then, that I will
never sanction the departure of Tancred on this crusade.'

'Then he will never go, at least, with my consent,' said the duke; 'but
Katherine, assist me, my dear wife. All shall be, shall ever be, as
you wish; but I shrink from being placed, from our being placed, in
collision with our child. The mere exercise of parental authority is a
last resource; I would appeal first, rather to his reason, to his heart;
your arguments, his affection for us, may yet influence him.' 'You tell
me you have argued with him,' said the duchess in a melancholy tone.

'Yes, but you know so much more on these subjects than I do, indeed,
upon all subjects; you are so clever, that I do not despair, my dear
Katherine, of your producing an impression on him.'

'I would tell him at once,' said the duchess, firmly, 'that the
proposition cannot be listened to.'

The duke looked very distressed. After a momentary pause, he said, 'If,
indeed, you think that the best; but let us consult before we take that
step, because it would seem to terminate all discussion, and discussion
may yet do good. Besides, I cannot conceal from myself that Tancred in
this affair is acting under the influence of very powerful motives; his
feelings are highly strung; you have no idea, you can have no idea from
what we have seen of him hitherto, how excited he is. I had no idea of
his being capable of such excitement. I always thought him so very calm,
and of such a quiet turn. And so, in short, my dear Katherine, were we
to be abrupt at this moment, peremptory, you understand, I--I should not
be surprised, were Tancred to go without our permission.'

'Impossible!' exclaimed the duchess, starting in her chair, but with
as much consternation as confidence in her countenance. 'Throughout his
life he has never disobeyed us.'

'And that is an additional reason,' said the duke, quietly, but in his
sweetest tone, 'why we should not treat as a light ebullition this
first instance of his preferring his own will to that of his father and
mother.'

'He has been so much away from us these last three years,' said the
duchess in a tone of great depression, 'and they are such important
years in the formation of character! But Mr. Bernard, he ought to have
been aware of all this; he ought to have known what was passing through
his pupil's mind; he ought to have warned us. Let us speak to him;
let us speak to him at once. Ring, my dear George, and request the
attendance of Mr. Bernard.'

That gentleman, who was in the library, kept them waiting but a few
minutes. As he entered the room, he perceived, by the countenances
of his noble patrons, that something remarkable, and probably not
agreeable, had occurred. The duke opened the case to Mr. Bernard with
calmness; he gave an outline of the great catastrophe; the duchess
filled up the parts, and invested the whole with a rich and even
terrible colouring.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment of the late private tutor of
Lord Montacute. He was fairly overcome; the communication itself was
startling, the accessories overwhelmed him. The unspoken reproaches
that beamed from the duke's mild eye; the withering glance of maternal
desolation that met him from the duchess; the rapidity of her anxious
and agitated questions; all were too much for the simple, though
correct, mind of one unused to those passionate developments which are
commonly called scenes. All that Mr. Bernard for some time could do
was to sit with his eyes staring and mouth open, and repeat, with a
bewildered air, 'The Holy Land, the Holy Sepulchre!' No, most certainly
not; most assuredly; never in any way, by any word or deed, had Lord
Montacute ever given him reason to suppose or imagine that his lordship
intended to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, or that he was
influenced by any of those views and opinions which he had so strangely
and so uncompromisingly expressed to his father.

'But, Mr. Bernard, you have been his companion, his instructor, for many
years,' continued the duchess, 'for the last three years especially,
years so important in the formation of character. You have seen much
more of Montacute than we have. Surely you must have had some idea of
what was passing in his mind; you could not help knowing it; you ought
to have known it; you ought to have warned, to have prepared us.'

'Madam,' at length said Mr. Bernard, more collected, and feeling the
necessity and excitement of self-vindication, 'Madam, your noble son,
under my poor tuition, has taken the highest honours of his university;
his moral behaviour during that period has been immaculate; and as for
his religious sentiments, even this strange scheme proves that they are,
at any rate, of no light and equivocal character.'

'To lose such a son!' exclaimed the duchess, in a tone of anguish, and
with streaming eyes.

The duke took her hand, and would have soothed her; and then, turning to
Mr. Bernard, he said, in a lowered tone, 'We are very sensible how much
we owe you; the duchess equally with myself. All we regret is, that some
of us had not obtained a more intimate acquaintance with the character
of my son than it appears we have acquired.'

'My lord duke,' said Mr. Bernard, 'had yourself or her Grace ever spoken
to me on this subject, I would have taken the liberty of expressing what
I say now. I have ever found Lord Montacute inscrutable. He has formed
himself in solitude, and has ever repelled any advance to intimacy,
either from those who were his inferiors or his equals in station. He
has never had a companion. As for myself, during the ten years that I
have had the honour of being connected with him, I cannot recall a
word or a deed on his part which towards me has not been courteous and
considerate; but as a child he was shy and silent, and as a man, for I
have looked upon him as a man in mind for these four or even five years,
he has employed me as his machine to obtain knowledge. It is not very
flattering to oneself to make these confessions, but at Oxford he had
the opportunity of communicating with some of the most eminent men
of our time, and I have always learnt from them the same result. Lord
Montacute never disburthened. His passion for study has been ardent; his
power of application is very great; his attention unwearied as long
as there is anything to acquire; but he never seeks your opinions, and
never offers his own. The interview of yesterday with your Grace is the
only exception with which I am acquainted, and at length throws some
light on the mysteries of his mind.'

The duke looked sad; his wife seemed plunged in profound thought; there
was a silence of many moments. At length the duchess looked up, and
said, in a calmer tone, and with an air of great seriousness, 'It seems
that we have mistaken the character of our son. Thank you very much for
coming to us so quickly in our trouble, Mr. Bernard. It was very kind,
as you always are.' Mr. Bernard took the hint, rose, bowed, and retired.

The moment that he had quitted the room, the eyes of the Duke and
Duchess of Bellamont met. Who was to speak first? The duke had nothing
to say, and therefore he had the advantage: the duchess wished her
husband to break the silence, but, having something to say herself, she
could not refrain from interrupting it. So she said, with a tearful eye,
'Well, George, what do you think we ought to do?' The duke had a great
mind to propose his plan of sending Tancred to Jerusalem, with Colonel
Brace, Mr. Bernard, and Mr. Roby, to take care of him, but he hardly
thought the occasion was ripe enough for that; and so he suggested that
the duchess should speak to Tancred herself.

'No,' said her Grace, shaking her head, 'I think it better for me to
be silent; at least at present. It is necessary, however, that the most
energetic means should be adopted to save him, nor is there a moment to
be lost. We must shrink from nothing for such an object. I have a plan.
We will put the whole matter in the hands of our friend, the bishop.
We will get him to speak to Tancred. I entertain not a doubt that the
bishop will put his mind all right; clear all his doubts; remove all his
scruples. The bishop is the only person, because, you see, it is a case
political as well as theological, and the bishop is a great statesman as
well as the first theologian of the age. Depend upon it, my dear George,
that this is the wisest course, and, with the blessing of Providence,
will effect our purpose. It is, perhaps, asking a good deal of the
bishop, considering his important and multifarious duties, to undertake
this office, but we must not be delicate when everything is at stake;
and, considering he christened and confirmed Tancred, and our long
friendship, it is quite out of the question that he can refuse. However,
there is no time to be lost. We must get to town as soon as possible;
tomorrow, if we can. I shall advance affairs by writing to the bishop
on the subject, and giving him an outline of the case, so that he may be
prepared to see Tancred at once on our arrival. What think you, George,
of my plan?'

'I think it quite admirable,' replied his Grace, only too happy that
there was at least the prospect of a lull of a few days in this great
embarrassment.




CHAPTER X.

_A Visionary_

ABOUT the time of the marriage of the Duchess of Bellamont, her noble
family, and a few of their friends, some of whom also believed in the
millennium, were persuaded that the conversion of the Roman Catholic
population of Ireland to the true faith, which was their own, was at
hand. They had subscribed very liberally for the purpose, and formed an
amazing number of sub-committees. As long as their funds lasted, their
missionaries found proselytes. It was the last desperate effort of a
Church that had from the first betrayed its trust. Twenty years ago,
statistics not being so much in vogue, and the people of England being
in the full efflorescence of that public ignorance which permitted them
to believe themselves the most enlightened nation in the world, the
Irish 'difficulty' was not quite so well understood as at the present
day. It was then an established doctrine, and all that was necessary
for Ireland was more Protestantism, and it was supposed to be not more
difficult to supply the Irish with Protestantism than it had proved, in
the instance of a recent famine, 1822, to furnish them with potatoes.
What was principally wanted in both cases were subscriptions.

When the English public, therefore, were assured by their
co-religionists on the other side of St. George's Channel, that at last
the good work was doing; that the flame spread, even rapidly; that
not only parishes but provinces were all agog, and that both town and
country were quite in a heat of proselytism, they began to believe that
at last the scarlet lady was about to be dethroned; they loosened
their purse-strings; fathers of families contributed their zealous five
pounds, followed by every other member of the household, to the babe
in arms, who subscribed its fanatical five shillings. The affair
looked well. The journals teemed with lists of proselytes and cases of
conversion; and even orderly, orthodox people, who were firm in their
own faith, but wished others to be permitted to pursue their errors in
peace, began to congratulate each other on the prospect of our at last
becoming a united Protestant people.

In the blaze and thick of the affair, Irish Protestants jubilant, Irish
Papists denouncing the whole movement as fraud and trumpery, John Bull
perplexed, but excited, and still subscribing, a young bishop rose in
his place in the House of Lords, and, with a vehemence there unusual,
declared that he saw 'the finger of God in this second Reformation,'
and, pursuing the prophetic vein and manner, denounced 'woe to those who
should presume to lift up their hands and voices in vain and impotent
attempts to stem the flood of light that was bursting over Ireland.'

In him, who thus plainly discerned 'the finger of God' in transactions
in which her family and feelings were so deeply interested, the young
and enthusiastic Duchess of Bellamont instantly recognised the 'man of
God;' and from that moment the right reverend prelate became, in all
spiritual affairs, her infallible instructor, although the impending
second Reformation did chance to take the untoward form of the
emancipation of the Roman Catholics, followed in due season by the
destruction of Protestant bishoprics, the sequestration of Protestant
tithes, and the endowment of Maynooth.

In speculating on the fate of public institutions and the course of
public affairs, it is important that we should not permit our attention
to be engrossed by the principles on which they are founded and the
circumstances which they present, but that we should also remember
how much depends upon the character of the individuals who are in the
position to superintend or to direct them.

The Church of England, mainly from its deficiency of oriental knowledge,
and from a misconception of the priestly character which has been the
consequence of that want, has fallen of late years into great straits;
nor has there ever been a season when it has more needed for its guides
men possessing the higher qualities both of intellect and disposition.
About five-and-twenty years ago, it began to be discerned that the time
had gone by, at least in England, for bishoprics to serve as appanages
for the younger sons of great families. The Arch-Mediocrity who
then governed this country, and the mean tenor of whose prolonged
administration we have delineated in another work, was impressed with
the necessity of reconstructing the episcopal bench on principles of
personal distinction and ability. But his notion of clerical capacity
did not soar higher than a private tutor who had suckled a young noble
into university honours; and his test of priestly celebrity was the
decent editorship of a Greek play. He sought for the successors of the
apostles, for the stewards of the mysteries of Sinai and of Calvary,
among third-rate hunters after syllables.

These men, notwithstanding their elevation, with one exception, subsided
into their native insignificance; and during our agitated age, when the
principles of all institutions, sacred and secular, have been called
in question; when, alike in the senate and the market-place, both the
doctrine and the discipline of the Church have been impugned, its power
assailed, its authority denied, the amount of its revenues investigated,
their disposition criticised, and both attacked; not a voice has been
raised by these mitred nullities, either to warn or to vindicate; not a
phrase has escaped their lips or their pens, that ever influenced public
opinion, touched the heart of nations, or guided the conscience of a
perplexed people. If they were ever heard of it was that they had been
pelted in a riot.

The exception which we have mentioned to their sorry careers was that
of the too adventurous prophet of the second Reformation; the _ductor
dubitantium_ appealed to by the Duchess of Bellamont, to convince her
son that the principles of religious truth, as well as of political
justice, required no further investigation; at least by young
marquesses.

The ready audacity with which this right reverend prelate had stood
sponsor for the second Reformation is a key to his character. He
combined a great talent for action with very limited powers of thought.

Bustling, energetic, versatile, gifted with an indomitable perseverance,
and stimulated by an ambition that knew no repose, with a capacity for
mastering details and an inordinate passion for affairs, he could
permit nothing to be done without his interference, and consequently
was perpetually involved in transactions which were either failures or
blunders. He was one of those leaders who are not guides. Having little
real knowledge, and not endowed with those high qualities of intellect
which permit their possessor to generalise the details afforded by study
and experience, and so deduce rules of conduct, his lordship, when he
received those frequent appeals which were the necessary consequence
of his officious life, became obscure, confused, contradictory,
inconsistent, illogical. The oracle was always dark.

Placed in a high post in an age of political analysis, the bustling
intermeddler was unable to supply society with a single solution.
Enunciating secondhand, with characteristic precipitation, some big
principle in vogue, as if he were a discoverer, he invariably shrank
from its subsequent application the moment that he found it might be
unpopular and inconvenient. All his quandaries terminated in the same
catastrophe; a compromise. Abstract principles with him ever ended
in concrete expediency. The aggregate of circumstances outweighed the
isolated cause. The primordial tenet, which had been advocated with
uncompromising arrogance, gently subsided into some second-rate measure
recommended with all the artifice of an impenetrable ambiguity.

Beginning with the second Reformation, which was a little rash but
dashing, the bishop, always ready, had in the course of his episcopal
career placed himself at the head of every movement in the Church which
others had originated, and had as regularly withdrawn at the right
moment, when the heat was over, or had become, on the contrary,
excessive. Furiously evangelical, soberly high and dry, and fervently
Puseyite, each phasis of his faith concludes with what the Spaniards
term a 'transaction.' The saints are to have their new churches, but
they are also to have their rubrics and their canons; the universities
may supply successors to the apostles, but they are also presented
with a church commission; even the Puseyites may have candles on their
altars, but they must not be lighted.

It will be seen, therefore, that his lordship was one of those
characters not ill-adapted to an eminent station in an age like the
present, and in a country like our own; an age of movement, but of
confused ideas; a country of progress, but too rich to risk much change.
Under these circumstances, the spirit of a period and a people seeks a
safety-valve in bustle. They do something, lest it be said that they
do nothing. At such a time, ministers recommend their measures as
experiments, and parliaments are ever ready to rescind their votes.
Find a man who, totally destitute of genius, possesses nevertheless
considerable talents; who has official aptitude, a volubility of routine
rhetoric, great perseverance, a love of affairs; who, embarrassed
neither by the principles of the philosopher nor by the prejudices of
the bigot, can assume, with a cautious facility, the prevalent tone, and
disembarrass himself of it, with a dexterous ambiguity, the moment it
ceases to be predominant; recommending himself to the innovator by his
approbation of change 'in the abstract,' and to the conservative by his
prudential and practical respect for that which is established; such
a man, though he be one of an essentially small mind, though his
intellectual qualities be less than moderate, with feeble powers of
thought, no imagination, contracted sympathies, and a most loose public
morality; such a man is the individual whom kings and parliaments
would select to govern the State or rule the Church. Change, 'in the
abstract,' is what is wanted by a people who are at the same time
inquiring and wealthy. Instead of statesmen they desire shufflers; and
compromise in conduct and ambiguity in speech are, though nobody will
confess it, the public qualities now most in vogue.

Not exactly, however, those calculated to meet the case of Tancred.
The interview was long, for Tan-cred listened with apparent respect
and deference to the individual under whose auspices he had entered the
Church of Christ; but the replies to his inquiries, though more adroit
than the duke's, were in reality not more satisfactory, and could not,
in any way, meet the inexorable logic of Lord Montacute. The bishop
was as little able as the duke to indicate the principle on which the
present order of things in England was founded; neither faith nor
its consequence, duty, was at all illustrated or invigorated by his
handling. He utterly failed in reconciling a belief in ecclesiastical
truth with the support of religious dissent. When he tried to define
in whom the power of government should repose, he was lost in a maze of
phrases, and afforded his pupil not a single fact.

'It cannot be denied,' at length said Tancred, with great calmness,
'that society was once regulated by God, and that now it is regulated by
man. For my part, I prefer divine to self-government, and I wish to know
how it is to be attained.'

'The Church represents God upon earth,' said the bishop.

'But the Church no longer governs man,' replied Tancred.

'There is a great spirit rising in the Church,' observed the bishop,
with thoughtful solemnity; 'a great and excellent spirit. The Church of
1845 is not the Church of 1745. We must remember that; we know not what
may happen. We shall soon see a bishop at Manchester.'

'But I want to see an angel at Manchester.'

'An angel!'

'Why not? Why should there not be heavenly messengers, when heavenly
messages are most wanted?'

'We have received a heavenly message by one greater than the angels,'
said the bishop. 'Their visits to man ceased with the mightier advent.'

'Then why did angels appear to Mary and her companions at the holy
tomb?' inquired Tancred.

The interview from which so much was anticipated was not satisfactory.
The eminent prelate did not realise Tancred's ideal of a bishop, while
his lordship did not hesitate to declare that Lord Montacute was a
visionary.




CHAPTER XI.

_Advice from a Man of the World_

WHEN the duchess found that the interview with the bishop had been
fruitless of the anticipated results, she was staggered, disheartened;
but she was a woman of too high a spirit to succumb under a first
defeat. She was of opinion that his lordship had misunderstood the case,
or had mismanaged it; her confidence in him, too, was not so illimitable
since he had permitted the Puseyites to have candles on their altars,
although he had forbidden their being lighted, as when he had declared,
twenty years before, that the finger of God was about to protestantise
Ireland. His lordship had said and had done many things since that
time which had occasioned the duchess many misgivings, although she had
chosen that they should not occur to her recollection until he failed in
convincing her son that religious truth was to be found in the parish
of St. James, and political justice in the happy haunts of Montacute
Forest.

The Bishop had voted for the Church Temporalities' Bill in 1833, which
at one swoop had suppressed ten Irish episcopates. This was a queer
suffrage for the apostle of the second Reformation. True it is that
Whiggism was then in the ascendant, and two years afterwards, when
Whiggism had received a heavy blow and great discouragement; when we had
been blessed in the interval with a decided though feeble Conservative
administration, and were blessed at the moment with a strong though
undecided Conservative opposition; his lordship, with characteristic
activity, had galloped across country into the right line again,
denounced the Appropriation Clause in a spirit worthy of his earlier
days, and, quite forgetting the ten Irish bishoprics, that only
four-and-twenty months before he had doomed to destruction, was all for
proselytising Ireland again by the efficacious means of Irish Protestant
bishops.

'The bishop says that Tancred is a visionary,' said the duchess to her
husband, with an air of great displeasure. 'Why, it is because he is
a visionary that we sent him to the bishop. I want to have his false
imaginings removed by one who has the competent powers of learning and
argument, and the authority of a high and holy office. A visionary,
indeed! Why, so are the Puseyites; they are visionaries, and his
lordship has been obliged to deal with them; though, to be sure, if he
spoke to Tancred in a similar fashion, I am not surprised that my son
has returned unchanged! This is the most vexatious business that ever
occurred to us. Something must be done; but what to fix on? What do
you think, George? Since speaking to the bishop, of which you so much
approved, has failed, what do you recommend?'

While the duchess was speaking, she was seated in her boudoir, looking
into the Green Park; the duke's horses were in the courtyard, and he was
about to ride down to the House of Lords; he had just looked in, as was
his custom, to say farewell till they met again.

'I am sorry that the interview with the bishop has failed,' said the
duke, in a hesitating tone, and playing with his riding-stick; and then
walking up to the window and looking into the Park, he said, apparently
after reflection, 'I always think the best person to deal with a
visionary is a man of the world.'

'But what can men of the world know of such questions?' said the
duchess, mournfully.

'Very little,' said her husband, 'and therefore they are never betrayed
into arguments, which I fancy always make people more obstinate, even if
they are confuted. Men of the world have a knack of settling everything
without discussion; they do it by tact. It is astonishing how many
difficulties I have seen removed--by Eskdale, for example--which it
seemed that no power on earth could change, and about which we had been
arguing for months. There was the Cheadle churches case, for example; it
broke up some of the oldest friendships in the county; even Hungerford
and Ilderton did not speak. I never had a more anxious time of it; and,
as far as I was personally concerned, I would have made any sacrifice
to keep a good understanding in the county. At last I got the business
referred to Eskdale, and the affair was ultimately arranged to
everybody's satisfaction. I don't know how he managed: it was quite
impossible that he could have offered any new arguments, but he did it
by tact. Tact does not remove difficulties, but difficulties melt away
under tact.'

'Heigho!' sighed the duchess. 'I cannot understand how tact can tell
us what is religious truth, or prevent my son from going to the Holy
Sepulchre.'

'Try,' said the duke.

'Shall you see our cousin to-day, George?'

'He is sure to be at the House,' replied the duke, eagerly. 'I tell you
what I propose, Kate: Tancred is gone to the House of Commons to hear
the debate on Maynooth; I will try and get our cousin to come home and
dine with us, and then we can talk over the whole affair at once. What
say you?'

'Very well.'

'We have failed with a bishop; we will now try a man of the world; and
if we are to have a man of the world, we had better have a firstrate
one, and everybody agrees that our cousin----'

'Yes, yes, George,' said the duchess, 'ask him to come; tell him it is
very urgent, that we must consult him immediately; and then, if he be
engaged, I dare say he will manage to come all the same.'

Accordingly, about half-past eight o'clock, the two peers arrived at
Bellamont House together. They were unexpectedly late; they had been
detained at the House. The duke was excited; even Lord Esk-dale looked
as if something had happened. Something had happened; there had been a
division in the House of Lords. Rare and startling event! It seemed
as if the peers were about to resume their functions. Divisions in
the House of Lords are now-a-days so thinly scattered, that, when one
occurs, the peers cackle as if they had laid an egg. They are quite
proud of the proof of their still procreative powers. The division
to-night had not been on a subject of any public interest or importance;
but still it was a division, and, what was more, the Government had been
left in a minority. True, the catastrophe was occasioned by a mistake.
The dictator had been asleep during the debate, woke suddenly from a
dyspeptic dream, would make a speech, and spoke on the wrong side.
A lively colleague, not yet sufficiently broken in to the frigid
discipline of the High Court of Registry, had pulled the great man once
by his coat-tails, a House of Commons practice, permitted to the Cabinet
when their chief is blundering, very necessary sometimes for a lively
leader, but of which Sir Robert highly disapproves, as the arrangement
of his coat-tails, next to beating the red box, forms the most important
part of his rhetorical accessories. The dictator, when he at length
comprehended that he had made a mistake, persisted in adhering to it;
the division was called, some of the officials escaped, the rest were
obliged to vote with their ruthless master; but his other friends, glad
of an opportunity of asserting their independence and administering to
the dictator a slight check in a quiet inoffensive way, put him in a
minority; and the Duke of Bellamont and Lord Eskdale had contributed to
this catastrophe.

Dinner was served in the library; the conversation during it was chiefly
the event of the morning. The duchess, who, though not a partisan, was
something of a politician, thought it was a pity that the dictator had
ever stepped out of his military sphere; her husband, who had never
before seen a man's coat-tails pulled when he was speaking, dilated much
upon the singular circumstance of Lord Spur so disporting himself on the
present occasion; while Lord Eskdale, who had sat for a long time in
the House of Commons, and who was used to everything, assured his cousin
that the custom, though odd, was by no means irregular. 'I remember,'
said his lordship, 'seeing Ripon, when he was Robinson, and Huskisson,
each pulling one of Canning's coat-tails at the same time.'

Throughout dinner not a word about Tancred. Lord Eskdale neither asked
where he was nor how he was. At length, to the great relief of the
duchess, dinner was finished; the servants had disappeared. The duke
pushed away the table; they drew their chairs round the hearth; Lord
Eskdale took half a glass of Madeira, then stretched his legs a little,
then rose, stirred the fire, and then, standing with his back to it
and his hands in his pockets, said, in a careless tone approaching to a
drawl, 'And so, duchess, Tancred wants to go to Jerusalem?'

'George has told you, then, all our troubles?' 'Only that; he left the
rest to you, and I came to hear it.'

Whereupon the duchess went off, and spoke for a considerable time
with great animation and ability, the duke hanging on every word with
vigilant interest, Lord Eskdale never interrupting her for an instant;
while she stated the case not only with the impassioned feeling of
a devoted mother, but occasionally with all the profundity of a
theologian. She did not conceal from him the interview between Tancred
and the bishop; it was her last effort, and had failed; and so, 'after
all our plans,' she ended, 'as far as I can form an opinion, he is
absolutely more resolved than ever to go to Jerusalem.'

'Well,' said his lordship, 'it is at least better than going to the
Jews, which most men do at his time of life.'

'I cannot agree even to that,' said the duchess; 'for I would rather
that he should be ruined than die.'

'Men do not die as they used,' said his lordship. 'Ask the annuity
offices; they have all raised their rates.'

'I know nothing about annuity offices, but I know that almost everybody
dies who goes to those countries; look at young Fernborough, he was just
Tancred's age; the fevers alone must kill him.'

'He must take some quinine in his dressing-case,' said Lord Eskdale.

'You jest, Henry,' said the duchess, disappointed, 'when I am in
despair.'

'No,' said Lord Eskdale, looking up to the ceiling, 'I am thinking how
you may prevent Tancred from going to Jerusalem, without, at the same
time, opposing his wishes.'

'Ay, ay,' said the duke, 'that is it.' And he looked triumphantly to
his wife, as much as to say, 'Now you see what it is to be a man of the
world.'

'A man cannot go to Jerusalem as he would to Birmingham, by the next
train,' continued his lordship; 'he must get something to take him; and
if you make the sacrifice of consenting to his departure, you have a
right to stipulate as to the manner in which he should depart. Your son
ought to travel with a suite; he ought to make the voyage in his own
yacht. Yachts are not to be found like hack cabs, though there are
several for sale now; but then they are not of the admeasurement of
which you approve for such a voyage and such a sea. People talk very
lightly of the Mediterranean, but there are such things as white
squalls. Anxious parents, and parents so fond of a son as you are, and a
son whose life for so many reasons is so precious, have a right to make
it a condition of their consent to his departure, that he should embark
in a vessel of considerable tonnage. He will find difficulty in buying
one second-hand; if he finds one it will not please him. He will get
interested in yacht-building, as he is interested now about Jerusalem:
both boyish fancies. He will stay another year in England to build a
yacht to take him to the Holy Land; the yacht will be finished this time
twelvemonths; and, instead of going to Palestine, he will go to Cowes.'

'That is quite my view of the case,' said the duke.

'It never occurred to me,' said the duchess.

Lord Eskdale resumed his seat, and took another half-glass of Madeira.

'Well, I think it is very satisfactory, Katherine,' said the duke, after
a short pause.

'And what do you recommend us to do first?' said the duchess to Lord
Eskdale.

'Let Tancred go into society: the best way for him to forget Jerusalem
is to let him see London.'

'But how can I manage it?' said the duchess. 'I never go anywhere;
nobody knows him, and he does not wish to know anybody.'

'I will manage it, with your permission; 'tis not difficult; a young
marquess has only to evince an inclination, and in a week's time he will
be everywhere. I will tell Lady St. Julians and the great ladies to send
him invitations; they will fall like a snow-storm. All that remains is
for you to prevail upon him to accept them.'

'And how shall I contrive it?' said the duchess.

'Easily,' said Lord Eskdale. 'Make his going into society, while his
yacht is preparing, one of the conditions of the great sacrifice you are
making. He cannot refuse you: 'tis but the first step. A youth feels a
little repugnance to launching into the great world: 'tis shyness; but
after the plunge, the great difficulty is to restrain rather than to
incite. Let him but once enter the world, and be tranquil, he will soon
find something to engage him.'

'As long as he does not take to play,' said the duke, 'I do not much
care what he does.'

'My dear George!' said the duchess, 'how can you say such things! I was
in hopes,' she added, in a mournful tone, 'that we might have settled
him, without his entering what you call the world, Henry. Dearest child!
I fancy him surrounded by pitfalls.'




CHAPTER XII.

_The Dreamer Enters Society_

AFTER this consultation with Lord Eskdale, the duchess became easier in
her mind. She was of a sanguine temper, and with facility believed what
she wished. Affairs stood thus: it was agreed by all that Tancred should
go to the Holy Land, but he was to go in his own yacht; which yacht
was to be of a firstrate burthen, and to be commanded by an officer in
H.M.S.; and he was to be accompanied by Colonel Brace, Mr. Bernard, and
Mr. Roby; and the servants were to be placed entirely under the control
of some trusty foreigner accustomed to the East, and who was to be
chosen by Lord Eskdale. In the meantime, Tancred had acceded to the wish
of his parents, that until his departure he should mix much in society.
The duchess calculated that, under any circumstances, three months
must elapse before all the arrangements were concluded; and she felt
persuaded that, during that period, Tancred must become enamoured of his
cousin Katherine, and that the only use of the yacht would be to take
them all to Ireland. The duke was resolved only on two points: that his
son should do exactly as his son liked, and that he himself would never
take the advice, on any subject, of any other person than Lord Eskdale.

In the meantime Tancred was launched, almost unconsciously, into the
great world. The name of the Marquess of Montacute was foremost in those
delicate lists by which an eager and admiring public is apprised who,
among their aristocracy, eat, drink, dance, and sometimes pray. From the
saloons of Bel-grave and Grosvenor Square to the sacred recesses of
the Chapel Royal, the movements of Lord Montacute were tracked and
registered, and were devoured every morning, oftener with a keener
relish than the matin meal of which they formed a regular portion.
England is the only country which enjoys the unspeakable advantage of
being thus regularly, promptly, and accurately furnished with catalogues
of those favoured beings who are deemed qualified to enter the houses of
the great. What condescension in those who impart the information! What
indubitable evidence of true nobility! What superiority to all petty
vanity! And in those who receive it, what freedom from all little
feelings! No arrogance on one side; on the other, no envy. It is only
countries blessed with a free press that can be thus favoured. Even a
free press is not alone sufficient. Besides a free press, you must have
a servile public.

After all, let us be just. The uninitiated world is apt to believe that
there is sometimes, in the outskirts of fashion, an eagerness, scarcely
consistent with self-respect, to enter the mansions of the great. Not at
all: few people really want to go to their grand parties. It is not the
charms of conversation, the flash of wit or the blaze of beauty, the
influential presence of the powerful and celebrated, all the splendour
and refinement, which, combined, offer in a polished saloon so much
to charm the taste and satisfy the intellect, that the mass of social
partisans care anything about. What they want is, not so much to be
in her ladyship's house as in her ladyship's list. After the party at
Coningsby Castle, our friend, Mrs. Guy Flouncey, at length succeeded
in being asked to one of Lady St. Julians' assemblies. It was a great
triumph, and Mrs. Guy Flouncey determined to make the most of it. She
was worthy of the occasion. But alas! next morning, though admitted to
the rout, Mrs. Guy Flouncey was left out of the list! It was a severe
blow! But Mrs. Guy Flouncey is in every list now, and even strikes
out names herself. But there never was a woman who advanced with such
dexterity.

Lord Montacute was much shocked, when, one morning, taking up a journal,
he first saw his name in print. He was alone, and he blushed; felt,
indeed, extremely distressed, when he found that the English people were
formally made acquainted with the fact that he had dined on the previous
Saturday with the Earl and Countess of St. Julians; 'a grand banquet,'
of which he was quite unconscious until he read it; and that he was
afterwards 'observed' at the Opera.

He found that he had become a public character, and he was not by any
means conscious of meriting celebrity. To be pointed at as he walked
the streets, were he a hero, or had done, said, or written anything that
anybody remembered, though at first painful and embarrassing, for he was
shy, he could conceive ultimately becoming endurable, and not without a
degree of excitement, for he was ambitious; but to be looked at because
he was a young lord, and that this should be the only reason why the
public should be informed where he dined, or where he amused himself,
seemed to him not only vexatious but degrading. When he arrived,
however, at a bulletin of his devotions, he posted off immediately to
the Surrey Canal to look at a yacht there, and resolved not to lose
unnecessarily one moment in setting off for Jerusalem.

He had from the first busied himself about the preparations for his
voyage with all the ardour of youth; that is, with all the energy of
inexperience, and all the vigour of simplicity. As everything seemed
to depend upon his obtaining a suitable vessel, he trusted to no third
person; had visited Cowes several times; advertised in every paper;
and had already met with more than one yacht which at least deserved
consideration. The duchess was quite frightened at his progress. 'I
am afraid he has found one,' she said to Lord Eskdale; 'he will be off
directly.'

Lord Eskdale shook his head. 'There are always things of this sort in
the market. He will inquire before he purchases, and he will find that
he has got hold of a slow coach.'

'A slow coach!' said the duchess, looking inquiringly. 'What is that?'

'A tub that sails like a collier, and which, instead of taking him to
Jerusalem, will hardly take him to Newcastle.'

Lord Eskdale was right. Notwithstanding all his ardour, all his
inquiries, visits to Cowes and the Surrey Canal, advertisements and
answers to advertisements, time flew on, and Tancred was still without a
yacht.

In this unsettled state, Tancred found himself one evening at Deloraine
House. It was not a ball, it was only a dance, brilliant and select;
but, all the same, it seemed to Tancred that the rooms could not be
much more crowded. The name of the Marquess of Montacute, as it was sent
along by the servants, attracted attention. Tancred had scarcely entered
the world, his appearance had made a sensation, everybody talked of him,
many had not yet seen him.

'Oh! that is Lord Montacute,' said a great lady, looking through her
glass; 'very distinguished!'

'I tell you what,' whispered Mr. Ormsby to Lord Valentine, 'you young
men had better look sharp; Lord Montacute will cut you all out!'

'Oh! he is going to Jerusalem,' said Lord Valentine.

'Jerusalem!' said Mr. Ormsby, shrugging his shoulders. 'What can he find
to do at Jerusalem?'

'What, indeed,' said Lord Milford. 'My brother was there in '39; he got
leave after the bombardment of Acre, and he says there is absolutely no
sport of any kind.'

'There used to be partridges in the time of Jeremiah,' said Mr. Ormsby;
'at least they told us so at the Chapel Royal last Sunday, where,
by-the-bye, I saw Lord Montacute for the first time; and a deuced
good-looking fellow he is,' he added, musingly.

'Well, there is not a bird in the whole country now,' said Lord Milford.

'Montacute does not care for sport,' said Lord Valentine.

'What does he care for?' asked Lord Milford. 'Because, if he wants any
horses, I can let him have some.'

'He wants to buy a yacht,' said Lord Valentine; 'and that reminds me
that I heard to-day Exmouth wanted to get rid of "The Flower of Yarrow,"
and I think it would suit my cousin. I'll tell him of it.' And he
followed Tancred.

'You and Valentine must rub up your harness, Milford,'said Mr.
Ormsby; 'there is a new champion in the field. We are talking of Lord
Montacute,' continued Mr. Ormsby, addressing himself to Mr. Melton, who
joined them; 'I tell Milford he will cut you all out.'

'Well,' said Mr. Melton, 'for my part I have had so much success, that I
have no objection, by way of change, to be for once eclipsed.'

'Well done, Jemmy,' said Lord Milford.

'I see, Melton,' said Mr. Ormsby, 'you are reconciled to your fate like
a philosopher.'

'Well, Montacute,' said Lord St. Patrick, a good-tempered, witty
Milesian, with a laughing eye, 'when are you going to Jericho?'

'Tell me,' said Tancred, in reply, and rather earnestly, 'who is that?'
And he directed the attention of Lord St. Patrick to a young lady,
rather tall, a brilliant complexion, classic features, a profusion of
light brown hair, a face of intelligence, and a figure rich and yet
graceful.

'That is Lady Constance Rawleigh; if you like, I will introduce you to
her. She is my cousin, and deuced clever. Come along!'

In the meantime, in the room leading to the sculpture gallery where they
are dancing, the throng is even excessive. As the two great divisions,
those who would enter the gallery and those who are quitting it,
encounter each other, they exchange flying phrases as they pass.

'They told me you had gone to Paris! I have just returned. Dear me,
how time flies! Pretty dance, is it not? Very. Do you know whether the
Madlethorpes mean to come up this year? I hardly know; their little girl
is very ill. Ah! so I hear; what a pity, and such a fortune! Such a pity
with such a fortune! How d'ye do? Mr. Coningsby here? No; he's at the
House. They say he is a very close attendant. It interests him. Well,
Lady Florentina, you never sent me the dances. Pardon, but you will find
them when you return. I lent them to Augusta, and she would copy them.
Is it true that I am to congratulate you? Why? Lady Blanche? Oh! that is
a romance of Easter week. Well, I am really delighted; I think such an
excellent match for both; exactly suited to each other. They think so.
Well, that is one point. How well Lady Everingham is looking! She is
quite herself again. Quite. Tell me, have you seen M. de Talleyrand
here? I spoke to him but this moment. Shall you be at Lady Blair's
to-morrow? No; I have promised to go to Mrs. Guy Flouncey's. She has
taken Craven Cottage, and is to be at home every Saturday. Well, if you
are going, I think I shall. I would; everybody will be there.'

Lord Montacute had conversed some time with Lady Constance; then he had
danced with her; he had hovered about her during the evening. It was
observed, particularly by some of the most experienced mothers. Lady
Constance was a distinguished beauty of two seasons; fresh, but adroit.
It was understood that she had refused offers of a high calibre; but
the rejected still sighed about her, and it was therefore supposed that,
though decided, she had the art of not rendering them desperate. One
at least of them was of a rank equal to that of Tancred. She had the
reputation of being very clever, and of being able, if it pleased her,
to breathe scorpions as well as brilliants and roses. It had got about
that she admired intellect, and, though she claimed the highest social
position, that a booby would not content her, even if his ears were
covered with strawberry leaves.

In the cloak-room, Tancred was still at her side, and was presented to
her mother, Lady Charmouth.

'I am sorry to separate,' said Tancred.

'And so am I,' said Lady Constance, smiling; 'but one advantage of this
life is, we meet our friends every day.'

'I am not going anywhere to-morrow, where I shall meet you,' said
Tancred, 'unless you chance to dine at the Archbishop of York's.'

'I am not going to dine with the Archbishop of York,' said Lady
Constance, 'but I am going, where everybody else is going, to breakfast
with Mrs. Guy Flouncey, at Craven Cottage. Why, will not you be there?'

'I have not the honour of knowing her,' said Tancred.

'That is not of the slightest consequence; she will be very happy to
have the honour of knowing you. I saw her in the dancing-room, but it
is not worth while waiting to speak to her now. You shall receive an
invitation the moment you are awake.'

'But to-morrow I have an engagement. I have to look at a yacht.'

'But that you can look at on Monday; besides, if you wish to know
anything about yachts, you had better speak to my brother, Fitz-Heron,
who has built more than any man alive.'

'Perhaps he has one that he wishes to part with?' said Tancred.

'I have no doubt of it. You can ask him tomorrow at Mrs. Guy
Flouncey's.'

'I will. Lady Charmouth's carriage is called. May I have the honour?'
said Tancred, offering his arm.




CHAPTER XIII.

_A Feminine Diplomatist_

THERE is nothing so remarkable as feminine influence. Although the
character of Tancred was not completely formed--for that result depends,
in some degree, upon the effect of circumstances at a certain time of
life, as well as on the impulse of a natural bent--still the temper of
his being was profound and steadfast. He had arrived, in solitude and
by the working of his own thought, at a certain resolution, which had
assumed to his strong and fervent imagination a sacred character, and
which he was determined to accomplish at all costs. He had brought
himself to the point that he would not conceive an obstacle that should
baulk him. He had acceded to the conditions which had been made by his
parents, for he was by nature dutiful, and wished to fulfil his-purpose,
if possible, with their sanction.

Yet he had entered society with repugnance, and found nothing in its
general tone with which his spirit harmonised. He was alone in the
crowd; silent, observing, and not charmed. There seemed to him generally
a want of simplicity and repose; too much flutter, not a little
affectation. People met in the thronged chambers, and interchanged brief
words, as if they were always in a hurry. 'Have you been here long?
Where are you going next?' These were the questions which seemed to form
the staple of the small talk of a fashionable multitude. Why, too,
was there a smile on every countenance, which often also assumed the
character of a grin? No error so common or so grievous as to suppose
that a smile is a necessary ingredient of the pleasing. There are few
faces that can afford to smile. A smile is sometimes bewitching, in
general vapid, often a contortion. But the bewitching smile usually
beams from the grave face. It is then irresistible. Tancred, though he
was unaware of it, was gifted with this rare spell. He had inherited
it from his mother; a woman naturally earnest and serious, and of a
singular simplicity, but whose heart when pleased spoke in the dimpling
sunshine of her cheek with exquisite beauty. The smiles of the Duchess
of Bellamont, however, were like her diamonds, brilliant, but rarely
worn.

Tancred had not mounted the staircase of Deloraine House with any
anticipation of pleasure. His thoughts were far away amid cities of the
desert, and by the palmy banks of ancient rivers. He often took refuge
in these exciting and ennobling visions, to maintain himself when he
underwent the ceremony of entering a great house. He was so shy in
little things, that to hear his name sounded from servant to servant,
echoing from landing-place to landing-place, was almost overwhelming.
Nothing but his pride, which was just equal to his reserve, prevented
him from often turning back on the stairs and precipitately retreating.
And yet he had not been ten minutes in Deloraine House, before he had
absolutely requested to be introduced to a lady. It was the first time
he had ever made such a request.

He returned home, softly musing. A tone lingered in his ear; he recalled
the countenance of one absent. In his dressing-room he lingered
before he retired, with his arm on the mantel-piece, and gazing with
abstraction on the fire.

When his servant called him, late in the morning, he delivered to him a
card from Mrs. Guy Flouncey, inviting him on that day to Craven Cottage,
at three o'clock: 'dejeuner at four o'clock precisely.' Tancred took the
card, looked at it, and the letters seemed to cluster together and form
the countenance of Lady Constance. 'It will be a good thing to go,' he
said, 'because I want to know Lord Fitz-Heron; he will be of great use
to me about my yacht.' So he ordered his carriage at three o'clock.

The reader must not for a moment suppose that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, though
she was quite as well dressed, and almost as pretty, as she was when at
Coningsby Castle in 1837, was by any means the same lady who then strove
to amuse and struggled to be noticed. By no means. In 1837, Mrs. Guy
Flouncey was nobody; in 1845, Mrs. Guy Flouncey was somebody, and
somebody of very great importance. Mrs. Guy Flouncey had invaded
society, and had conquered it, gradually, but completely, like the
English in India. Social invasions are not rare, but they are seldom
fortunate, or success, if achieved, is partial, and then only sustained
at immense cost, like the French in Algiers.

The Guy Flounceys were not people of great fortune. They had a good
fortune; seven or eight thousand a year. But then, with an air of great
expenditure, even profusion, there was a basis of good management. And a
good fortune with good management, and without that equivocal luxury, a
great country-house, is almost equal to the great fortune of a peer.
But they not only had no country-house, they had no children. And a good
fortune, with good management, no country-house, and no children, is
Aladdin's lamp.

Mr. Guy Flouncey was a sporting character. His wife had impressed upon
him that it was the only way in which he could become fashionable and
acquainted with 'the best men.' He knew just enough of the affair not
to be ridiculous; and, for the rest, with a great deal of rattle and
apparent heedlessness of speech and deed, he was really an extremely
selfish and sufficiently shrewd person, who never compromised himself.
It is astonishing with what dexterity Guy Flouncey could extricate
himself from the jaws of a friend, who, captivated by his thoughtless
candour and ostentatiously good heart, might be induced to request Mr.
Flouncey to lend him a few hundreds, only for a few months, or, more
diplomatically, might beg his friend to become his security for a few
thousands, for a few years.

Mr. Guy Flouncey never refused these applications; they were exactly
those to which it delighted his heart to respond, because nothing
pleased him more than serving a friend. But then he always had to write
a preliminary letter of preparation to his banker, or his steward, or
his confidential solicitor; and, by some contrivance or other,
without offending any one, rather with the appearance of conferring an
obligation, it ended always by Mr. Guy Flouncey neither advancing the
hundreds, nor guaranteeing the thousands. He had, indeed, managed,
like many others, to get the reputation of being what is called 'a good
fellow;' though it would have puzzled his panegyrists to allege a single
act of his that evinced a good heart. This sort of pseudo reputation,
whether for good or for evil, is not uncommon in the world. Man is
mimetic; judges of character are rare; we repeat without thought the
opinions of some third person, who has adopted them without inquiry;
and thus it often happens that a proud, generous man obtains in time the
reputation of being 'a screw,' because he has refused to lend money
to some impudent spendthrift, who from that moment abuses him; and a
cold-hearted, civil-spoken personage, profuse in costless services, with
a spice of the parasite in him, or perhaps hospitable out of vanity,
is invested with all the thoughtless sympathies of society, and passes
current as that most popular of characters, 'a good fellow.'

Guy Flouncey's dinners began to be talked of among men: it became a
sort of fashion, especially among sporting men, to dine with Mr. Guy
Flouncey, and there they met Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Not an opening ever
escaped her. If a man had a wife, and that wife was a personage, sooner
or later, much as she might toss her head at first, she was sure to
visit Mrs. Guy Flouncey, and, when she knew her, she was sure to like
her. The Guy Flounceys never lost a moment; the instant the season was
over, they were at Cowes, then at a German bath, then at Paris, then at
an English country-house, then in London.

Seven years, to such people, was half a century of social experience.
They had half a dozen seasons in every year. Still, it was hard work,
and not rapid. At a certain point they stuck, as all do. Most people,
then, give it up; but patience, Buff on tells us, is genius, and Mrs.
Guy Flouncey was, in her way, a woman of genius. Their dinners were, in
a certain sense, established: these in return brought them to a certain
degree into the dinner world; but balls, at least balls of a high
calibre, were few, and as for giving a ball herself, Mrs. Guy Flouncey
could no more presume to think of that than of attempting to prorogue
Parliament. The house, however, got really celebrated for 'the best
men.' Mrs. Guy Flouncey invited all the young dancing lords to dinner.
Mothers will bring their daughters where there are young lords. Mrs. Guy
Flouncey had an opera-box in the best tier, which she took only to lend
to her friends; and a box at the French play, which she took only to
bribe her foes. They were both at everybody's service, like Mr. Guy
Flouncey's yacht, provided the persons who required them were members
of that great world in which Mrs. Guy Flouncey had resolved to plant
herself.

Mrs. Guy Flouncey was pretty; she was a flirt on principle; thus she had
caught the Marquess of Beaumanoir, who, if they chanced to meet,
always spoke to her, which gave Mrs. Guy Flouncey fashion. But Mrs. Guy
Flouncey was nothing more than a flirt, She never made a mistake; she
was born with strong social instincts. She knew that the fine ladies
among whom, from the first, she had determined to place herself, were
moral martinets with respect to any one not born among themselves.
That which is not observed, or, if noticed, playfully alluded to in
the conduct of a patrician dame, is visited with scorn and contumely if
committed by some 'shocking woman,' who has deprived perhaps a countess
of the affections of a husband who has not spoken to her for years.
But if the countess is to lose her husband, she ought to lose him to a
viscountess, at least. In this way the earl is not lost to 'society.'

A great nobleman met Mrs. Guy Flouncey at a country-house, and was
fairly captivated by her. Her pretty looks, her coquettish manner, her
vivacity, her charming costume, above all, perhaps, her imperturbable
good temper, pierced him to the heart. The great nobleman's wife had the
weakness to be annoyed. Mrs. Guy Flouncey saw her opportunity. She threw
over the earl, and became the friend of the countess, who could never
sufficiently evince her gratitude to the woman who would not make love
to her husband. This friendship was the incident for which Mrs. Guy
Flouncey had been cruising for years. Men she had vanquished; they had
given her a sort of _ton_ which she had prudently managed. She had not
destroyed herself by any fatal preference. Still, her fashion among men
necessarily made her unfashionable among women, who, if they did not
absolutely hate her, which they would have done had she had a noble
lover, were determined not to help her up the social ladder. Now she had
a great friend, and one of the greatest of ladies. The moment she had
pondered over for years had arrived. Mrs. Guy Flouncey determined at
once to test her position. Mrs. Guy Flouncey resolved on giving a ball.

But some of our friends in the country will say, 'Is that all? Surely
it required no very great resolution, no very protracted pondering, to
determine on giving a ball! Where is the difficulty? The lady has but to
light up her house, hire the fiddlers, line her staircase with American
plants, perhaps enclose her balcony, order Mr. Gunter to provide plenty
of the best refreshments, and at one o'clock a superb supper, and, with
the company of your friends, you have as good a ball as can be desired
by the young, or endured by the old.'

Innocent friends in the country! You might have all these things. Your
house might be decorated like a Russian palace, blazing with the most
brilliant lights and breathing the richest odours; you might have
Jullien presiding over your orchestra, and a banquet worthy of the
Romans. As for your friends, they might dance until daybreak, and agree
that there never was an entertainment more tasteful, more sumptuous,
and, what would seem of the first importance, more merry. But, having
all these things, suppose you have not a list? You have given a ball,
you have not a list. The reason is obvious: you are ashamed of your
guests. You are not in 'society.'

But even a list is not sufficient for success. You must also get a
day: the most difficult thing in the world. After inquiring among your
friends, and studying the columns of the _Morning Post_, you discover
that, five weeks hence, a day is disengaged. You send out your cards;
your house is dismantled; your lights are arranged; the American plants
have arrived; the band, perhaps two bands, are engaged. Mr. Gunter has
half dressed your supper, and made all your ice, when suddenly, within
eight-and-forty hours of the festival which you have been five weeks
preparing, the Marchioness of Deloraine sends out cards for a ball in
honour of some European sovereign who has just alighted on our isle, and
means to stay only a week, and at whose court, twenty years ago, Lord
Deloraine was ambassador. Instead of receiving your list, you are
obliged to send messengers in all directions to announce that your
ball is postponed, although you are perfectly aware that not a single
individual would have been present whom you would have cared to welcome.

The ball is postponed; and next day the _Morning Post_ informs us it is
postponed to that day week; and the day after you have circulated this
interesting intelligence, you yourself, perhaps, have the gratification
of receiving an invitation, for the same day, to Lady St. Julians': with
'dancing' neatly engraved in the corner. You yield in despair; and
there are some ladies who, with every qualification for an excellent
ball-guests, Gunter, American plants, pretty daughters have been
watching and waiting for years for an opportunity of giving it; and at
last, quite hopeless, at the end of the season, expend their funds in
a series of Greenwich banquets, which sometimes fortunately produce the
results expected from the more imposing festivity.

You see, therefore, that giving a ball is not that matter-of-course
affair you imagined; and that for Mrs. Guy Flouncey to give a ball and
succeed, completely, triumphantly to succeed, was a feat worthy of that
fine social general. Yet she did it. The means, like everything that is
great, were simple. She induced her noble friend to ask her guests. Her
noble friend canvassed for her as if it were a county election of the
good old days, when the representation of a shire was the certain
avenue to a peerage, instead of being, as it is now, the high road to a
poor-law commissionership.

Many were very glad to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Guy Flouncey; many
only wanted an excuse to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Guy Flouncey;
they went to her party because they were asked by their dear friend,
Lady Kingcastle. As for the potentates, there is no disguise on these
subjects among them. They went to Mrs. Guy Flouncey's ball because one
who was their equal, not only in rank, but in social influence, had
requested it as a personal favour, she herself, when the occasion
offered, being equally ready to advance their wishes. The fact was, that
affairs were ripe for the recognition of Mrs. Guy Flouncey as a member
of the social body. Circumstances had been long maturing. The Guy
Flounceys, who, in the course of their preparatory career, had hopped
from Park Crescent to Portman Square, had now perched upon their
'splendid mansion' in Belgrave Square. Their dinners were renowned. Mrs.
Guy Flouncey was seen at all the 'best balls,' and was always surrounded
by the 'best men.' Though a flirt and a pretty woman, she was a discreet
parvenue, who did not entrap the affections of noble husbands. Above
all, she was the friend of Lady Kingcastle, who called her and her
husband 'those good Guy Flounceys.'

The ball was given; you could not pass through Belgrave Square that
night. The list was published; it formed two columns of the Morning
Post. Lady Kingcastle was honoured by the friendship of a royal duchess.
She put the friendship to the proof, and her royal highness was seen at
Mrs. Guy Flouncey's ball. Imagine the reception, the canopy, the scarlet
cloth, the 'God save the King' from the band of the first guards,
bivouacked in the hall, Mrs. Guy Flouncey herself performing her part
as if she had received princesses of the blood all her life; so reverent
and yet so dignified, so very calm and yet with a sort of winning,
sunny innocence. Her royal highness was quite charmed with her hostess,
praised her much to Lady Kingcastle, told her that she was glad that she
had come, and even stayed half an hour longer than Mrs. Guy Flouncey
had dared to hope. As for the other guests, the peerage was gutted.
The Dictator himself was there, and, the moment her royal highness had
retired, Mrs. Guy Flouncey devoted herself to the hero. All the great
ladies, all the ambassadors, all the beauties, a full chapter of the
Garter, a chorus among the 'best men' that it was without doubt the
'best ball' of the year, happy Mrs. Guy Flouncey! She threw a glance at
her swing-glass while Mr. Guy Flouncey, who 'had not had time to get
anything the whole evening,' was eating some supper on a tray in her
dressing-room at five o'clock in the morning, and said, 'We have done it
at last, my love!'

She was right; and from that moment Mrs. Guy Flouncey was asked to all
the great houses, and became a lady of the most unexceptionable _ton_.

But all this time we are forgetting her _dejeuner_, and that Tancred
is winding his way through the garden lanes of Fulham to reach Craven
Cottage.




CHAPTER XIV.

_The Coningsbys_

THE day was brilliant: music, sunshine, ravishing bonnets, little
parasols that looked like large butterflies. The new phaetons glided
up, then carriages-and-four swept by; in general the bachelors were
ensconced in their comfortable broughams, with their glasses down and
their blinds drawn, to receive the air and to exclude the dust; some
less provident were cavaliers, but, notwithstanding the well-watered
roads, seemed a little dashed as they cast an anxious glance at the
rose which adorned their button-hole, or fancied that they felt a flying
black from a London chimney light upon the tip of their nose.

Within, the winding walks dimly echoed whispering words; the lawn was
studded with dazzling groups; on the terrace by the river a dainty
multitude beheld those celebrated waters which furnish flounders to
Richmond and whitebait to Blackwall.

'Mrs. Coningsby shall decide,' said Lord Beaumanoir.

Edith and Lady Theresa Lyle stood by a statue that glittered in the sun,
surrounded by a group of cavaliers; among them Lord Beaumanoir, Lord
Mil-ford, Lord Eugene de Vere. Her figure was not less lithe and
graceful since her marriage, a little more voluptuous; her rich
complexion, her radiant and abounding hair, and her long grey eye, now
melting with pathos, and now twinkling with mockery, presented one of
those faces of witchery which are beyond beauty.

'Mrs. Coningsby shall decide.'

'It is the very thing,' said Edith, 'that Mrs. Coningsby will never do.
Decision destroys suspense, and suspense is the charm of existence.'

'But suspense may be agony,' said Lord Eugene de Vere, casting a glance
that would read the innermost heart of Edith.

'And decision may be despair,' said Mrs. Coningsby.

'But we agreed the other night that you were to decide everything for
us,' said Lord Beaumanoir; 'and you consented.'

'I consented the other night, and I retract my consent to-day; and I am
consistent, for that is indecision.'

'You are consistent in being charming,' said Lord Eugene.

'Pleasing and original!' said Edith. 'By-the-bye, when I consented that
the melancholy Jaques should be one of my aides-de-camp I expected him
to maintain his reputation, not only for gloom but wit. I think you had
better go back to the forest, Lord Eugene, and see if you cannot
stumble upon a fool who may drill you in repartee. How do you do, Lady
Riddlesworth?' and she bowed to two ladies who seemed inclined to stop,
but Edith added, 'I heard great applications for you this moment on the
terrace.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed the ladies; and they moved on.

'When Lady Riddlesworth joins the conversation it is like a stoppage in
the streets. I invented a piece of intelligence to clear the way, as
you would call out Fire! or The queen is coming! There used to be things
called _vers de societe_, which were not poetry; and I do not see why
there should not be social illusions which are not fibs.'

'I entirely agree with you,' said Lord Milford; 'and I move that we
practise them on a large scale.'

'Like the verses, they might make life more light,' said Lady Theresa.

'We are surrounded by illusions,' said Lord Eugene, in a melancholy
tone.

'And shams of all descriptions,' said Edith; 'the greatest, a man who
pretends he has a broken heart when all the time he is full of fun.'

'There are a great many men who have broken hearts,' said Lord
Beaumanoir, smiling sorrowfully.

'Cracked heads are much commoner,' said Edith, 'you may rely upon it.
The only man I really know with a broken heart is Lord Fitz-Booby. I do
think that paying Mount-Dullard's debts has broken his heart. He takes
on so; 'tis piteous. "My dear Mrs. Coningsby," he said to me last night,
"only think what that young man might have been; he might have been a
lord of the treasury in '35; why, if he had had nothing more in '41,
why, there's a loss of between four and five thousand pounds; but with
my claims--Sir Robert, having thrown the father over, was bound on
his own principle to provide for the son--he might have got something
better; and now he comes to me with his debts, and his reason for paying
his debts, too, Mrs. Coningsby, because he is going to be married; to
be married to a woman who has not a shilling. Why, if he had been in
office, and only got 1,500L. a year, and married a woman with only
another 1,500L., he would have had 3,000L. a year, Mrs. Coningsby; and
now he has nothing of his own except some debts, which he wants me to
pay, and settle 3,000L. a year on him besides."'

They all laughed.

'Ah!' said Mrs. Coningsby, with a resemblance which made all start, 'you
should have heard it with the Fitz-Booby voice.'

The character of a woman rapidly develops after marriage, and sometimes
seems to change, when in fact it is only complete. Hitherto we have
known Edith only in her girlhood, bred up in a life of great simplicity,
and under the influence of a sweet fancy, or an absorbing passion.
Coningsby had been a hero to her before they met, the hero of nursery
hours and nursery tales. Experience had not disturbed those dreams.
From the moment they encountered each other at Millbank, he assumed that
place in her heart which he had long occupied in her imagination; and,
after their second meeting at Paris, her existence was merged in love.
All the crosses and vexations of their early affection only rendered
this state of being on her part more profound and engrossing.

But though Edith was a most happy wife, and blessed with two children
worthy of their parents, love exercises quite a different influence
upon a woman when she has married, and especially when she has assumed
a social position which deprives life of all its real cares. Under any
circumstances, that suspense, which, with all its occasional agony, is
the great spring of excitement, is over; but, generally speaking, it
will be found, notwithstanding the proverb, that with persons of a noble
nature, the straitened fortunes which they share together, and
manage, and mitigate by mutual forbearance, are more conducive to the
sustainment of a high-toned and romantic passion, than a luxurious
prosperity.

The wife of a man of limited fortune, who, by contrivance, by the
concealed sacrifice of some necessity of her own, supplies him with some
slight enjoyment which he has never asked, but which she fancies he may
have sighed for, experiences, without doubt, a degree of pleasure far
more ravishing than the patrician dame who stops her barouche at Storr
and Mortimer's, and out of her pin-money buys a trinket for the husband
whom she loves, and which he finds, perhaps, on his dressing-table, on
the anniversary of their wedding-day. That's pretty too and touching,
and should be encouraged; but the other thrills, and ends in an embrace
that is still poetry.

The Coningsbys shortly after their marriage had been called to the
possession of a great fortune, for which, in every sense, they were well
adapted. But a great fortune necessarily brings with it a great change
of habits. The claims of society proportionately increase with your
income. You live less for yourselves. For a selfish man, merely looking
to his luxurious ease, Lord Eskdale's idea of having ten thousand a
year, while the world suppose you have only five, is the right thing.
Coningsby, however, looked to a great fortune as one of the means,
rightly employed, of obtaining great power. He looked also to his wife
to assist him in this enterprise.

Edith, from a native impulse, as well as from love for him, responded
to his wish. When they were in the country, Hellingsley was a perpetual
stream and scene of splendid hospitality; there the flower of London
society mingled with all the aristocracy of the county. Leander was
often retained specially, like a Wilde or a Kelly, to renovate the
genius of the habitual chief: not of the circuit, but the kitchen.
A noble mansion in Park Lane received them the moment Parliament
assembled. Coningsby was then immersed in affairs, and counted entirely
on Edith to cherish those social influences which in a public career
are not less important than political ones. The whole weight of the
management of society rested on her. She had to cultivate his alliances,
keep together his friends, arrange his dinner-parties, regulate his
engagements. What time for romantic love? They were never an hour alone.
Yet they loved not less; but love had taken the character of enjoyment
instead of a wild bewitchment; and life had become an airy bustle,
instead of a storm, an agony, a hurricane of the heart.

In this change in the disposition, not in the degree, of their
affection, for there was the same amount of sweet solicitude, only it
was duly apportioned to everything that interested them, instead of
being exclusively devoted to each other, the character of Edith, which
had been swallowed up by the absorbing passion, rapidly developed itself
amid the social circumstances. She was endued with great vivacity, a
sanguine and rather saucy spirit, with considerable talents, and a large
share of feminine vanity: that divine gift which makes woman charming.
Entirely sympathising with her husband, labouring with zeal to advance
his views, and living perpetually in the world, all these qualities
came to light. During her first season she had been very quiet, not less
observant, making herself mistress of the ground. It was prepared
for her next campaign. When she evinced a disposition to take a lead,
although found faultless the first year, it was suddenly remembered that
she was a manufacturer's daughter; and she was once described by a great
lady as 'that person whom Mr. Coningsby had married, when Lord Monmouth
cut him off with a shilling.'

But Edith had anticipated these difficulties, and was not to be daunted.
Proud of her husband, confident in herself, supported by a great
establishment, and having many friends, she determined to exchange
salutes with these social sharp-shooters, who are scarcely as courageous
as they are arrogant. It was discovered that Mrs. Coningsby could be
as malicious as her assailants, and far more epigrammatic. She could
describe in a sentence and personify in a phrase. The _mot_ was
circulated, the _nom de nique_ repeated. Surrounded by a brilliant
band of youth and wit, even her powers of mimickry were revealed to the
initiated. More than one social tyrant, whom all disliked, but whom
none had ventured to resist, was made ridiculous. Flushed by success and
stimulated by admiration, Edith flattered herself that she was assisting
her husband while she was gratifying her vanity. Her adversaries soon
vanished, but the powers that had vanquished them were too choice to
be forgotten or neglected. The tone of raillery she had assumed for
the moment, and extended, in self-defence, to persons, was adopted as a
habit, and infused itself over affairs in general.

Mrs. Coningsby was the fashion; she was a wit as well as a beauty; a
fascinating droll; dazzling and bewitching, the idol of every youth.
Eugene de Vere was roused from his premature exhaustion, and at last
found excitement again. He threw himself at her feet; she laughed at
him. He asked leave to follow her footsteps; she consented. He was
only one of a band of slaves. Lord Beaumanoir, still a bachelor, always
hovered about her, feeding on her laughing words with a mild melancholy,
and sometimes bandying repartee with a kind of tender and stately
despair. His sister, Lady Theresa Lyle, was Edith's great friend. Their
dispositions had some resemblance. Marriage had developed in both
of them a frolic grace. They hunted in couple; and their sport was
brilliant. Many things may be said by a strong female alliance, that
would assume quite a different character were they even to fall from the
lips of an Aspasia to a circle of male votaries; so much depends upon
the scene and the characters, the mode and the manner.

The good-natured world would sometimes pause in its amusement, and,
after dwelling with statistical accuracy on the number of times Mrs.
Coningsby had danced the polka, on the extraordinary things she said to
Lord Eugene de Vere, and the odd things she and Lady Theresa Lyle were
perpetually doing, would wonder, with a face and voice of innocence,
'how Mr. Coningsby liked all this?' There is no doubt what was the
anticipation by the good-natured world of Mr. Coningsby's feelings. But
they were quite mistaken. There was nothing that Mr. Coningsby liked
more. He wished his wife to become a social power; and he wished his
wife to be amused. He saw that, with the surface of a life of levity,
she already exercised considerable influence, especially over the young;
and independently of such circumstances and considerations, he was
delighted to have a wife who was not afraid of going into society by
herself; not one whom he was sure to find at home when he returned
from the House of Commons, not reproaching him exactly for her social
sacrifices, but looking a victim, and thinking that she retained her
husband's heart by being a mope. Instead of that Con-ingsby wanted to be
amused when he came home, and more than that, he wanted to be instructed
in the finest learning in the world.

As some men keep up their Greek by reading every day a chapter in the
New Testament, so Con-ingsby kept up his knowledge of the world, by
always, once at least in the four-and-twenty hours, having a delightful
conversation with his wife. The processes were equally orthodox.
Exempted from the tax of entering general society, free to follow his
own pursuits, and to live in that political world which alone interested
him, there was not an anecdote, a trait, a good thing said, or a bad
thing done, which did not reach him by a fine critic and a lively
narrator. He was always behind those social scenes which, after all,
regulate the political performers, knew the springs of the whole
machinery, the chang-ings and the shiftings, the fiery cars and golden
chariots which men might mount, and the trap-doors down which men might
fall.

But the Marquess of Montacute is making his reverence to Mrs. Guy
Flouncey.

There was not at this moment a human being whom that lady was more glad
to see at her _dejeuner_; but she did not show it in the least. Her
self-possession, indeed, was the finest work of art of the day, and
ought to be exhibited at the Adelaide Gallery. Like all mechanical
inventions of a high class, it had been brought to perfection very
gradually, and after many experiments. A variety of combinations, and
an almost infinite number of trials, must have been expended before the
too-startling laugh of Con-ingsby Castle could have subsided into the
haughty suavity of that sunny glance, which was not familiar enough for
a smile, nor foolish enough for a simper. As for the rattling vein which
distinguished her in the days of our first acquaintance, that had long
ceased. Mrs. Guy Flouncey now seemed to share the prevalent passion for
genuine Saxon, and used only monosyllables; while Fine-ear himself would
have been sometimes at fault had he attempted to give a name to her
delicate breathings. In short, Mrs. Guy Flouncey never did or said
anything but in 'the best taste.' It may, however, be a question,
whether she ever would have captivated Lord Monmouth, and those who
like a little nature and fun, if she had made her first advances in this
style. But that showed the greatness of the woman. Then she was ready
for anything for promotion. That was the age of forlorn hopes; but now
she was a general of division, and had assumed a becoming carriage.

This was the first _dejeuner_ at which Tancred had been present. He
rather liked it. The scene, lawns and groves and a glancing river, the
air, the music, our beautiful countrywomen, who, with their brilliant
complexions and bright bonnets, do not shrink from the daylight, these
are circumstances which, combined with youth and health, make a morning
festival, say what they like, particularly for the first time, very
agreeable, even if one be dreaming of Jerusalem. Strange power of the
world, that the moment we enter it, our great conceptions dwarf! In
youth it is quick sympathy that degrades them; more advanced, it is the
sense of the ridiculous. But perhaps these reveries of solitude may not
be really great conceptions; perhaps they are only exaggerations;
vague, indefinite, shadowy, formed on no sound principles, founded on no
assured basis.

Why should Tancred go to Jerusalem? What does it signify to him whether
there be religious truth or political justice? He has youth, beauty,
rank, wealth, power, and all in excess. He has a mind that can
comprehend their importance and appreciate their advantages. What more
does he require? Unreasonable boy! And if he reach Jerusalem, why should
he find religious truth and political justice there? He can read of
it in the travelling books, written by young gentlemen, with the best
letters of introduction to all the consuls. They tell us what it is, a
third-rate city in a stony wilderness. Will the Providence of fashion
prevent this great folly about to be perpetrated by one born to be
fashion's most brilliant subject? A folly, too, which may end in a
catastrophe? His parents, indeed, have appealed in vain; but the
sneer of the world will do more than the supplication of the father. A
mother's tear may be disregarded, but the sigh of a mistress has changed
the most obdurate. We shall see. At present Lady Constance Rawleigh
expresses her pleasure at Tancred's arrival, and his heart beats a
little.




CHAPTER XV.

_Disenchantment_

THEY are talking about it,' said Lord Eskdale to the duchess, as she
looked up to him with an expression of the deepest interest. 'He asked
St. Patrick to introduce him to her at Deloraine House, danced with her,
was with her the whole evening, went to the breakfast on Saturday to
meet her, instead of going to Blackwall to see a yacht he was after.'

'If it were only Katherine,' said the duchess, 'I should be quite
happy.'

'Don't be uneasy,' said Lord Eskdale; 'there will be plenty of
Katherines and Constances, too, before he finishes. The affair is not
much, but it shows, as I foretold, that, the moment he found something
more amusing, his taste for yachting would pass off.' 'You are right,
you always are.' What really was this affair, which Lord Eskdale held
lightly? With a character like Tancred, everything may become important.
Profound and yet simple, deep in self-knowledge yet inexperienced, his
reserve, which would screen him from a thousand dangers, was just the
quality which would insure his thraldom by the individual who could once
effectually melt the icy barrier and reach the central heat. At this
moment of his life, with all the repose, and sometimes even the high
ceremony, on the surface, he was a being formed for high-reaching
exploits, ready to dare everything and reckless of all consequences, if
he proposed to himself an object which he believed to be just and great.
This temper of mind would, in all things, have made him act with that
rapidity, which is rashness with the weak, and decision with the strong.
The influence of woman on him was novel. It was a disturbing influence,
on which he had never counted in those dreams and visions in which there
had figured more heroes than heroines. In the imaginary interviews in
which he had disciplined his solitary mind, his antagonists had been
statesmen, prelates, sages, and senators, with whom he struggled and
whom he vanquished.

He was not unequal in practice to his dreams. His shyness would have
vanished in an instant before a great occasion; he could have addressed
a public assembly; he was capable of transacting important affairs.
These were all situations and contingencies which he had foreseen, and
which for him were not strange, for he had become acquainted with them
in his reveries. But suddenly he was arrested by an influence for which
he was unprepared; a precious stone made him stumble who was to have
scaled the Alps. Why should the voice, the glance, of another agitate
his heart? The cherubim of his heroic thoughts not only deserted him,
but he was left without the guardian angel of his shyness. He melted,
and the iceberg might degenerate into a puddle.

Lord Eskdale drew his conclusions like a clever man of the world, and in
general he would have been right; but a person like Tancred was in much
greater danger of being captured than a common-place youth entering
life with second-hand experience, and living among those who ruled his
opinions by their sneers and sarcasms. A malicious tale by a spiteful
woman, the chance ribaldry of a club-room window, have often been the
impure agencies which have saved many a youth from committing a great
folly; but Tancred was beyond all these influences. If they had
been brought to bear on him, they would rather have precipitated the
catastrophe. His imagination would have immediately been summoned to the
rescue of his offended pride; he would have invested the object of
his regard with supernatural qualities, and consoled her for the
impertinence of society by his devotion.

Lady Constance was clever; she talked like a married woman, was
critical, yet easy; and having guanoed her mind by reading French
novels, had a variety of conclusions on all social topics, which she
threw forth with unfaltering promptness, and with the well-arranged air
of an impromptu. These were all new to Tancred, and startling. He was
attracted by the brilliancy, though he often regretted the tone, which
he ascribed to the surrounding corruption from which he intended to
escape, and almost wished to save her at the same time. Sometimes
Tancred looked unusually serious; but at last his rare and brilliant
smile beamed upon one who really admired him, was captivated by his
intellect, his freshness, his difference from all around, his
pensive beauty and his grave innocence. Lady Constance was free from
affectation; she was frank and natural; she did not conceal the pleasure
she had in his society; she conducted herself with that dignified
facility, becoming a young lady who had already refused the hands of two
future earls, and of the heir of the Clan-Alpins.

A short time after the _dejeuner_ at Craven Cottage, Lord Montacute
called on Lady Charmouth. She was at home, and received him with great
cordiality, looking up from her frame of worsted work with a benign
maternal expression; while Lady Constance, who was writing an urgent
reply to a note that had just arrived, said rapidly some agreeable
words of welcome, and continued her task. Tancred seated himself by the
mother, made an essay in that small talk in which he was by no means
practised, but Lady Charmouth helped him on without seeming to do so.
The note was at length dispatched, Tancred of course still remaining at
the mother's side, and Lady Constance too distant for his wishes. He had
nothing to say to Lady Charmouth; he began to feel that the pleasure of
feminine society consisted in talking alone to her daughter.

While he was meditating a retreat, and yet had hardly courage to rise
and walk alone down a large long room, a new guest was announced.
Tancred rose, and murmured good-morning; and yet, somehow or other,
instead of quitting the apartment, he went and seated himself by Lady
Constance. It really was as much the impulse of shyness, which sought
a nook of refuge, as any other feeling that actuated him; but Lady
Constance seemed pleased, and said in a low voice and in a careless
tone, ''Tis Lady Bran-cepeth; do you know her? Mamma's great friend;'
which meant, you need give yourself no trouble to talk to any one but
myself.

After making herself very agreeable, Lady Constance took up a book
which was at hand, and said, 'Do you know this?' And Tancred, opening a
volume which he had never seen, and then turning to its titlepage, found
it was 'The Revelations of Chaos,' a startling work just published, and
of which a rumour had reached him.

'No,' he replied; 'I have not seen it.'

'I will lend it you if you like: it is one of those books one must read.
It explains everything, and is written in a very agreeable style.'

'It explains everything!' said Tancred; 'it must, indeed, be a very
remarkable book!'

'I think it will just suit you,' said Lady Constance. 'Do you know, I
thought so several times while I was reading it.'

'To judge from the title, the subject is rather obscure,' said Tancred.

'No longer so,' said Lady Constance. 'It is treated scientifically;
everything is explained by geology and astronomy, and in that way. It
shows you exactly how a star is formed; nothing can be so pretty! A
cluster of vapour, the cream of the Milky Way, a sort of celestial
cheese, churned into light, you must read it, 'tis charming.'

'Nobody ever saw a star formed,' said Tancred.

'Perhaps not. You must read the "Revelations;" it is all explained. But
what is most interesting, is the way in which man has been developed.
You know, all is development. The principle is perpetually going on.
First, there was nothing, then there was something; then, I forget the
next, I think there were shells, then fishes; then we came, let me see,
did we come next? Never mind that; we came at last. And the next change
there will be something very superior to us, something with wings. Ah!
that's it: we were fishes, and I believe we shall be crows. But you must
read it.'

'I do not believe I ever was a fish,' said Tancred. 'Oh! but it is all
proved; you must not argue on my rapid sketch; read the book. It is
impossible to contradict anything in it. You understand, it is all
science; it is not like those books in which one says one thing and
another the contrary, and both may be wrong. Everything is proved: by
geology, you know. You see exactly how everything is made; how many
worlds there have been; how long they lasted; what went before, what
comes next. We are a link in the chain, as inferior animals were that
preceded us: we in turn shall be inferior; all that will remain of us
will be some relics in a new red sandstone. This is development. We had
fins; we may have wings.'

Tancred grew silent and thoughtful; Lady Bran-cepeth moved, and he
rose at the same time. Lady Charmouth looked as if it were by no means
necessary for him to depart, but he bowed very low, and then bade
farewell to Lady Constance, who said, 'We shall meet to-night.'

'I was a fish, and I shall be a crow,' said Tancred to himself, when the
hall door closed on him. 'What a spiritual mistress! And yesterday, for
a moment, I almost dreamed of kneeling with her at the Holy Sepulchre! I
must get out of this city as quickly as possible; I cannot cope with
its corruption. The acquaintance, however, has been of use to me, for
I think I have got a yacht by it. I believe it was providential, and a
trial. I will go home and write instantly to Fitz-Heron, and accept his
offer. One hundred and eighty tons: it will do; it must.'

At this moment he met Lord Eskdale, who had observed Tancred from the
end of Grosvenor Square, on the steps of Lord Charmouth's door. This
circumstance ill prepared Lord Eskdale for Tancred's salutation.

'My dear lord, you are just the person I wanted to meet. You promised to
recommend me a servant who had travelled in the East.'

'Well, are you in a hurry?' said Lord Eskdale, gaining time, and
pumping.

'I should like to get off as soon as practicable.' 'Humph!' said Lord
Eskdale. 'Have you got a yacht?' 'I have.'

'Oh! So you want a servant?' he added, after a moment's pause.

'I mentioned that, because you were so kind as to say you could help me
in that respect.'

'Ah! I did,' said Lord Eskdale, thoughtfully. 'But I want a great many
things,' continued Tancred. 'I must make arrangements about money; I
suppose I must get some letters; in fact, I want generally your advice.'

'What are you going to do about the colonel and the rest?'

'I have promised my father to take them,' said Tancred, 'though I feel
they will only embarrass me. They have engaged to be ready at a week's
notice; I shall write to them immediately. If they do not fulfil their
engagement, I am absolved from mine.'

'So you have got a yacht, eh?' said Lord Eskdale. 'I suppose you have
bought the Basilisk?'

'Exactly.'

'She wants a good deal doing to her.'

'Something, but chiefly for show, which I do not care about; but I mean
to get away, and refit, if necessary, at Gibraltar. I must go.'

'Well, if you must go,' said his lordship, and then he added, 'and in
such a hurry; let me see. You want a firstrate managing man, used to the
East, and letters, and money, and advice. Hem! You don't know Sidonia?'

'Not at all.'

'He is the man to get hold of, but that is so difficult now. He never
goes anywhere. Let me see, this is Monday; to-morrow is post-day, and
I dine with him alone in the City. Well, you shall hear from me on
Wednesday morning early, about everything; but I would not write to the
colonel and his friends just yet.'




CHAPTER XVI.

_Tancred Rescues a Lady in Distress_

THAT is most striking in London is its vastness. It is the illimitable
feeling that gives it a special character. London is not grand. It
possesses only one of the qualifications of a grand city, size; but it
wants the equally important one, beauty. It is the union of these two
qualities that produced the grand cities, the Romes, the Babylons,
the hundred portals of the Pharaohs; multitudes and magnificence; the
millions influenced by art. Grand cities are unknown since the beautiful
has ceased to be the principle of invention. Paris, of modern capitals,
has aspired to this character; but if Paris be a beautiful city, it
certainly is not a grand one; its population is too limited, and, from
the nature of their dwellings, they cover a comparatively small space.
Constantinople is picturesque; nature has furnished a sublime site, but
it has little architectural splendour, and you reach the environs with a
fatal facility. London overpowers us with its vastness.

Place a Forum or an Acropolis in its centre, and the effect of the
metropolitan mass, which now has neither head nor heart, instead of
being stupefying, would be ennobling. Nothing more completely represents
a nation than a public building. A member of Parliament only represents,
at the most, the united constituencies: but the Palace of the Sovereign,
a National Gallery, or a Museum baptised with the name of the country,
these are monuments to which all should be able to look up with pride,
and which should exercise an elevating influence upon the spirit of the
humblest. What is their influence in London? Let us not criticise what
all condemn. But how remedy the evil? What is wanted in architecture,
as in so many things, is a man. Shall we find a refuge in a Committee of
Taste? Escape from the mediocrity of one to the mediocrity of many? We
only multiply our feebleness, and aggravate our deficiencies. But one
suggestion might be made. No profession in England has done its duty
until it has furnished its victim. The pure administration of justice
dates from the deposition of Macclesfield. Even our boasted navy never
achieved a great victory until we shot an admiral. Suppose an architect
were hanged? Terror has its inspiration as well as competition.

Though London is vast, it is very monotonous. All those new districts
that have sprung up within the last half-century, the creatures of our
commercial and colonial wealth, it is impossible to conceive anything
more tame, more insipid, more uniform. Pancras is like Mary-le-bone,
Mary-le-bone is like Paddington; all the streets resemble each other,
you must read the names of the squares before you venture to knock at
a door. This amount of building capital ought to have produced a great
city. What an opportunity for architecture suddenly summoned to furnish
habitations for a population equal to that of the city of Bruxelles,
and a population, too, of great wealth. Mary-le-bone alone ought to have
produced a revolution in our domestic architecture. It did nothing. It
was built by Act of Parliament. Parliament prescribed even a facade. It
is Parliament to whom we are indebted for your Gloucester Places, and
Baker Streets, and Harley Streets, and Wimpole Streets, and all those
flat, dull, spiritless streets, resembling each other like a large
family of plain children, with Portland Place and Portman Square for
their respectable parents. The influence of our Parliamentary Government
upon the fine arts is a subject worth pursuing. The power that produced
Baker Street as a model for street architecture in its celebrated
Building Act, is the power that prevented Whitehall from being
completed, and which sold to foreigners all the pictures which the King
of England had collected to civilise his people.

In our own days we have witnessed the rapid creation of a new
metropolitan quarter, built solely for the aristocracy by an aristocrat.
The Belgrave district is as monotonous as Mary-le-bone; and is so
contrived as to be at the same time insipid and tawdry.

Where London becomes more interesting is Charing Cross. Looking to
Northumberland House, and turning your back upon Trafalgar Square, the
Strand is perhaps the finest street in Europe, blending the architecture
of many periods; and its river ways are a peculiar feature and rich with
associations. Fleet Street, with its Temple, is not unworthy of being
contiguous to the Strand. The fire of London has deprived us of the
delight of a real old quarter of the city; but some bits remain, and
everywhere there is a stirring multitude, and a great crush and crash of
carts and wains. The Inns of Court, and the quarters in the vicinity of
the port, Thames Street, Tower Hill, Billingsgate, Wapping, Rotherhithe,
are the best parts of London; they are full of character: the buildings
bear a nearer relation to what the people are doing than in the more
polished quarters.

The old merchants of the times of the first Georges were a fine race.
They knew their position, and built up to it. While the territorial
aristocracy, pulling down their family hotels, were raising vulgar
streets and squares upon their site, and occupying themselves one of
the new tenements, the old merchants filled the straggling lanes, which
connected the Royal Exchange with the port of London, with mansions
which, if not exactly equal to the palaces of stately Venice, might at
least vie with many of the hotels of old Paris. Some of these,
though the great majority have been broken up into chambers and
counting-houses, still remain intact.

In a long, dark, narrow, crooked street, which is still called a lane,
and which runs from the south side of the street of the Lombards towards
the river, there is one of these old houses of a century past, and
which, both in its original design and present condition, is a noble
specimen of its order. A pair of massy iron gates, of elaborate
workmanship, separate the street from its spacious and airy court-yard,
which is formed on either side by a wing of the mansion, itself a
building of deep red brick, with a pediment, and pilasters, and copings
of stone. A flight of steps leads to the lofty and central doorway; in
the middle of the court there is a garden plot, inclosing a fountain,
and a fine plane tree.

The stillness, doubly effective after the tumult just quitted, the
lulling voice of the water, the soothing aspect of the quivering
foliage, the noble building, and the cool and capacious quadrangle, the
aspect even of those who enter, and frequently enter, the precinct, and
who are generally young men, gliding in and out, earnest and full
of thought, all contribute to give to this locality something of the
classic repose of a college, instead of a place agitated with the
most urgent interests of the current hour; a place that deals with the
fortunes of kings and empires, and regulates the most important affairs
of nations, for it is the counting-house in the greatest of modern
cities of the most celebrated of modern financiers.

It was the visit of Tancred to the City, on the Wednesday morning after
he had met Lord Eskdale, that occasions me to touch on some of the
characteristics of our capital. It was the first time that Tancred had
ever been in the City proper, and it greatly interested him. His visit
was prompted by receiving, early on Wednesday morning, the following
letter:


'Dear Tancred: I saw Sidonia yesterday, and spoke to him of what you
want. He is much occupied just now, as his uncle, who attended to
affairs here, is dead, and, until he can import another uncle or cousin,
he must steer the ship, as times are critical. But he bade me say you
might call upon him in the City to-day, at two o'clock. He lives in
Sequin Court, near the Bank. You will have no difficulty in finding
it. I recommend you to go, as he is the sort of man who will really
understand what you mean, which neither your father nor myself do
exactly; and, besides, he is a person to know.

'I enclose a line which you will send in, that there may be no mistake.
I should tell you, as you are very fresh, that he is of the Hebrew race;
so don't go on too much about the Holy Sepulchre.

'Yours faithfully,

'ESKDALE.

'Spring Gardens, Wednesday morning.'


It is just where the street is most crowded, where it narrows, and
losing the name of Cheapside, takes that of the Poultry, that the last
of a series of stoppages occurred; a stoppage which, at the end of ten
minutes, lost its inert character of mere obstruction, and
developed into the livelier qualities of the row. There were oaths,
contradictions, menaces: 'No, you sha'n't; Yes, I will; No, I didn't;
Yes, you did; No, you haven't; Yes, I have;' the lashing of a whip, the
interference of a policeman, a crash, a scream. Tan-cred looked out of
the window of his brougham. He saw a chariot in distress, a chariot such
as would have become an Ondine by the waters of the Serpentine, and the
very last sort of equipage that you could expect to see smashed in the
Poultry. It was really breaking a butterfly upon a wheel to crush its
delicate springs, and crack its dark brown panels, soil its dainty
hammer-cloth, and endanger the lives of its young coachman in a flaxen
wig, and its two tall footmen in short coats, worthy of Cinderella.

The scream, too, came from a fair owner, who was surrounded by clamorous
carmen and city marshals, and who, in an unknown land, was afraid she
might be put in a city compter, because the people in the city had
destroyed her beautiful chariot. Tan-cred let himself out of his
brougham, and not without difficulty contrived, through the narrow and
crowded passage formed by the two lines, to reach the chariot, which was
coming the contrary way to him. Some ruthless officials were persuading
a beautiful woman to leave her carriage, the wheel of which was broken.
'But where am I to go?' she exclaimed. 'Icannot walk. I will not leave
my carriage until you bring me some conveyance. You ought to punish
these people, who have quite ruined my chariot.'

'They say it was your coachman's fault; we have nothing to do with that;
besides, you know who they are. Their employers' name is on the cart,
Brown, Bugsby, and Co., Limehouse. You can have your redress against
Brown, Bugsby, and Co., Lime-house, if your coachman is not in fault;
but you cannot stop up the way, and you had better get out, and let the
carriage be removed to the Steel-yard.'

'What am I to do?' exclaimed the lady with a tearful eye and agitated
face.

'I have a carriage at hand,' said Tancred, who at this moment reached
her, 'and it is quite at your service.'

The lady cast her beautiful eyes, with an expression of astonishment she
could not conceal, at the distinguished youth who thus suddenly appeared
in the midst of insolent carmen, brutal policemen, and all the cynical
amateurs of a mob. Public opinion in the Poultry was against her; her
coachman's wig had excited derision; the footmen had given themselves
airs; there was a strong feeling against the shortcoats. As for the
lady, though at first awed by her beauty and magnificence, they rebelled
against the authority of her manner. Besides, she was not alone. There
was a gentleman with her, who wore moustaches, and had taken a part in
the proceedings at first, by addressing the carmen in French. This was
too much, and the mob declared he was Don Carlos.

'You are too good,' said the lady, with a sweet expression.

[Illustration: page152]

Tancred opened the door of the chariot, the policemen pulled down the
steps, the servants were told to do the best they could with the wrecked
equipage; in a second the lady and her companion were in Tancred's
brougham, who, desiring his servants to obey all their orders,
disappeared, for the stoppage at this moment began to move, and there
was no time for bandying compliments.

He had gained the pavement, and had made his way as far as the Mansion
House, when, finding a group of public buildings, he thought it prudent
to inquire which was the Bank.

'That is the Bank,' said a good-natured man, in a bustle, but taken by
Tancred's unusual appearance. 'What do you want? I am going there.'

'I do not want exactly the Bank,' replied Tancred, 'but a place
somewhere near it. Do you happen to know, sir, a place called Sequin
Court?'

'I should think I did,' said the man, smiling. 'So you are going to
Sidonia's?'




CHAPTER XVII.

_The Wizard of Fortune_

TANCRED entered Sequin Court; a chariot with a foreign coronet was at
the foot of the great steps which he ascended. He was received by a fat
hall porter, who would not have disgraced his father's establishment,
and who, rising with lazy insolence from his hooded chair, when he
observed that Tancred did not advance, asked the new comer what
he wanted. 'I want Monsieur de Sidonia.' 'Can't see him now; he is
engaged.' 'I have a note for him.'

'Very well, give it me; it will be sent in. You can sit here.' And the
porter opened the door of a waiting-room, which Tancred declined to
enter. 'I will wait here, thank you,' said Tancred, and he looked round
at the old oak hall, on the walls of which were hung several portraits,
and from which ascended one of those noble staircases never found in a
modern London mansion. At the end of the hall, on a slab of porphyry,
was a marble bust, with this inscription on it, '_Fundator_.' It was the
first Sidonia, by Chantrey.

'I will wait here, thank you,' said Tancred, looking round; and then,
with some hesitation, he added, 'I have an appointment here at two
o'clock.'

As he spoke, that hour sounded from the belfry of an old city church
that was at hand, and then was taken up by the chimes of a large German
clock in the hall.

'It may be,' said the porter, 'but I can't disturb master now; the
Spanish ambassador is with him, and others are waiting. When he is gone,
a clerk will take in your letter with some others that are here.'

At this moment, and while Tancred remained in the hall, various persons
entered, and, without noticing the porter, pursued their way across the
apartment.

'And where are those persons going?' inquired Tancred.

The porter looked at the enquirer with a blended gaze of curiosity and
contempt, and then negligently answered him without looking in Tancred's
face, and while he was brushing up the hearth, 'Some are going to the
counting-house, and some are going to the Bank, I should think.'

'I wonder if our hall porter is such an infernal bully as Monsieur de
Sidonia's!' thought Tancred.

There was a stir. 'The ambassador is coming out,' said the hall porter;
'you must not stand in the way.'

The well-trained ear of this guardian of the gate was conversant with
every combination of sound which the apartments of Sequin Court could
produce. Close as the doors might be shut, you could not rise from your
chair without his being aware of it; and in the present instance he was
correct. A door at the end of the hall opened, and the Spanish minister
came forth.

'Stand aside,' said the hall porter to Tancred; and, summoning the
servants without, he ushered his excellency with some reverence to his
carriage.

'Now your letter will go in with the others,' he said to Tancred, whom
for a few moments he left alone, and then returned, taking no notice of
our young friend, but, depositing his bulky form in his hooded chair, he
resumed the city article of the _Times_.

The letter ran thus:


'Dear Sidonia: This will be given you by my cousin Montacute, of whom
I spoke to you yesterday. He wants to go to Jerusalem, which very much
perplexes his family, for he is an only child. I don't suppose the
danger is what they imagine. But still there is nothing like experience,
and there is no one who knows so much of these things as yourself. I
have promised his father and mother, very innocent people, whom of all
my relatives, I most affect, to do what I can for him. If, therefore,
you can aid Montacute, you will really serve me. He seems to have
character, though I can't well make him out. I fear I indulged in the
hock yesterday, for I feel a twinge. Yours faithfully,

'ESKDALE.

'Wednesday morning.'


The hall clock had commenced the quarter chimes, when a young man,
fair and intelligent, and wearing spectacles, came into the hall, and,
opening the door of the waiting-room, looked as if he expected to find
some one there; then, turning to the porter, he said, 'Where is Lord
Montacute?'

The porter rose from his hooded chair, and put down the newspaper, but
Tancred had advanced when he heard his name, and bowed, and followed the
young man in spectacles, who invited Tancred to accompany him.

Tancred was ushered into a spacious and rather long apartment, panelled
with old oak up to the white coved ceiling, which was richly ornamented.
Four windows looked upon the fountain and the plane tree. A portrait by
Lawrence, evidently of the same individual who had furnished the model
to Chantrey, was over the high, old-fashioned, but very handsome marble
mantel-piece. A Turkey carpet, curtains of crimson damask, some large
tables covered with papers, several easy chairs, against the walls some
iron cabinets, these were the furniture of the room, at one corner of
which was a glass door, which led to a vista of apartments fitted up as
counting-houses, filled with clerks, and which, if expedient, might be
covered by a baize screen, which was now unclosed.

A gentleman writing at a table rose as he came in, and extending his
hand said, as he pointed to a seat, 'I am afraid I have made you come
out at an unusual hour.'

The young man in spectacles in the meanwhile retired; Tancred had bowed
and murmured his compliments: and his host, drawing his chair a little
from the table, continued: 'Lord Eskdale tells me that you have some
thoughts of going to Jerusalem.'

'I have for some time had that intention.'

'It is a pity that you did not set out earlier in the year, and then you
might have been there during the Easter pilgrimage. It is a fine sight.'

'It is a pity,' said Tancred; 'but to reach Jerusalem is with me an
object of so much moment, that I shall be content to find myself there
at any time, and under any circumstances.'

'It is no longer difficult to reach Jerusalem; the real difficulty is
the one experienced by the crusaders, to know what to do when you have
arrived there.'

'It is the land of inspiration,' said Tancred, slightly blushing; 'and
when I am there, I would humbly pray that my course may be indicated to
me.'

'And you think that no prayers, however humble, would obtain for you
that indication before your departure?'

'This is not the land of inspiration,' replied Tancred, timidly.

'But you have your Church,' said Sidonia.

'Which I hold of divine institution, and which should be under the
immediate influence of the Holy Spirit,' said Tancred, dropping his
eyes, and colouring still more as he found himself already trespassing
on that delicate province of theology which always fascinated him, but
which it had been intimated to him by Lord Eskdale that he should avoid.

'Is it wanting to you, then, in this conjuncture?' inquired his
companion.

'I find its opinions conflicting, its decrees contradictory, its conduct
inconsistent,' replied Tancred. 'I have conferred with one who is
esteemed its most eminent prelate, and I have left him with a conviction
of what I had for some time suspected, that inspiration is not only a
divine but a local quality.'

'You and I have some reason to believe so,' said Sidonia. 'I believe
that God spoke to Moses on Mount Horeb, and you believe that he was
crucified, in the person of Jesus, on Mount Calvary. Both were, at least
carnally, children of Israel: they spoke Hebrew to the Hebrews. The
prophets were only Hebrews; the apostles were only Hebrews. The churches
of Asia, which have vanished, were founded by a native Hebrew; and the
church of Rome, which says it shall last for ever, and which converted
this island to the faith of Moses and of Christ, vanquishing the Druids,
Jupiter Olympius, and Woden, who had successively invaded it, was also
founded by a native Hebrew. Therefore, I say, your suspicion or your
conviction is, at least, not a fantastic one.'

Tancred listened to Sidonia as he spoke with great interest, and with an
earnest and now quite unembarrassed manner. The height of the argument
had immediately surmounted all his social reserve. His intelligence
responded to the great theme that had so long occupied his musing
hours; and the unexpected character of a conversation which, as he
had supposed, would have mainly treated of letters of credit, the more
excited him.

'Then,' said Tancred, with animation, 'seeing how things are, that I am
born in an age and in a country divided between infidelity on one side
and an anarchy of creeds on the other; with none competent to guide
me, yet feeling that I must believe, for I hold that duty cannot exist
without faith; is it so wild as some would think it, I would say is it
unreasonable, that I should wish to do that which, six centuries ago,
was done by my ancestor whose name I bear, and that I should cross the
seas, and----?' He hesitated.

'And visit the Holy Sepulchre,' said Sidonia.

'And visit the Holy Sepulchre,' said Tancred, solemnly; 'for that, I
confess, is my sovereign thought.'

'Well, the crusades were of vast advantage to Europe,' said Sidonia,
'and renovated the spiritual hold which Asia has always had upon the
North. It seems to wane at present, but it is only the decrease that
precedes the new development.'

'It must be so,' said Tancred; 'for who can believe that a country
once sanctified by the Divine Presence can ever be as other lands? Some
celestial quality, distinguishing it from all other climes, must for
ever linger about it. I would ask those mountains, that were reached by
angels, why they no longer receive heavenly visitants. I would appeal
to that Comforter promised to man, on the sacred spot on which the
assurance of solace was made. I require a Comforter. I have appealed
to the holy influence in vain in England. It has not visited me; I know
none here on whom it has descended. I am induced, therefore, to believe
that it is part of the divine scheme that its influence should be local;
that it should be approached with reverence, not thoughtlessly and
hurriedly, but with such difficulties and such an interval of time as a
pilgrimage to a spot sanctified can alone secure.'

Sidonia listened to Tancred with deep attention. Lord Montacute was
seated opposite the windows, so that there was a full light upon the
play of the countenance, the expression of which Sidonia watched, while
his keen and far-reaching vision traced at the same time the formation
and development of the head of his visitor. He recognised in this youth
not a vain and vague visionary, but a being in whom the faculties of
reason and imagination were both of the highest class, and both
equally developed. He observed that he was of a nature passionately
affectionate, and that he was of a singular audacity. He perceived that
though, at this moment, Tancred was as ignorant of the world as a
young monk, he possessed all the latent qualities which in future would
qualify him to control society. When Tancred had finished speaking,
there was a pause of a few seconds, during which Sidonia seemed lost in
thought; then, looking up, he said, 'It appears to me, Lord Montacute,
that what you want is to penetrate the great Asian mystery.'

'You have touched my inmost thought,' said Tancred, eagerly.

At this moment there entered the room, from the glass door, the same
young man who had ushered Tancred into the apartment. He brought a
letter to Sidonia. Lord Montacute felt confused; his shyness returned to
him; he deplored the unfortunate interruption, but he felt he was in
the way. He rose, and began to say good-morning, when Sidonia, without
taking his eyes off the letter, saw him, and waving his hand, stopped
him, saying, 'I settled with Lord Eskdale that you were not to go away
if anything occurred which required my momentary attention. So pray sit
down, unless you have engagements.' And Tancred again seated himself.

'Write,' continued Sidonia to the clerk, 'that my letters are twelve
hours later than the despatches, and that the City continued quite
tranquil. Let the extract from the Berlin letter be left at the same
time at the Treasury. The last bulletin?'

'Consols drooping at half-past two; all the foreign funds lower; shares
very active.'

They were once more alone. 'When do you propose going?' 'I hope in a
week.' 'Alone?'

'I fear I shall have many attendants.' 'That is a pity. Well, when
you arrive at Jerusalem, you will naturally go to the convent of Terra
Santa. You will make there the acquaintance of the Spanish prior, Alonzo
Lara. He calls me cousin; he is a Nuevo of the fourteenth century. Very
orthodox; but the love of the old land and the old language have come
out in him, as they will, though his blood is no longer clear, but has
been modified by many Gothic intermarriages, which was never our case.
We are pure Sephardim. Lara thoroughly comprehends Palestine and all
that pertains to it. He has been there a quarter of a century, and might
have been Archbishop of Seville. You see, he is master of the old as
well as the new learning; this is very important; they often explain
each other. Your bishops here know nothing about these things. How
can they? A few centuries back they were tattooed savages. This is the
advantage which Rome has over you, and which you never can understand.
That Church was founded by a Hebrew, and the magnetic influence
lingers. But you will go to the fountain head. Theology requires an
apprenticeship of some thousand years at least; to say nothing of clime
and race. You cannot get on with theology as you do with chemistry and
mechanics. Trust me, there is something deeper in it. I shall give you
a note to Lara; cultivate him, he is the man you want. You will want
others; they will come; but Lara has the first key.'

'I am sorry to trouble you about such things,' said Tancred, in a
hesitating voice, 'but perhaps I may not have the great pleasure to see
you again, and Lord Eskdale said that I was to speak to you about some
letters of credit.'

'Oh! we shall meet before you go. But what you say reminds me of
something. As for money, there is only one banker in Syria; he is
everywhere, at Aleppo, Damascus, Beiroot, Jerusalem. It is Besso. Before
the expulsion of the Egyptians, he really ruled Syria, but he is still
powerful, though they have endeavoured to crush him at Constantinople. I
applied to Metternich about him, and, besides that, he is mine.

I shall give you a letter to him, but not merely for your money affairs.
I wish you to know him. He lives in splendour at Damascus, moderately
at Jerusalem, where there is little to do, but which he loves as a
residence, being a Hebrew. I wish you to know him. You will, I am sure,
agree with me, that he is, without exception, the most splendid specimen
of the animal man you ever became acquainted with. His name is Adam, and
verily he looks as if he were in the garden of Eden before the fall. But
his soul is as grand and as fine as his body. You will lean upon this
man as you would on a faithful charger. His divan is charming; you will
always find there the most intelligent people. You must learn to smoke.
There is nothing that Besso cannot do; make him do everything you want;
have no scruples; he will be gratified. Besides, he is one of those who
kiss my signet. These two letters will open Syria to you, and any other
land, if you care to proceed. Give yourself no trouble about any other
preparations.'

'And how am I to thank you?' said Tancred, rising; 'and how am I to
express to you all my gratitude?'

'What are you going to do with yourself to-morrow?' said Sidonia. 'I
never go anywhere; but I have a few friends who are so kind as to
come sometimes to me. There are two or three persons dining with me
to-morrow, whom you might like to meet. Will you do so?'

'I shall be most proud and pleased.'

'That's well. It is not here; it is in Carlton Gardens; at sunset.' And
Sidonia continued the letter which he was writing when Tancred entered.




CHAPTER XVIII.

_An Interesting Rencontre_

WHEN Tancred returned home, musing, from a visit to Sidonia, he found
the following note:


'Lady Bertie and Bellair returns Lord Montacute his carriage with a
thousand compliments and thanks. She fears she greatly incommoded
Lord Montacute, but begs to assure him how very sensible she is of his
considerate courtesy.

'Upper Brook Street, Wednesday.'


The handwriting was of that form of scripture which attracts; refined
yet energetic; full of character. Tancred recognised the titles of
Bertie and Bellair as those of two not inconsiderable earldoms, now
centred in the same individual. Lady Bertie and Bellair was herself
a lady of the high nobility; a daughter of the present Duke of
Fitz-Aquitaine; the son of that duke who was the father-in-law of Lord
de Mowbray, and whom Lady Firebrace, the present Lady Bardolf, and
Tadpole, had dexterously converted to conservatism by persuading him
that he was to be Sir Robert's Irish viceroy. Lady Bertie and Bellair,
therefore, was first-cousin to Lady Joan Mountchesney, and her sister,
who is still Lady Maud Fitz-Warene. Tancred was surprised that he never
recollected to have met before one so distinguished and so beautiful.
His conversation with Sidonia, however, had driven the little adventure
of the morning from his memory, and now that it was thus recalled to
him, he did not dwell upon it. His being was absorbed in his paramount
purpose. The sympathy of Sidonia, so complete, and as instructive as it
was animating, was a sustaining power which we often need when we are
meditating great deeds. How often, when all seems dark, and hopeless,
and spiritless, and tame, when slight obstacles figure in the cloudy
landscape as Alps, and the rushing cataracts of our invention have
subsided into drizzle, a single phrase of a great man instantaneously
flings sunshine on the intellectual landscape, and the habitual
features of power and beauty, over which we have so long mused in secret
confidence and love, resume all their energy and lustre.

The haunting thought that occasionally, notwithstanding his strong will,
would perplex the soul and agitate the heart of Tancred; the haunting
thought that, all this time, he was perhaps the dupe of boyish
fantasies, was laid to-day. Sometimes he had felt, Why does no one
sympathise with my views; why, though they treat them with conventional
respect, is it clear that all I have addressed hold them to be absurd?
My parents are pious and instructed; they are predisposed to view
everything I say, or do, or think, with an even excessive favour.
They think me moonstruck. Lord Eskdale is a perfect man of the world;
proverbially shrewd, and celebrated for his judgment; he looks upon me
as a raw boy, and believes that, if my father had kept me at Eton and
sent me to Paris, I should by this time have exhausted my crudities. The
bishop is what the world calls a great scholar; he is a statesman
who, aloof from faction, ought to be accustomed to take just and
comprehensive views; and a priest who ought to be under the immediate
influence of the Holy Spirit. He says I am a visionary. All this might
well be disheartening; but now comes one whom no circumstances impel to
judge my project with indulgence; who would, at the first glance, appear
to have many prejudices arrayed against it, who knows more of the world
than Lord Eskdale, and who appears to me to be more learned than
the whole bench of bishops, and he welcomes my ideas, approves my
conclusions, sympathises with my suggestions; develops, illustrates,
enforces them; plainly intimates that I am only on the threshold of
initiation, and would aid me to advance to the innermost mysteries.

There was this night a great ball at Lady Bardolfs, in Belgrave Square.
One should generally mention localities, because very often they
indicate character. Lady Bardolf lived next door to Mrs. Guy Flouncey.
Both had risen in the world, though it requires some esoteric knowledge
to recognise the patrician par-venue; and both had finally settled
themselves down in the only quarter which Lady Bardolf thought worthy of
her new coronet, and Mrs. Guy Flouncey of her new visiting list.

Lady Bardolf had given up the old family mansion of the Firebraces in
Hanover Square, at the same time that she had resigned their old title.
Politics being dead, in consequence of the majority of 1841, who, after
a little kicking for the million, satisfactorily assured the minister
that there was no vice in them.

Lady Bardolf had chalked out a new career, and one of a still more
eminent and exciting character than her previous pursuit. Lady Bardolf
was one of those ladies--there are several--who entertain the curious
idea that they need only to be known in certain high quarters to be
immediately selected as the principal objects of court favour. Lady
Bardolf was always putting herself in the way of it; she never lost an
opportunity; she never missed a drawing-room, contrived to be at all the
court balls, plotted to be invited to a costume fete, and expended the
tactics of a campaign to get asked to some grand chateau honoured by
august presence. Still Her Majesty had not yet sent for Lady Bardolf.
She was still very good friends with Lord Masque, for he had social
influence, and could assist her; but as for poor Tadpole, she had sadly
neglected him, his sphere being merely political, and that being no
longer interesting. The honest gentleman still occasionally buzzed about
her, slavering portentous stories about malcontent country gentlemen,
mumbling Maynooth, and shaking his head at Young England. Tadpole was
wont to say in confidence, that for his part he wished Sir Robert had
left alone religion and commerce, and confined himself to finance, which
was his forte as long as he had a majority to carry the projects which
he found in the pigeon-holes of the Treasury, and which are always at
the service of every minister.

Well, it was at Lady Bardolfs ball, close upon midnight, that Tancred,
who had not long entered, and had not very far advanced in the crowded
saloons, turning his head, recognised his heroine of the morning,
his still more recent correspondent, Lady Bertie and Bellair. She was
speaking to Lord Valentine. It was impossible to mistake her; rapid as
had been his former observation of her face, it was too remarkable to
be forgotten, though the captivating details were only the result of his
present more advantageous inspection. A small head and large dark eyes,
dark as her rich hair which was quite unadorned, a pale but delicate
complexion, small pearly teeth, were charms that crowned a figure rather
too much above the middle height, yet undulating and not without grace.
Her countenance was calm without being grave; she smiled with her eyes.

She was for a moment alone; she looked round, and recognised Tancred;
she bowed to him with a beaming glance. Instantly he was at her side.

'Our second meeting to-day,' she said, in a low, sweet voice.

'How came it that we never met before?' he replied.

'I have just returned from Paris; the first time I have been out;
and, had it not been for you,' she added, 'I should not have been here
to-night. I think they would have put me in prison.'

'Lady Bardolf ought to be very much obliged to me, and so ought the
world.'

'I am,' said Lady Bertie and Bellair.

'That is worth everything else,' said Tancred.

'What a pretty carriage you have! I do not think I shall ever get into
mine again. I am almost glad they have destroyed my chariot. I am sure I
shall never be able to drive in anything else now except a brougham.'

'Why did you not keep mine?'

'You are magnificent; too gorgeous and oriental for these cold climes.
You shower your presents as if you were in the East, which Lord
Valentine tells me you are about to visit. When do you leave us?'

'I think of going immediately.'

'Indeed!' said Lady Bertie and Bellair, and her countenance changed.
There was a pause, and then she continued playfully, yet as it were half
in sadness, 'I almost wish you had not come to my rescue this morning.'

'And why?' 'Because I do not like to make agreeable acquaintances only
to lose them.'

'I think that I am most to be pitied,' said Tancred.

'You are wearied of the world very soon. Before you can know us, you
leave us.'

'I am not wearied of the world, for indeed, as you say, I know nothing
of it. I am here by accident, as you were in the stoppage to-day. It
will disperse, and then I shall get on.'

'Lord Valentine tells me that you are going to realise my dream of
dreams, that you are going to Jerusalem.'

'Ah!' said Tancred, kindling, 'you too have felt that want?'

'But I never can pardon myself for not having satisfied it,' said Lady
Bertie and Bellair in a mournful tone, and looking in his face with her
beautiful dark eyes. 'It is the mistake of my life, and now can never be
remedied. But I have no energy. I ought, as a girl, when they opposed
my purpose, to have taken up my palmer's staff, and never have rested
content till I had gathered my shell on the strand of Joppa.'

'It is the right feeling' said Tancred. 'I am persuaded we ought all to
go.'

'But we remain here,' said the lady, in a tone of suppressed and elegant
anguish; 'here, where we all complain of our hopeless lives; with not
a thought beyond the passing hour, yet all bewailing its wearisome and
insipid moments.'

'Our lot is cast in a material age,' said Tancred.

'The spiritual can alone satisfy me,' said Lady Bertie and Bellair.

'Because you have a soul,' continued Tancred, with animation, 'still
of a celestial hue. They are rare in the nineteenth century. Nobody now
thinks about heaven. They never dream of angels. All their existence is
concentrated in steamboats and railways.'

'You are right,' said the lady, earnestly; 'and you fly from it.'

'I go for other purposes; I would say even higher ones,' said Tancred.

'I can understand you; your feelings are my own. Jerusalem has been
the dream of my life. I have always been endeavouring to reach it, but
somehow or other I never got further than Paris.'

'And yet it is very easy now to get to Jerusalem,' said Tancred; 'the
great difficulty, as a very remarkable man said to me this morning, is
to know what to do when you are there.'

'Who said that to you?' inquired Lady Bertie and Bellair, bending her
head.

'It was the person I was going to call upon when I met you; Monsieur de
Sidonia.'

'Monsieur de Sidonia!' said the lady, with animation. 'Ah! you know
him?'

'Not as much as I could wish. I saw him to-day for the first time. My
cousin, Lord Eskdale, gave me a letter of introduction to him, for
his advice and assistance about my journey. Sidonia has been a great
traveller.'

'There is no person I wish to know so much as M. de Sidonia,' said Lady
Bertie and Bellair. 'He is a great friend of Lord Eskdale, I think?
I must get Lord Eskdale,' she added, musingly, 'to give me a little
dinner, and ask M. de Sidonia to meet me.'

'He never goes anywhere; at least I have heard so,' said Tancred.

'He once used to do, and to give us great fetes. I remember hearing of
them before I was out. We must make him resume them. He is immensely
rich.'

'I dare say he may be,' said Tancred. 'I wonder how a man with his
intellect and ideas can think of the accumulation of wealth.'

''Tis his destiny,' said Lady Bertie and Bellair. 'He can no more
disembarrass himself of his hereditary millions than a dynasty of the
cares of empire. I wonder if he will get the Great Northern. They talked
of nothing else at Paris.'

'Of what?' said Tancred.

'Oh! let us talk of Jerusalem!' said Lady Bertie and Bellair. 'Ah, here
is Augustus! Let me make you and my husband acquainted.'

Tancred almost expected to see the moustached companion of the
morning, but it was not so. Lord Bertie and Bellair was a tall, thin,
distinguished, withered-looking young man, who thanked Tancred for his
courtesy of the morning with a sort of gracious negligence, and, after
some easy talk, asked Tancred to dine with them on the morrow. He was
engaged, but he promised to call on Lady Bertie and Bellair immediately,
and see some drawings of the Holy Land.




CHAPTER XIX.

_Lord Henry Sympathises_

PASSING through a marble antechamber, Tancred was ushered into an
apartment half saloon and half-library; the choicely-bound volumes,
which were not too numerous, were ranged on shelves inlaid in the walls,
so that they ornamented, without diminishing, the apartment. These walls
were painted in encaustic, corresponding with the coved ceiling, which
was richly adorned in the same fashion. A curtain of violet velvet,
covering if necessary the large window, which looked upon a balcony full
of flowers, and the umbrageous Park; an Axminster carpet, manufactured
to harmonise both in colour and design with the rest of the chamber; a
profusion of luxurious seats; a large table of ivory marquetry, bearing
a carved silver bell which once belonged to a pope; a Naiad, whose
golden urn served as an inkstand; some daggers that acted as paper
cutters, and some French books just arrived; a group of beautiful
vases recently released from an Egyptian tomb and ranged on a tripod of
malachite: the portrait of a statesman, and the bust of an emperor,
and a sparkling fire, were all circumstances which made the room both
interesting and comfortable in which Sidonia welcomed Tancred and
introduced him to a guest who had preceded him, Lord Henry Sydney.

It was a name that touched Tancred, as it has all the youth of England,
significant of a career that would rescue public life from that strange
union of lax principles and contracted sympathies which now form the
special and degrading features of British politics. It was borne by one
whose boyhood we have painted amid the fields and schools of Eton, and
the springtime of whose earliest youth we traced by the sedgy waters
of the Cam. We left him on the threshold of public life; and, in four
years, Lord Henry had created that reputation which now made him a
source of hope and solace to millions of his countrymen. But they were
four years of labour which outweighed the usual exertions of public men
in double that space. His regular attendance in the House of Commons
alone had given him as much Parliamentary experience as fell to the
lot of many of those who had been first returned in 1837, and had been,
therefore, twice as long in the House. He was not only a vigilant member
of public and private committees, but had succeeded in appointing and
conducting several on topics which he esteemed of high importance. Add
to this, that he took an habitual part in debate, and was a frequent
and effective public writer; and we are furnished with an additional
testimony, if that indeed were wanting, that there is no incentive
to exertion like the passion for a noble renown. Nor should it be
forgotten, that, in all he accomplished, he had but one final purpose,
and that the highest. The debate, the committee, the article in the
Journal or the Review, the public meeting, the private research, these
were all means to advance that which he had proposed as the object of
his public life, namely, to elevate the condition of the people.

Although there was no public man whose powers had more rapidly ripened,
still it was interesting to observe that their maturity had been
faithful to the healthy sympathies of his earlier years. The boy, whom
we have traced intent upon the revival of the pastimes of the people,
had expanded into the statesman, who, in a profound and comprehensive
investigation of the elements of public wealth, had shown that a jaded
population is not a source of national prosperity. What had been a
picturesque emotion had now become a statistical argument. The material
system that proposes the supply of constant toil to a people as the
perfection of polity, had received a staggering blow from the exertions
of a young patrician, who announced his belief that labour had its
rights as well as its duties. What was excellent about Lord Henry
was, that he was not a mere philanthropist, satisfied to rouse public
attention to a great social evil, or instantly to suggest for it some
crude remedy.

A scholar and a man of the world, learned in history and not
inexperienced in human nature, he was sensible that we must look to the
constituent principles of society for the causes and the cures of great
national disorders. He therefore went deeply into the question, nor
shrank from investigating how far those disorders were produced by the
operation or the desuetude of ancient institutions, and how far it might
be necessary to call new influences into political existence for
their remedy. Richly informed, still studious, fond of labour and
indefatigable, of a gentle disposition though of an ardent mind, calm
yet energetic, very open to conviction, but possessing an inflexibility
amounting even to obstinacy when his course was once taken, a ready and
improving speaker, an apt and attractive writer, affable and sincere,
and with the undesigning faculty of making friends, Lord Henry seemed
to possess all the qualities of a popular leader, if we add to them
the golden ones: high lineage, an engaging appearance, youth, and a
temperament in which the reason had not been developed to the prejudice
of the heart.

'And when do you start for the Holy Land?' said Lord Henry to Tancred,
in a tone and with a countenance which proved his sympathy.

'I have clutched my staff, but the caravan lingers.'

'I envy you!'

'Why do you not go?'

Lord Henry slightly shrugged his shoulders, and said, 'It is too late. I
have begun my work and I cannot leave it.'

'If a Parliamentary career could save this country,' said Tancred, 'I
am sure you would be a public benefactor. I have observed what you and
Mr. Con-ingsby and some of your friends have done and said, with great
interest. But Parliament seems to me to be the very place which a man
of action should avoid. A Parliamentary career, that old superstition of
the eighteenth century, was important when there were no other sources
of power and fame. An aristocracy at the head of a people whom they had
plundered of their means of education, required some cultivated tribunal
whose sympathy might stimulate their intelligence and satisfy their
vanity. Parliament was never so great as when they debated with closed
doors. The public opinion, of which they never dreamed, has superseded
the rhetorical club of our great-grandfathers. They know this well
enough, and try to maintain their unnecessary position by affecting
the character of men of business, but amateur men of business are very
costly conveniences. In this age it is not Parliament that does the real
work. It does not govern Ireland, for example. If the manufacturers want
to change a tariff, they form a commercial league, and they effect their
purpose. It is the same with the abolition of slavery, and all our great
revolutions. Parliament has become as really insignificant as for two
centuries it has kept the monarch. O'Connell has taken a good share of
its power; Cobden has taken another; and I am inclined to believe,'
said Tancred, 'though I care little about it, that, if our order had
any spirit or prescience, they would put themselves at the head of the
people, and take the rest.'

'Coningsby dines here to-day,' said Sidonia, who, unobserved, had
watched Tancred as he spoke, with a searching glance.

'Notwithstanding what you say,' said Lord Henry, smiling, 'I wish I
could induce you to remain and help us. You would be a great ally.'

'I go to a land,' said Tancred, 'that has never been blessed by that
fatal drollery called a representative government, though Omniscience
once deigned to trace out the polity which should rule it.'

At this moment the servant announced Lord and Lady Marney.

Political sympathy had created a close intimacy between Lord Marney
and Coningsby. They were necessary to each other. They were both men
entirely devoted to public affairs, and sitting in different Houses,
both young, and both masters of fortunes of the first class, they were
indicated as individuals who hereafter might take a lead, and, far
from clashing, would co-operate with each other. Through Coningsby
the Marneys had become acquainted with Sidonia, who liked them both,
particularly Sybil. Although received by society with open arms,
especially by the high nobility, who affected to look upon Sybil quite
as one of themselves, Lady Marney, notwithstanding the homage that
everywhere awaited her, had already shown a disposition to retire as
much as possible within the precinct of a chosen circle.

This was her second season, and Sybil ventured to think that she had
made, in the general gaieties of her first, a sufficient oblation to
the genius of fashion, and the immediate requirements of her social
position. Her life was faithful to its first impulse. Devoted to the
improvement of the condition of the people, she was the moving spring
of the charitable development of this great city. Her house, without any
pedantic effort, had become the focus of a refined society, who, though
obliged to show themselves for the moment in the great carnival,
wear their masks, blow their trumpets, and pelt the multitude with
sugarplums, were glad to find a place where they could at all times
divest themselves of their mummery, and return to their accustomed garb
of propriety and good taste.

Sybil, too, felt alone in the world. Without a relation, without an
acquaintance of early and other days, she clung to her husband with a
devotion which was peculiar as well as profound. Egremont was to her
more than a husband and a lover; he was her only friend; it seemed to
Sybil that he could be her only friend. The disposition of Lord Marney
was not opposed to the habits of his wife. Men, when they are married,
often shrink from the glare and bustle of those social multitudes which
are entered by bachelors with the excitement of knights-errant in a
fairy wilderness, because they are supposed to be rife with adventures,
and, perhaps, fruitful of a heroine. The adventure sometimes turns out
to be a catastrophe, and the heroine a copy instead of an original; but
let that pass.

Lord Marney liked to be surrounded by those who sympathised with his
pursuit; and his pursuit was politics, and politics on a great scale.
The commonplace career of official distinction was at his command. A
great peer, with abilities and ambition, a good speaker, supposed to be
a Conservative, he might soon have found his way into the cabinet,
and, like the rest, have assisted in registering the decrees of one
too powerful individual. But Lord Marney had been taught to think at
a period of life when he little dreamed of the responsibility which
fortune had in store for him.

The change in his position had not altered the conclusions at which
he had previously arrived. He held that the state of England,
notwithstanding the superficies of a material prosperity, was one of
impending doom, unless it were timely arrested by those who were in high
places. A man of fine mind rather than of brilliant talents, Lord Marney
found, in the more vivid and impassioned intelligence of Coningsby, the
directing sympathy which he required. Tadpole looked upon his lordship
as little short of insane. 'Do you see that man?' he would say as Lord
Marney rode by. 'He might be Privy Seal, and he throws it all away for
the nonsense of Young England!'

Mrs. Coningsby entered the room almost on the footsteps of the Marneys.

'I am in despair about Harry,' she said, as she gave a finger to
Sidonia, 'but he told me not to wait for him later than eight. I suppose
he is kept at the House. Do you know anything of him, Lord Henry?'

'You may make yourself quite easy about him,' said Lord Henry. 'He
promised Vavasour to support a motion which he has to-day, and perhaps
speak on it. I ought to be there too, but Charles Buller told me there
would certainly be no division and so I ventured to pair off with him.'

'He will come with Vavasour,' said Sidonia, 'who makes up our party.
They will be here before we have seated ourselves.'

The gentlemen had exchanged the usual inquiry, whether there was
anything new to-day, without waiting for the answer. Sidonia introduced
Tancred and Lord Marney.

'And what have you been doing to-day?' said Edith to Sybil, by whose
side she had seated herself. 'Lady Bardolf did nothing last night but
gronder me, because you never go to her parties. In vain I said that you
looked upon her as the most odious of her sex, and her balls the pest of
society. She was not in the least satisfied. And how is Gerard?'

'Why, we really have been very uneasy about him,' said Lady Marney, 'but
the last bulletin,' she added, with a smile, 'announces a tooth.'

'Next year you must give him a pony, and let him ride with my Harry;
I mean my little Harry, Harry of Monmouth I call him; he is so like a
portrait Mr. Coningsby has of his grandfather, the same debauched look.'

'Your dinner is served, sir!'

Sidonia offered his hand to Lady Marney; Edith was attended by Tancred.
A door at the end of the room opened into a marble corridor, which led
to the dining-room, decorated in the same style as the library. It was
a suite of apartments which Sidonia used for an intimate circle like the
present.




CHAPTER XX.

_A Modern Troubadour_

THEY seated themselves at a round table, on which everything seemed
brilliant and sparkling; nothing heavy, nothing oppressive. There
was scarcely anything that Sidonia disliked so much as a small table,
groaning, as it is aptly termed, with plate. He shrunk from great masses
of gold and silver; gigantic groups, colossal shields, and mobs of
tankards and flagons; and never used them except on great occasions,
when the banquet assumes an Egyptian character, and becomes too vast
for refinement. At present, the dinner was served on Sevres porcelain of
Rose du Barri, raised on airy golden stands of arabesque workmanship;
a mule bore your panniers of salt, or a sea-nymph proffered it you on
a shell just fresh from the ocean, or you found it in a bird's nest; by
every guest a different pattern. In the centre of the table, mounted on
a pedestal, was a group of pages in Dresden china. Nothing could be
more gay than their bright cloaks and flowing plumes, more elaborately
exquisite than their laced shirts and rosettes, or more fantastically
saucy than their pretty affected faces, as each, with extended arm, held
a light to a guest. The room was otherwise illumined from the sides.

The guests had scarcely seated themselves when the two absent ones
arrived.

'Well, you did not divide, Vavasour,' said Lord Henry.

'Did I not?' said Vavasour; 'and nearly beat the Government. You are a
pretty fellow!'

'I was paired.'

'With some one who could not stay. Your brother, Mrs. Coningsby, behaved
like a man, sacrificed his dinner, and made a capital speech.'

'Oh! Oswald, did he speak? Did you speak, Harry?'

'No; I voted. There was too much speaking as it was; if Vavasour had not
replied, I believe we should have won.'

'But then, my dear fellow, think of my points; think how they laid
themselves open!'

'A majority is always the best repartee,' said Coningsby.

'I have been talking with Montacute,' whispered Lord Henry to Coningsby,
who was seated next to him. 'Wonderful fellow! You can conceive nothing
richer! Very wild, but all the right ideas; exaggerated of course. You
must get hold of him after dinner.'

'But they say he is going to Jerusalem.'

'But he will return.'

'I do not know that; even Napoleon regretted that he had ever re-crossed
the Mediterranean. The East is a career.'

Mr. Vavasour was a social favourite; a poet and a real poet, and
a troubadour, as well as a member of Parliament; travelled,
sweet-tempered, and good-hearted; amusing and clever. With catholic
sympathies and an eclectic turn of mind, Mr. Vavasour saw something good
in everybody and everything, which is certainly amiable, and perhaps
just, but disqualifies a man in some degree for the business of life,
which requires for its conduct a certain degree of prejudice. Mr.
Vavasour's breakfasts were renowned. Whatever your creed, class, or
country, one might almost add your character, you were a welcome guest
at his matutinal meal, provided you were celebrated. That qualification,
however, was rigidly enforced.

It not rarely happened that never were men more incongruously grouped.
Individuals met at his hospitable house who had never met before, but
who for years had been cherishing in solitude mutual detestation, with
all the irritable exaggeration of the literary character. Vavasour liked
to be the Amphitryon of a cluster of personal enemies. He prided himself
on figuring as the social medium by which rival reputations became
acquainted, and paid each other in his presence the compliments which
veiled their ineffable disgust. All this was very well at his rooms in
the Albany, and only funny; but when he collected his menageries at his
ancestral hall in a distant county, the sport sometimes became tragic.

A real philosopher, alike from his genial disposition and from the
influence of his rich and various information, Vavasour moved amid
the strife, sympathising with every one; and perhaps, after all, the
philanthropy which was his boast was not untinged by a dash of humour,
of which rare and charming quality he possessed no inconsiderable
portion. Vavasour liked to know everybody who was known, and to see
everything which ought to be seen. He also was of opinion that everybody
who was known ought to know him; and that the spectacle, however
splendid or exciting, was not quite perfect without his presence.

His life was a gyration of energetic curiosity; an insatiable whirl of
social celebrity. There was not a congregation of sages and philosophers
in any part of Europe which he did not attend as a brother. He was
present at the camp of Kalisch in his yeomanry uniform, and assisted at
the festivals of Barcelona in an Andalusian jacket. He was everywhere,
and at everything; he had gone down in a diving-bell and gone up in a
balloon. As for his acquaintances, he was welcomed in every land; his
universal sympathies seemed omnipotent. Emperor and king, jacobin and
carbonaro, alike cherished him. He was the steward of Polish balls and
the vindicator of Russian humanity; he dined with Louis Philippe, and
gave dinners to Louis Blanc.

This was a dinner of which the guests came to partake. Though they
delighted in each other's society, their meetings were not so rare that
they need sacrifice the elegant pleasures of a refined meal for the
opportunity of conversation. They let that take its chance, and ate
and drank without affectation. Nothing so rare as a female dinner where
people eat, and few things more delightful. On the present occasion some
time elapsed, while the admirable performances of Sidonia's cook were
discussed, with little interruption; a burst now and then from the
ringing voice of Mrs. Coningsby crossing a lance with her habitual
opponent, Mr. Vavasour, who, however, generally withdrew from the
skirmish when a fresh dish was handed to him.

At length, the second course being served, Mrs. Coningsby said, 'I think
you have all eaten enough: I have a piece of information for you. There
is going to be a costume ball at the Palace.'

This announcement produced a number of simultaneous remarks and
exclamations. 'When was it to be? What was it to be? An age, or a
country; or an olio of all ages and all countries?'

'An age is a masquerade,' said Sidonia. 'The more contracted the circle,
the more perfect the illusion.'

'Oh, no!' said Vavasour, shaking his head. 'An age is the thing; it is a
much higher thing. What can be finer than to represent the spirit of an
age?'

'And Mr. Vavasour to perform the principal part,' said Mrs. Coningsby.
'I know exactly what he means. He wants to dance the polka as Petrarch,
and find a Laura in every partner.'

'You have no poetical feeling,' said Mr. Vavasour, waving his hand. 'I
have often told you so.'

'You will easily find Lauras, Mr. Vavasour, if you often write such
beautiful verses as I have been reading to-day,' said Lady Marney.

'You, on the contrary,' said Mr. Vavasour, bowing, 'have a great deal of
poetic feeling, Lady Marney; I have always said so.'

'But give us your news, Edith,' said Coningsby. 'Imagine our suspense,
when it is a question, whether we are all to look picturesque or
quizzical.'

'Ah, you want to know whether you can go as Cardinal Mazarin, or the
Duke of Ripperda, Harry. I know exactly what you all are now thinking
of; whether you will draw the prize in the forthcoming lottery, and get
exactly the epoch and the character which suit you. Is it not so, Lord
Montacute? Would not you like to practise a little with your crusados at
the Queen's ball before you go to the Holy Sepulchre?'

'I would rather hear your description of it,' said Tancred.

'Lord Henry, I see, is half inclined to be your companion as a Red-cross
Knight,' continued Edith. 'As for Lady Marney, she is the successor
of Mrs. Fry, and would wish, I am sure, to go to the ball as her
representative.'

'And pray what are you thinking of being?' said Mr. Vavasour. 'We
should like very much to be favoured with Mrs. Coningsby's ideal of
herself.'

'Mrs. Coningsby leaves the ideal to poets. She is quite satisfied to
remain what she is, and it is her intention to do so, though she means
to go to Her Majesty's ball.'

'I see that you are in the secret,' said Lord Marney.

'If I could only keep secrets, I might turn out something.' said Mrs.
Coningsby. 'I am the depositary of so much that is occult-joys, sorrows,
plots, and scrapes; but I always tell Harry, and he always betrays me.
Well, you must guess a little. Lady Marney begins.'

'Well, we were at one at Turin,' said Lady Marney, 'and it was oriental,
Lalla Rookh. Are you to be a sultana?'

Mrs. Coningsby shook her head.

'Come, Edith,' said her husband; 'if you know, which I doubt----'

'Oh! you doubt----'

'Valentine told me yesterday,' said Mr. Vavasour, in a mock peremptory
tone, 'that there would not be a ball.'

'And Lord Valentine told me yesterday that there would be a ball, and
what the ball would be; and what is more, I have fixed on my dress,'
said Mrs. Coningsby.

'Such a rapid decision proves that much antiquarian research is not
necessary,' said Sidonia. 'Your period is modern.'

'Ah!' said Edith, looking at Sidonia, 'he always finds me out. Well, Mr.
Vavasour, you will not be able to crown yourself with a laurel wreath,
for the gentlemen will wear wigs.'

'Louis Quatorze?' said her husband. 'Peel as Louvois.'

'No, Sir Robert would be content with nothing less than _Le
Grand Colbert, rue Richelieu, No. 75, grand magasin de nouveautes
tres-anciennes: prix fixe, avec quelques rabais._'

'A description of Conservatism,' said Coningsby.

The secret was soon revealed: every one had a conjecture and a
commentary: gentlemen in wigs, and ladies powdered, patched, and sacked.
Vavasour pondered somewhat dolefully on the anti-poetic spirit of the
age; Coningsby hailed him as the author of Leonidas.

'And you, I suppose, will figure as one of the "boys" arrayed against
the great Sir Robert?' said Mr. Vavasour, with a countenance of mock
veneration for that eminent personage.

'The "boys" beat him at last,' said Coningsby; and then, with a rapid
precision and a richness of colouring which were peculiar to him, he
threw out a sketch which placed the period before them; and they
began to tear it to tatters, select the incidents, and apportion the
characters.

Two things which are necessary to a perfect dinner are noiseless
attendants, and a precision in serving the various dishes of each
course, so that they may all be placed upon the table at the same
moment. A deficiency in these respects produces that bustle and delay
which distract many an agreeable conversation and spoil many a pleasant
dish. These two excellent characteristics were never wanting at the
dinners of Sidonia. At no house was there less parade. The appearance
of the table changed as if by the waving of a wand, and silently as a
dream. And at this moment, the dessert being arranged, fruits and their
beautiful companions, flowers, reposed in alabaster baskets raised on
silver stands of filigree work.

There was half an hour of merry talk, graceful and gay: a good story,
a _bon-mot_ fresh from the mint, some raillery like summer lightning,
vivid but not scorching.

'And now,' said Edith, as the ladies rose to return to the library,
'and now we leave you to Maynooth.'

'By-the-bye, what do they say to it in your House, Lord Marney?'
inquired Henry Sydney, filling his glass.

'It will go down,' said Lord Marney. 'A strong dose for some, but they
are used to potent potions.'

'The bishops, they say, have not made up their minds.'

'Fancy bishops not having made up their minds,' exclaimed Tancred: 'the
only persons who ought never to doubt.'

'Except when they are offered a bishopric,' said Lord Marney.

'Why I like this Maynooth project,' said Tancred, 'though otherwise it
little interests me, is, that all the shopkeepers are against it.'

'Don't tell that to the minister,' said Coningsby, 'or he will give up
the measure.'

'Well, that is the very reason,' said Vavasour, 'why, though otherwise
inclined to the grant, I hesitate as to my vote. I have the highest
opinion of the shopkeepers; I sympathise even with their prejudices.
They are the class of the age; they represent its order, its decency,
its industry.'

'And you represent them,' said Coningsby. 'Vavasour is the quintessence
of order, decency, and industry.'

'You may jest,' said Vavasour, shaking his head with a spice of solemn
drollery; 'but public opinion must and ought to be respected, right or
wrong.'

'What do you mean by public opinion?' said Tancred.

'The opinion of the reflecting majority,' said Vavasour.

'Those who don't read your poems,' said Coningsby.

'Boy, boy!' said Vavasour, who could endure raillery from one he
had been at college with, but who was not over-pleased at Coningsby
selecting the present occasion to claim his franchise, when a new man
was present like Lord Montacute, on whom Vavasour naturally wished to
produce an impression. It must be owned that it was not, as they say,
very good taste in the husband of Edith, but prosperity had developed in
Coningsby a native vein of sauciness which it required all the solemnity
of the senate to repress. Indeed, even there, upon the benches, with
a grave face, he often indulged in quips and cranks that convulsed
his neighbouring audience, who often, amid the long dreary nights of
statistical imposture, sought refuge in his gay sarcasms, his airy
personalities, and happy quotations.

'I do not see how there can be opinion without thought,' said Tancred;
'and I do not believe the public ever think. How can they? They have no
time. Certainly we live at present under the empire of general ideas,
which are extremely powerful. But the public have not invented those
ideas. They have adopted them from convenience. No one has confidence in
himself; on the contrary, every one has a mean idea of his own strength
and has no reliance on his own judgment. Men obey a general impulse,
they bow before an external necessity, whether for resistance or action.
Individuality is dead; there is a want of inward and personal energy
in man; and that is what people feel and mean when they go about
complaining there is no faith.'

'You would hold, then,' said Henry Sydney, 'that the progress of public
liberty marches with the decay of personal greatness?'

'It would seem so.'

'But the majority will always prefer public liberty to personal
greatness,' said Lord Marney.

'But, without personal greatness, you never would have had public
liberty,' said Coningsby.

'After all, it is civilisation that you are kicking against,' said
Vavasour.

'I do not understand what you mean by civilisation,' said Tancred.

'The progressive development of the faculties of man,' said Vavasour.

'Yes, but what is progressive development?' said Sidonia; 'and what are
the faculties of man? If development be progressive, how do you
account for the state of Italy? One will tell you it is superstition,
indulgences, and the Lady of Loretto; yet three centuries ago, when all
these influences were much more powerful, Italy was the soul of Europe.
The less prejudiced, a Puseyite for example, like our friend Vavasour,
will assure us that the state of Italy has nothing to do with the
spirit of its religion, but that it is entirely an affair of commerce; a
revolution of commerce has convulsed its destinies. I cannot forget that
the world was once conquered by Italians who had no commerce. Has the
development of Western Asia been progressive? It is a land of tombs and
ruins. Is China progressive, the most ancient and numerous of existing
societies? Is Europe itself progressive? Is Spain a tithe as great as
she was? Is Germany as great as when she invented printing; as she was
under the rule of Charles the Fifth? France herself laments her relative
inferiority to the past. But England flourishes. Is it what you
call civilisation that makes England flourish? Is it the universal
development of the faculties of man that has rendered an island, almost
unknown to the ancients, the arbiter of the world? Clearly not. It is
her inhabitants that have done this; it is an affair of race. A Saxon
race, protected by an insular position, has stamped its diligent and
methodic character on the century. And when a superior race, with
a superior idea to work and order, advances, its state will be
progressive, and we shall, perhaps, follow the example of the desolate
countries. All is race; there is no other truth.'

'Because it includes all others?' said Lord Henry.

'You have said it.'

'As for Vavasour's definition of civilisation,' said Coningsby,
'civilisation was more advanced in ancient than modern times; then what
becomes of the progressive principle? Look at the great centuries of the
Roman Empire! You had two hundred millions of human beings governed by
a jurisprudence so philosophical that we have been obliged to adopt
its laws, and living in perpetual peace. The means of communication,
of which we now make such a boast, were far more vast and extensive in
those days. What were the Great Western and the London and Birmingham to
the Appian and Flaminian roads? After two thousand five hundred years,
parts of these are still used. A man under the Antonines might travel
from Paris to Antioch with as much ease and security as we go from
London to York. As for free trade, there never was a really unshackled
commerce except in the days when the whole of the Mediterranean coasts
belonged to one power. What a chatter there is now about the towns, and
how their development is cited as the peculiarity of the age, and the
great security for public improvement. Why, the Roman Empire was the
empire of great cities. Man was then essentially municipal.'

'What an empire!' said Sidonia. 'All the superior races in all the
superior climes.'

'But how does all this accord with your and Coningsby's favourite theory
of the influence of individual character?' said Vavasour to Sidonia;
'which I hold, by-the-bye,' he added rather pompously, 'to be entirely
futile.'

'What is individual character but the personification of race,' said
Sidonia, 'its perfection and choice exemplar? Instead of being an
inconsistency, the belief in the influence of the individual is a
corollary of the original proposition.'

'I look upon a belief in the influence of individual character as a
barbarous superstition,' said Vavasour.

'Vavasour believes that there would be no heroes if there were a
police,' said Coningsby; 'but I believe that civilisation is only fatal
to minstrels, and that is the reason now we have no poets.'

'How do you account for the Polish failure in 1831?' said Lord Marney.
'They had a capital army, they were backed by the population, but they
failed. They had everything but a man.'

'Why were the Whigs smashed in 1834,' said Coningsby, 'but because they
had not a man?'

'What is the real explanation of the state of Mexico?' said Sidonia. 'It
has not a man.'

'So much for progress since the days of Charles the Fifth,' said Henry
Sydney. 'The Spaniards then conquered Mexico, and now they cannot
govern it.'

'So much for race,' said Vavasour. 'The race is the same; why are not
the results the same?'

'Because it is worn out,' said Sidonia. 'Why do not the Ethiopians build
another Thebes, or excavate the colossal temples of the cataracts? The
decay of a race is an inevitable necessity, unless it lives in deserts
and never mixes its blood.'




CHAPTER XXI.

_Sweet Sympathy_

I AM sorry, my dear mother, that I cannot accompany you; but I must go
down to my yacht this morning, and on my return from Greenwich I have an
engagement.'

This was said about a week after the dinner at Sidonia's, by Lord
Montacute to the duchess. 'That terrible yacht!' thought the duchess.
Her Grace, a year ago, had she been aware of it, would have deemed
Tancred's engagement as fearful an affair. The idea that her son should
have called every day for a week on a married lady, beautiful and
attractive, would have filled her with alarm amounting almost to horror.
Yet such was the innocent case. It might at the first glance seem
difficult to reconcile the rival charms of the Basilisk and Lady Bertie
and Bellair, and to understand how Tancred could be so interested in the
preparations for a voyage which was to bear him from the individual in
whose society he found a daily gratification. But the truth is, that
Lady Bertie and Bellair was the only person who sympathised with his
adventure.

She listened with the liveliest concern to his account of all his
progress; she even made many admirable suggestions, for Lady Bertie and
Bellair had been a frequent visitor at Cowes, and was quite initiated
in the mysteries of the dilettante service of the Yacht Club. She was
a capital sailor; at least she always told Tancred so. But this was not
the chief source of sympathy, or the principal bond of union, between
them. It was not the voyage, so much as the object of the voyage, that
touched all the passion of Lady Bertie and Bellair. Her heart was at
Jerusalem. The sacred city was the dream of her life; and, amid the
dissipations of May Fair and the distractions of Belgravia, she had in
fact all this time only been thinking of Jehoshaphat and Sion. Strange
coincidence of sentiment--strange and sweet!

The enamoured Montacute hung over her with pious rapture, as they
examined together Mr. Roberts's Syrian drawings, and she alike charmed
and astonished him by her familiarity with every locality and each
detail. She looked like a beautiful prophetess as she dilated with
solemn enthusiasm on the sacred scene. Tancred called on her every day,
because when he called the first time he had announced his immediate
departure, and so had been authorised to promise that he would pay his
respects to her every day till he went. It was calculated that by these
means, that is to say three or four visits, they might perhaps travel
through Mr. Roberts's views together before he left England, which would
facilitate their correspondence, for Tancred had engaged to write to the
only person in the world worthy of receiving his letters. But, though
separated, Lady Bertie and Bellair would be with him in spirit; and
once she sighed and seemed to murmur that if his voyage could only be
postponed awhile, she might in a manner become his fellow-pilgrim, for
Lord Bertie, a great sportsman, had a desire to kill antelopes, and,
wearied with the monotonous slaughter of English preserves, tired even
of the eternal moors, had vague thoughts of seeking new sources of
excitement amid the snipes of the Grecian marshes, and the deer and wild
boars of the desert and the Syrian hills.

While his captain was repeating his inquiries for instructions on the
deck of the Basilisk at Greenwich, moored off the Trafalgar Hotel,
Tancred fell into reveries of female pilgrims kneeling at the Holy
Sepulchre by his side; then started, gave a hurried reply, and drove
back quickly to town, to pass the remainder of the morning in Brook
Street.

The two or three days had expanded into two or three weeks, and Tancred
continued to call daily on Lady Bertie and Bellair, to say farewell. It
was not wonderful: she was the only person in London who understood him;
so she delicately intimated, so he profoundly felt. They had the same
ideas; they must have the same idiosyncrasy. The lady asked with a sigh
why they had not met before; Tancred found some solace in the thought
that they had at least become acquainted. There was something about this
lady very interesting besides her beauty, her bright intelligence, and
her seraphic thoughts. She was evidently the creature of impulse; to
a certain degree perhaps the victim of her imagination. She seemed
misplaced in life. The tone of the century hardly suited her refined and
romantic spirit. Her ethereal nature seemed to shrink from the coarse
reality which invades in our days even the boudoirs of May Fair.

There was something in her appearance and the temper of her being which
rebuked the material, sordid, calculating genius of our reign of Mammon.

Her presence in this world was a triumphant vindication of the claims
of beauty and of sentiment. It was evident that she was not happy;
for, though her fair brow always lighted up when she met the glance
of Tancred, it was impossible not to observe that she was sometimes
strangely depressed, often anxious and excited, frequently absorbed in
reverie. Yet her vivid intelligence, the clearness and precision of her
thought and fancy, never faltered. In the unknown yet painful contest,
the intellectual always triumphed. It was impossible to deny that she
was a woman of great ability.

Nor could it for a moment be imagined that these fitful moods were
merely the routine intimations that her domestic hearth was not as happy
as it deserved to be. On the contrary, Lord and Lady Bertie and Bellair
were the very best friends; she always spoke of her husband with
interest and kindness; they were much together, and there evidently
existed between them mutual confidence. His lordship's heart, indeed,
was not at Jerusalem; and perhaps this want of sympathy on a subject
of such rare and absorbing interest might account for the occasional
musings of his wife, taking refuge in her own solitary and devoutly
passionate soul. But this deficiency on the part of his lordship could
scarcely be alleged against him as a very heinous fault; it is far from
usual to find a British noble who on such a topic entertains the notions
and sentiments of Lord Montacute; almost as rare to find a British
peeress who could respond to them with the same fervour and facility
as the beautiful Lady Bertie and Bellair. The life of a British peer is
mainly regulated by Arabian laws and Syrian customs at this moment;
but, while he sabbatically abstains from the debate or the rubber,
or regulates the quarterly performance of his judicial duties in his
province by the advent of the sacred festivals, he thinks little of the
land and the race who, under the immediate superintendence of the Deity,
have by their sublime legislation established the principle of periodic
rest to man, or by their deeds and their dogmas, commemorated by their
holy anniversaries, have elevated the condition and softened the lot of
every nation except their own.

'And how does Tancred get on?' asked Lord Eskdale one morning of the
Duchess of Bellamont, with a dry smile. 'I understand that, instead of
going to Jerusalem, he is going to give us a fish dinner.'

The Duchess of Bellamont had made the acquaintance of Lady Bertie and
Bellair, and was delighted with her, although her Grace had been told
that Lord Montacute called upon her every day. The proud, intensely
proper, and highly prejudiced Duchess of Bellamont took the most
charitable view of this sudden and fervent friendship. A female friend,
who talked about Jerusalem, but kept her son in London, was in the
present estimation of the duchess a real treasure, the most interesting
and admirable of her sex. Their intimacy was satisfactorily accounted
for by the invaluable information which she imparted to Tancred; what
he was to see, do, eat, drink; how he was to avoid being poisoned and
assassinated, escape fatal fevers, regularly attend the service of
the Church of England in countries where there were no churches, and
converse in languages of which he had no knowledge. He could not have a
better counsellor than Lady Bertie, who had herself travelled, at least
to the Faubourg St. Honore, and, as Horace Walpole says, after Calais
nothing astonishes. Certainly Lady Bertie had not been herself to
Jerusalem, but she had read about it, and every other place. The duchess
was delighted that Tancred had a companion who interested him. With
all the impulse of her sanguine temperament, she had already accustomed
herself to look upon the long-dreaded yacht as a toy, and rather an
amusing one, and was daily more convinced of the prescient shrewdness of
her cousin, Lord Eskdale.

Tancred was going to give them a fish dinner! A what? A sort of
banquet which might have served for the marriage feast of Neptune and
Amphitrite, and be commemorated by a constellation; and which ought
to have been administered by the Nereids and the Naiads; terrines of
turtle, pools of water _souchee_, flounders of every hue, and eels in
every shape, cutlets of salmon, salmis of carp, ortolans represented by
whitebait, and huge roasts carved out of the sturgeon. The appetite is
distracted by the variety of objects, and tantalised by the restlessness
of perpetual solicitation; not a moment of repose, no pause for
enjoyment; eventually, a feeling of satiety, without satisfaction, and
of repletion without sustenance; till, at night, gradually recovering
from the whirl of the anomalous repast, famished yet incapable of
flavour, the tortured memory can only recall with an effort, that it has
dined off pink champagne and brown bread and butter!

What a ceremony to be presided over by Tancred of Montacute; who, if
he deigned to dine at all, ought to have dined at no less a round table
than that of King Arthur. What a consummation of a sublime project!
What a catastrophe of a spiritual career! A Greenwich party and a tavern
bill!

All the world now is philosophical, and therefore they can account for
this disaster. Without doubt we are the creatures of circumstances; and,
if circumstances take the shape of a charming woman, who insists upon
sailing in your yacht, which happens to to be at Blackwall or Greenwich,
it is not easy to discover how the inevitable consequences can be
avoided. It would hardly do, off the Nore, to present your mistress
with a sea-pie, or abruptly remind your farewell friends and sorrowing
parents of their impending loss by suddenly serving up soup hermetically
sealed, and roasting the embalmed joint, which ought only to have smoked
amid the ruins of Thebes or by the cataracts of Nubia.

There are, however, two sides of every picture; a party may be pleasant,
and even a fish dinner not merely a whirl of dishes and a clash of
plates. The guests may be not too numerous, and well assorted; the
attendance not too devoted, yet regardful; the weather may be charming,
which is a great thing, and the giver of the dinner may be charmed, and
that is everything.

The party to see the Basilisk was not only the most agreeable of the
season, but the most agreeable ever known. They all said so when they
came back. Mr. Vavasour, who was there, went to all his evening parties;
to the assembly by the wife of a minister in Carlton Terrace; to a rout
by the wife of the leader of opposition in Whitehall; to a literary
soiree in Westminster, and a brace of balls in Portman and Belgrave
Squares; and told them all that they were none of them to be compared
to the party of the morning, to which, it must be owned, he had greatly
contributed by his good humour and merry wit. Mrs. Coningsby declared to
every one that, if Lord Monta-cute would take her, she was quite ready
to go to Jerusalem; such a perfect vessel was the Basilisk, and such an
admirable sailor was Mrs. Coningsby, which, considering that the river
was like a mill-pond, according to Tancred's captain, or like a mirror,
according to Lady Bertie and Bellair, was not surprising. The duke
protested that he was quite glad that Mon-tacute had taken to yachting,
it seemed to agree with him so well; and spoke of his son's future
movements as if there were no such place as Palestine in the world. The
sanguine duchess dreamed of Cowes regattas, and resolved to agree to
any arrangement to meet her son's fancy, provided he would stay at home,
which she convinced herself he had now resolved to do.

'Our cousin is so wise,' she said to her husband, as they were
returning. 'What could the bishop mean by saying that Tancred was a
visionary? I agree with you, George, there is no counsellor like a man
of the world.'

'I wish M. de Sidonia had come,' said Lady Bertie and Bellair, gazing
from the window of the Trafalgar on the moonlit river with an expression
of abstraction, and speaking in a tone almost of melancholy.

'I also wish it, since you do,' said Tancred. 'But they say he goes
nowhere. It was almost presumptuous in me to ask him, yet I did so
because you wished it.'

'I never shall know him,' said Lady Bertie and Bellair, with some
vexation.

'He interests you,' said Tancred, a little piqued.

'I had so many things to say to him,' said her ladyship.

'Indeed!' said Tancred; and then he continued, 'I offered him every
inducement to come, for I told him it was to meet you; but perhaps if
he had known that you had so many things to say to him, he might have
relented.'

'So many things! Oh! yes. You know he has been a great traveller; he has
been everywhere; he has been at Jerusalem.'

'Fortunate man!' exclaimed Tancred, half to himself. 'Would I were
there!'

'Would we were there, you mean,' said Lady Bertie, in a tone of
exquisite melody, and looking at Tancred with her rich, charged eyes.

His heart trembled; he was about to give utterance to some wild words,
but they died upon his lips. Two great convictions shared his being:
the absolute necessity of at once commencing his pilgrimage, and the
persuasion that life, without the constant presence of this sympathising
companion, must be intolerable. What was to be done? In his long
reveries, where he had brooded over so many thoughts, some only of which
he had as yet expressed to mortal ear, Tancred had calculated, as he
believed, every combination of obstacle which his projects might have
to encounter; but one, it now seemed, he had entirely omitted, the
influence of woman. Why was he here? Why was he not away? Why had he
not departed? The reflection was intolerable; it seemed to him even
disgraceful. The being who would be content with nothing less than
communing with celestial powers in sacred climes, standing at a tavern
window gazing on the moonlit mudbanks of the barbarous Thames, a river
which neither angel nor prophet had ever visited! Before him, softened
by the hour, was the Isle of Dogs! The Isle of Dogs! It should at least
be Cyprus!

The carriages were announced; Lady Bertie and Bellair placed her arm in
his.




CHAPTER XXII.

_The Crusader Receives a Shock_

TANCRED passed a night of great disquiet. His mind was agitated, his
purposes indefinite; his confidence in himself seemed to falter. Where
was that strong will that had always sustained him? that faculty of
instant decision which had given such vigour to his imaginary deeds?
A shadowy haze had suffused his heroic idol, duty, and he could not
clearly distinguish either its form or its proportions. Did he wish to
go to the Holy Land or not? What a question? Had it come to that? Was
it possible that he could whisper such an enquiry, even to his midnight
soul? He did wish to go to the Holy Land; his purpose was not in the
least faltering; he most decidedly wished to go to the Holy Land, but he
wished also to go thither in the company of Lady Bertie and Bellair.

Tancred could not bring himself to desert the only being perhaps in
England, excepting himself, whose heart was at Jerusalem; and that
being a woman! There seemed something about it unknightly, unkind and
cowardly, almost base. Lady Bertie was a heroine worthy of ancient
Christendom rather than of enlightened Europe. In the old days, truly
the good old days, when the magnetic power of Western Asia on the Gothic
races had been more puissant, her noble yet delicate spirit might have
been found beneath the walls of Ascalon or by the purple waters of
Tyre. When Tancred first met her, she was dreaming of Palestine amid her
frequent sadness; he could not, utterly void of all self-conceit as
he was, be insensible to the fact that his sympathy, founded on such
a divine congeniality, had often chased the cloud from her brow and
lightened the burthen of her drooping spirit. If she were sad before,
what would she be now, deprived of the society of the only being to whom
she could unfold the spiritual mysteries of her romantic soul? Was such
a character to be left alone in this world of slang and scrip; of coarse
motives and coarser words? Then, too, she was so intelligent and so
gentle; the only person who understood him, and never grated for an
instant on his high ideal. Her temper also was the sweetest in the
world, eminent as her generous spirit. She spoke of others with so much
kindness, and never indulged in that spirit of detraction or that love
of personal gossip which Tancred had frankly told her he abhorred.
Somehow or other it seemed that their tastes agreed on everything.

The agitated Tancred rose from the bed where the hope of slumber was
vain. The fire in his dressing-room was nearly extinguished; wrapped in
his chamber robe, he threw himself into a chair, which he drew near the
expiring embers, and sighed.

Unhappy youth! For you commences that great hallucination, which all
must prove, but which fortunately can never be repeated, and which,
in mockery, we call first love. The physical frame has its infantile
disorders; the cough which it must not escape, the burning skin which it
must encounter. The heart has also its childish and cradle malady, which
may be fatal, but which, if once surmounted, enables the patient to meet
with becoming power all the real convulsions and fevers of passion that
are the heirloom of our after-life. They, too, may bring destruction;
but, in their case, the cause and the effect are more proportioned.
The heroine is real, the sympathy is wild but at least genuine, the
catastrophe is that of a ship at sea which sinks with a rich cargo in a
noble venture.

In our relations with the softer sex it cannot be maintained that
ignorance is bliss. On the contrary, experience is the best security
for enduring love. Love at first sight is often a genial and genuine
sentiment, but first love at first sight is ever eventually branded as
spurious. Still more so is that first love which suffuses less rapidly
the spirit of the ecstatic votary, when he finds that by degrees his
feelings, as the phrase runs, have become engaged. Fondness is so new
to him that he has repaid it with exaggerated idolatry, and become
intoxicated by the novel gratification of his vanity. Little does he
suspect that all this time his seventh heaven is but the crapulence
of self-love. In these cases, it is not merely that everything is
exaggerated, but everything is factitious. Simultaneously, the imaginary
attributes of the idol disappearing, and vanity being satiated, all ends
in a crash of iconoclastic surfeit.

The embers became black, the night air had cooled the turbulent blood of
Lord Montacute, he shivered, returned to his couch, and found a deep and
invigorating repose.

The next morning, about two hours after noon, Tancred called on Lady
Bertie. As he drove up to the door, there came forth from it the
foreigner who was her companion in the city fray when Tancred first saw
her and went to her rescue. He recognised Lord Montacute, and bowed with
much ceremony, though with a certain grace and bearing. He was a man
whose wrinkled visage strangely contrasted with his still gallant
figure, scrupulously attired; a blue frock-coat with a ribboned
button-hole, a well-turned boot, hat a little too hidalgoish, but
quite new. There was something respectable and substantial about him,
notwithstanding his moustaches, and a carriage a degree too debonair for
his years. He did not look like a carbonaro or a refugee. Who could he
be?

Tancred had asked himself this question before. This was not the first
time that he had encountered this distinguished foreigner since their
first meeting. Tancred had seen him before this, quitting the door of
Lord Bertie and Bellair; had stumbled over him before this, more than
once, on the staircase; once, to his surprise, had met him as he entered
the personal saloon of Lady Bertie. As it was evident, on that occasion,
that his visit had been to the lady, it was thought necessary to say
something, and he had been called the Baron, and described, though in a
somewhat flurried and excited manner, as a particular friend, a person
in whom they had the most entire confidence, who had been most kind to
them at Paris, putting them in the way of buying the rarest china for
nothing, and who was now over here on some private business of his own,
of great importance. The Bertie and Bellairs felt immense interest in
his exertions, and wished him every success; Lord Bertie particularly.
It was not at all surprising, considering the innumerable kindnesses
they had experienced at his hands, was it?

'Nothing more natural,' replied Tancred; and he turned the conversation.

Lady Bertie was much depressed this morning, so much so that it was
impossible for Tancred not to notice her unequal demeanour. Her hand
trembled as he touched it; her face, flushed when he entered, became
deadly pale.

'You are not well,' he said. 'I fear the open carriage last night has
made you already repent our expedition.'

She shook her head. It was not the open carriage, which was delightful,
nor the expedition, which was enchanting, that had affected her. Would
that life consisted only of such incidents, of barouches and whitebait
banquets! Alas! no, it was not these. But she was nervous, her slumbers
had been disquieted, she had encountered alarming dreams; she had a
profound conviction that something terrible was impending over her.
And Tancred took her hand, to prevent, if possible, what appeared to be
inevitable hysterics. But Lady Bertie and Bellair was a strong-minded
woman, and she commanded herself.

'I can bear anything,' said Tancred, in a trembling voice, 'but to see
you unhappy.' And he drew his chair nearer to hers.

Her face was hid, her beautiful face in her beautiful hand. There was
silence and then a sigh.

'Dear lady,' said Lord Montacute.

'What is it?' murmured Lady Bertie and Bellair.

'Why do you sigh?'

'Because I am miserable.'

'No, no, no, don't use such words,' said the distracted Tancred. 'You
must not be miserable; you shall not be.'

'Can I help it? Are we not about to part?'

'We need not part,' he said, in a low voice.

'Then you will remain?' she said, looking up, and her dark brown eyes
were fixed with all their fascination on the tortured Tancred.

'Till we all go,' he said, in a soothing voice.

'That can never be,' said Lady Bertie; 'Augustus will never hear of it;
he never could be absent more than six weeks from London, he misses his
clubs so. If Jerusalem were only a place one could get at, something
might be done; if there were a railroad to it for example.'

'A railroad!' exclaimed Tancred, with a look of horror. 'A railroad to
Jerusalem!'

'No, I suppose there never can be one,' continued Lady Bertie, in a
musing tone. 'There is no traffic. And I am the victim,' she added, in
a thrilling voice; I am left here among people who do not comprehend me,
and among circumstances with which I can have no sympathy. But go, Lord
Montacute, go, and be happy, alone. I ought to have been prepared for
all this; you have not deceived me. You told me from the first you were
a pilgrim, but I indulged in a dream. I believe that I should not only
visit Palestine, but even visit it with you.' And she leant back in her
chair and covered her face with her hands.

Tancred rose from his seat, and paced the chamber. His heart seemed to
burst.

'What is all this?' he thought. 'How came all this to occur? How has
arisen this singular combination of unforeseen causes and undreamed-of
circumstances, which baffles all my plans and resolutions, and seems, as
it were, without my sanction and my agency, to be taking possession of
my destiny and life? I am bewildered, confounded, incapable of thought
or deed.'

His tumultuous reverie was broken by the sobs of Lady Bertie.

'By heaven, I cannot endure this!' said Tancred, advancing. 'Death seems
to me preferable to her un-happiness. Dearest of women!'

'Do not call me that,' she murmured. 'I can bear anything from your lips
but words of fondness. And pardon all this; I am not myself to-day.
I had thought that I had steeled myself to all, to our inevitable
separation; but I have mistaken myself, at least miscalculated my
strength. It is weak; it is very weak and very foolish, but you must
pardon it. I am too much interested in your career to wish you to delay
your departure a moment for my sake. I can bear our separation, at least
I think I can. I shall quit the world, for ever. I should have done so
had we not met. I was on the point of doing so when we did meet, when,
when my dream was at length realised. Go, go; do not stay. Bless you,
and write to me, if I be alive to receive your letters.'

'I cannot leave her,' thought the harrowed Tancred. 'It never shall be
said of me that I could blight a woman's life, or break her heart.' But,
just as he was advancing, the door opened, and a servant brought in a
note, and, without looking at Tancred, who had turned to the window,
disappeared. The desolation and despair which had been impressed on the
countenance of Lady Bertie and Bellair vanished in an instant, as she
recognised the handwriting of her correspondent. They were succeeded by
an expression of singular excitement. She tore open the note; a stupor
seemed to spread over her features, and, giving a faint shriek, she fell
into a swoon.

Tancred rushed to her side; she was quite insensible, and pale as
alabaster. The note, which was only two lines, was open and extended
in her hands. It was from no idle curiosity, but it was impossible for
Tancred not to read it. He had one of those eagle visions that nothing
could escape, and, himself extremely alarmed, it was the first object
at which he unconsciously glanced in his agitation to discover the cause
and the remedy for this crisis. The note ran thus:


_'3 o'clock.' The Narrow Gauge has won. We are utterly done; and
Snicks tells me you bought five hundred more yesterday, at ten. Is it
possible?_

'_f._'


'Is it possible?' echoed Tancred, as, entrusting Lady Bertie to her
maid, he rapidly descended the staircase of her mansion. He almost ran
to Davies Street, where he jumped into a cab, not permitting the driver
to descend to let him in.

'Where to?' asked the driver.

'The city.'

'What part?'

'Never mind; near the Bank.'

Alighting from the cab, Tancred hurried to Sequin Court and sent in his
card to Sidonia, who in a few moments received him. As he entered the
great financier's room, there came out of it the man called in Brook
Street the Baron.

'Well, how did your dinner go off?' said Sidonia, looking with some
surprise at the disturbed countenance of Tancred.

'It seems very ridiculous, very impertinent I fear you will think it,'
said Tancred, in a hesitating confused manner, 'but that person, that
person who has just left the room; I have a particular reason, I have
the greatest desire, to know who that person is.'

'That is a French capitalist,' replied Sidonia, with a slight smile,
'an eminent French capitalist, the Baron Villebecque de Chateau Neuf. He
wants me to support him in a great railroad enterprise in his country:
a new line to Strasbourg, and looks to a great traffic, I suppose, in
pasties. But this cannot much interest you. What do you want really to
know about him? I can tell you everything. I have been acquainted with
him for years. He was the intendant of Lord Monmouth, who left
him thirty thousand pounds, and he set up upon this at Paris as a
millionaire. He is in the way of becoming one, has bought lands, is a
deputy and a baron. He is rather a favourite of mine,' added Sidonia,
'and I have been able, perhaps, to assist him, for I knew him long
before Lord Monmouth did, in a very different position from that which
he now fills, though not one for which I have less respect. He was a
fine comic actor in the courtly parts, and the most celebrated manager
in Europe; always a fearful speculator, but he is an honest fellow, and
has a good heart.'

'He is a great friend of Lady Bertie and Bellair,' said Tancred, rather
hesitatingly.

'Naturally,' said Sidonia.

'She also,' said Tancred, with a becalmed countenance, but a palpitating
heart, 'is, I believe, much interested in railroads?'

'She is the most inveterate female gambler in Europe,' said Sidonia,
'whatever shape her speculations take. Villebecque is a great ally
of hers. He always had a weakness for the English aristocracy, and
remembers that he owed his fortune to one of them. Lady Bertie was in
great tribulation this year at Paris: that was the reason she did not
come over before Easter; and Villebecque extricated her from a scrape.
He would assist her now if he could. By-the-bye, the day that I had the
pleasure of making your acquaintance, she was here with Villebecque, an
hour at my door, but I could not see her; she pesters me, too, with her
letters. But I do not like feminine finance. I hope the worthy baron
will be discreet in his alliance with her, for her affairs, which I
know, as I am obliged to know every one's, happen to be at this moment
most critical.'

'I am trespassing on you,' said Tancred, after a painful pause, 'but I
am about to set sail.'

'When?'

'To-morrow; to-day, if I could; and you were so kind as to promise
me----'

'A letter of introduction and a letter of credit. I have not forgotten,
and I will write them for you at once.' And Sidonia took up his pen and
wrote:


A Letter of Introduction.

To Alonzo Lara, Spanish Prior, at the Convent of Terra Santa at
Jerusalem.

'Most holy Father: The youth who will deliver to you this is a pilgrim
who aspires to penetrate the great Asian mystery. Be to him what you
were to me; and may the God of Sinai, in whom we all believe, guard over
you, and prosper his enterprise!

'Sidonia. 'London, May, 1845.'


'You can read Spanish,' said Sidonia, giving him the letter. 'The other
I shall write in Hebrew, which you will soon read.'


A Letter of Credit.

To Adam Besso at Jerusalem.

'London, May, 1845. 'My good Adam: If the youth who bears this require
advances, let him have as much gold as would make the right-hand lion on
the first step of the throne of Solomon the king; and if he want more,
let him have as much as would form the lion that is on the left; and
so on, through every stair of the royal seat. For all which will be
responsible to you the child of Israel, who among the Gentiles is called

'Sidonia.'




CHAPTER XXIII.

_Jerusalem by Moonlight_

THE broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam has
long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, the waters
of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. Full falls its splendour,
however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined in its silver blaze. A
lofty wall, with turrets and towers and frequent gates, undulates with
the unequal ground which it covers, as it encircles the lost capital of
Jehovah. It is a city of hills, far more famous than those of Rome:
for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvary, while the Arab and
the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are as ignorant of
the Capitolian and Aventine Mounts as they are of the Malvern or the
Chiltern Hills.

The broad steep of Sion crowned with the tower of David; nearer still,
Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built,
alas! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one; close to
its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the
moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool; further on, entered by the gate
of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease
the Street of Grief, a long winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that
now covers Calvary, called the Street of Grief because there the most
illustrious of the human, as well as of the Hebrew, race, the descendant
of King David, and the divine Son of the most favoured of women, twice
sank under that burden of suffering and shame which is now throughout
all Christendom the emblem of triumph and of honour; passing over groups
and masses of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted
with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedek built
his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus
gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus destroyed
the temple. The religion of Judaea has in turn subverted the fanes which
were raised to his father and to himself in their imperial capital;
and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob is now worshipped before
every altar in Rome.

Jerusalem by moonlight! 'Tis a fine spectacle, apart from all its
indissoluble associations of awe and beauty. The mitigating hour softens
the austerity of a mountain landscape magnificent in outline, however
harsh and severe in detail; and, while it retains all its sublimity,
removes much of the savage sternness of the strange and unrivalled
scene. A fortified city, almost surrounded by ravines, and rising in the
centre of chains of far-spreading hills, occasionally offering, through
their rocky glens, the gleams of a distant and richer land!

The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the
darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading
stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have travelled over the
plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among the tombs, and sighs among
the cypress groves. The palm-tree trembles as it passes, as if it were
a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze that has travelled over the plain of
Sharon from the sea?

Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that
they could not save? Their spirits surely would linger on the land
where their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate
Omnipotence had shed human tears. From this Mount! Who can but believe
that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great
departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic
city? There might be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from
no rivalry with the brightest and the wisest of other lands; but the
lawgiver of the time of the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed; the
monarch, whose reign has ceased for three thousand years, but whose
wisdom is a proverb in all nations of the earth; the teacher, whose
doctrines have modelled civilised Europe; the greatest of legislators,
the greatest of administrators, and the greatest of reformers; what
race, extinct or living, can produce three such men as these?

The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The wailing
breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film spreads over the purple
sky; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid; all becomes as dark as
the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehosha-phat. The tower of David
merges into obscurity; no longer glitter the minarets of the mosque
of Omar; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street
of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas can no
longer be discerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very
line of the walls gradually eludes the eye, the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre is a beacon light.

And why is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre a beacon light? Why, when
is it already past the noon of darkness, when every soul slumbers in
Jerusalem, and not a sound disturbs the deep repose, except the howl
of the wild dog crying to the wilder wind; why is the cupola of the
sanctuary illumined, though the hour has long since been numbered when
pilgrims there kneel and monks pray?

An armed Turkish guard are bivouacked in the court of the Church; within
the Church itself, two brethren of the convent of Terra Santa keep holy
watch and ward; while, at the tomb beneath, there kneels a solitary
youth, who prostrated himself at sunset, and who will there pass unmoved
the whole of the sacred night.

Yet the pilgrim is not in communion with the Latin Church; neither is
he of the Church Armenian, or the Church Greek; Maronite, Coptic, or
Abyssinian; these also are Christian churches which cannot call him
child.

He comes from a distant and a northern isle to bow before the tomb of
a descendant of the kings of Israel, because he, in common with all the
people of that isle, recognises in that sublime Hebrew incarnation the
presence of a Divine Redeemer. Then why does he come alone? It is not
that he has availed himself of the inventions of modern science to
repair first to a spot which all his countrymen may equally desire to
visit, and thus anticipate their hurrying arrival. Before the inventions
of modern science, all his countrymen used to flock hither. Then why do
they not now? Is the Holy Land no longer hallowed? Is it not the land of
sacred and mysterious truths? The land of heavenly messages and earthly
miracles? The land of prophets and apostles? Is it not the land upon
whose mountains the Creator of the Universe parleyed with man, and the
flesh of whose anointed race He mystically assumed, when He struck the
last blow at the powers of evil? Is it to be believed that there are no
peculiar and eternal qualities in a land thus visited, which distinguish
it from all others? That Palestine is like Normandy or Yorkshire, or
even Attica or Rome.

There may be some who maintain this; there have been some, and those,
too, among the wisest and the wittiest of the northern and western
races, who, touched by a presumptuous jealousy of the long predominance
of that oriental intellect to which they owed their civilisation, would
have persuaded themselves and the world that the traditions of Sinai
and Calvary were fables. Half a century ago, Europe made a violent and
apparently successful effort to disembarrass itself of its Asian faith.
The most powerful and the most civilised of its kingdoms, about to
conquer the rest, shut up its churches, desecrated its altars, massacred
and persecuted their sacred servants, and announced that the Hebrew
creeds which Simon Peter brought from Palestine, and which his
successors revealed to Clovis, were a mockery and a fiction. What has
been the result? In every city, town, village, and hamlet of that great
kingdom, the divine image of the most illustrious of Hebrews has been
again raised amid the homage of kneeling millions; while, in the
heart of its bright and witty capital, the nation has erected the most
gorgeous'' of modern temples, and consecrated its marble and golden
walls to the name, and memory, and celestial efficacy of a Hebrew woman.

The country of which the solitary pilgrim, kneeling at this moment
at the Holy Sepulchre, was a native, had not actively shared in that
insurrection against the first and second Testament which distinguished
the end of the eighteenth century. But, more than six hundred years
before, it had sent its king, and the flower of its peers and people,
to rescue Jerusalem from those whom they considered infidels! and now,
instead of the third crusade, they expend their superfluous energies in
the construction of railroads.

The failure of the European kingdom of Jerusalem, on which such vast
treasure, such prodigies of valour, and such ardent belief had been
wasted, has been one of those circumstances which have tended to disturb
the faith of Europe, although it should have carried convictions of
a very different character. The Crusaders looked upon the Saracens as
infidels, whereas the children of the desert bore a much nearer affinity
to the sacred corpse that had, for a brief space, consecrated the Holy
Sepulchre, than any of the invading host of Europe. The same blood
flowed in their veins, and they recognised the divine missions both
of Moses and of his great successor. In an age so deficient in
physiological learning as the twelfth century, the mysteries of race
were unknown. Jerusalem, it cannot be doubted, will ever remain the
appanage either of Israel or of Ishmael; and if, in the course of those
great vicissitudes which are no doubt impending for the East, there be
any attempt to place upon the throne of David a prince of the House of
Coburg or Deuxponts, the same fate will doubtless await him as, with all
their brilliant qualities and all the sympathy of Europe, was the final
doom of the Godfreys, the Baldwins, and the Lusignans.

Like them, the ancestor of the kneeling pilgrim had come to Jerusalem
with his tall lance and his burnished armour; but his descendant, though
not less daring and not less full of faith, could profit by the splendid
but fruitless achievements of the first Tancred de Montacute. Our hero
came on this new crusade with an humble and contrite spirit, to pour
forth his perplexities and sorrows on the tomb of his Redeemer, and to
ask counsel of the sacred scenes which the presence of that Redeemer and
his great predecessors had consecrated.




CHAPTER XXIV.

_A Gathering of Sages_

NEAR the gate of Sion there is a small, still, hilly street, the houses
of which, as is general in the East, present to the passenger, with the
exception of an occasional portal, only blank walls, built, as they are
at Jerusalem, of stone, and very lofty. These walls commonly enclose
a court, and, though their exterior offers always a sombre and often
squalid appearance, it by no means follows that within you may not be
welcomed with cheerfulness and even luxury.

At this moment a man in the Syrian dress, turban and flowing robe, is
passing through one of the gateways of this street, and entering the
large quadrangle to which it leads. It is surrounded by arcades; on one
side indications of commerce, piles of chests, cases, and barrels; the
other serving for such simple stables as are sufficient in the East.
Crossing this quadrangle, the stranger passed by a corridor into a
square garden of orange and lemon trees and fountains. This garden court
was surrounded by inhabited chambers, and, at the end of it, passing
through a low arch at the side, and then mounting a few steps, he was at
once admitted into a spacious and stately chamber. Its lofty ceiling was
vaulted and lightly painted in arabesque; its floor was of white marble,
varied with mosaics of fruit and flowers; it was panelled with cedar,
and in six of the principal panels were Arabic inscriptions emblazoned
in blue and gold. At the top of this hall, and ranging down its two
sides, was a divan or seat, raised about one foot from the ground, and
covered with silken cushions; and the marble floor before this divan was
spread at intervals with small bright Persian carpets.

In this chamber some half dozen persons were seated in the Eastern
fashion, and smoking either the choice tobaccoes of Syria through the
cherry-wood or jasmine tube of a Turkish or Egyptian chibouque, or
inhaling through rose-water the more artificial flavour of the nargileh,
which is the hookah of the Levant. If a guest found his pipe exhausted,
he clapped his hands, and immediately a negro page appeared, dressed
in scarlet or in white, and, learning his pleasure, returned in a few
moments, and bowing presented him with a fresh and illumined chibouque.
At intervals, these attendants appeared without a summons, and offered
cups of Mocha coffee or vases of sherbet.

The lord of this divan, who was seated at the upper end of the room,
reclining on embroidered cushions of various colours, and using a
nargileh of fine workmanship, was a man much above the common height,
being at least six feet two without his red cap of Fez, though so well
proportioned, that you would not at the first glance give him credit for
such a stature. He was extremely handsome, retaining ample remains of
one of those countenances of blended regularity and lustre which are
found only in the cradle of the human race. Though he was fifty years
of age, time had scarcely brought a wrinkle to his still brilliant
complexion, while his large, soft, dark eyes, his arched brow, his
well-proportioned nose, his small mouth and oval cheek presented
altogether one of those faces which, in spite of long centuries of
physical suffering and moral degradation, still haunt the cities of Asia
Minor, the isles of Greece, and the Syrian coasts. It is the archetype
of manly beauty, the tradition of those races who have wandered the
least from Paradise; and who, notwithstanding many vicissitudes and
much misery, are still acted upon by the same elemental agencies as
influenced the Patriarchs; are warmed by the same sun, freshened by the
same air, and nourished by the same earth as cheered and invigorated
and sustained the earlier generations. The costume of the East certainly
does not exaggerate the fatal progress of time; if a figure becomes too
portly, the flowing robe conceals the incumbrance which is aggravated
by a western dress; he, too, who wears a turban has little dread of grey
hairs; a grizzly beard indeed has few charms, but whether it were the
lenity of time or the skill of his barber in those arts in which Asia
is as experienced as Europe, the beard of the master of the divan became
the rest of his appearance, and flowed to his waist in rich dark curls,
lending additional dignity to a countenance of which the expression was
at the same time grand and benignant.

Upon the right of the master of the divan was, smoking a jasmine pipe,
Scheriff Effendi, an Egyptian merchant, of Arab race, a dark face in a
white turban, mild and imperturbable, and seated as erect on his crossed
legs as if he were administering justice; a remarkable contrast to the
individual who was on the left of the host, who might have been mistaken
for a mass of brilliant garments huddled together, had not the gurgling
sound of the nargileh occasionally assured the spectator that it was
animated by human breath. This person was apparently lying on his back,
his face hid, his form not to be traced, a wild confusion of shawls and
cushions, out of which, like some wily and dangerous reptile, glided the
spiral involutions of his pipe. Next to the invisible sat a little wiry
man with a red nose, sparkling eyes, and a white beard. His black turban
intimated that he was a Hebrew, and indeed he was well known as Barizy
of the Tower, a description which he had obtained from his residence
near the Tower of David, and which distinguished him from his cousin,
who was called Barizy of the Gate. Further on an Armenian from Stamboul,
in his dark robes and black protuberant head-dress, resembling a
colossal truffle, solaced himself with a cherry stick which reminded him
of the Bosphorus, and he found a companion in this fashion in the
young officer of a French brig-of-war anchored at Beiroot, and who had
obtained leave to visit the Holy Land, as he was anxious to see the
women of Bethlehem, of whose beauty he had heard much.

As the new comer entered the hall, he shuffled off his slippers at the
threshold, and then advancing, and pressing a hand to his brow, his
mouth and his heart, a salutation which signifies that in thought,
speech, and feeling he was faithful to his host, and which salutation
was immediately returned, he took his seat upon the divan, and the
master of the house, letting the flexible tube of his nargileh fall on
one of the cushions, and clapping his hands, a page immediately brought
a pipe to the new guest. This was Signor Pasqualigo, one of those noble
Venetian names that every now and then turn up in the Levant, and borne
in the present case by a descendant of a family who for centuries had
enjoyed a monopoly of some of the smaller consular offices of the
Syrian coast. Signor Pasqualigo had installed his son as deputy in the
ambiguous agency at Jaffa, which he described as a vice-consulate, and
himself principally resided at Jerusalem, of which he was the prime
gossip, or second only to his rival, Barizy of the Tower. He had only
taken a preliminary puff of his chibouque, to be convinced that there
was no fear of its being extinguished, before he said,

'So there was a fine pilgrimage last night; the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre lighted up from sunset to sunrise, an extra guard in the
court, and only the Spanish prior and two brethren permitted to enter.
It must be 10,000 piastres at least in the coffers of the Terra Santa.
Well, they want something! It is a long time since we have had a Latin
pilgrim in El Khuds.'

'And they say, after all, that this was not a Latin pilgrim,' said
Barizy of the Tower.

'He could not have been one of my people,' said the Armenian, 'or he
never would have gone to the Holy Sepulchre with the Spanish prior.'

'Had he been one of your people,' said Pasqualigo, 'he could not have
paid 10,000 piastres for a pilgrimage.'

'I am sure a Greek never would,' said Barizy, 'unless he were a Russian
prince.'

'And a Russian does not care much for rosaries unless they are made of
diamonds,' said Pasqualigo.

'As far as I can make out this morning,' said Barizy of the Tower, 'it
is a brother of the Queen of England.'

'I was thinking it might be that,' said Pasqualigo, nettled at his
rival's early information, 'the moment I heard he was an Englishman.'

'The English do not believe in the Holy Sepulchre,' said the Armenian,
calmly.

'They do not believe in our blessed Saviour,' said Pasqualigo, 'but they
do believe in the Holy Sepulchre.'

Pasqualigo's strong point was theology, and there were few persons in
Jerusalem who on this head ventured to maintain an argument with him.

'How do you know that the pilgrim is an Englishman?' asked their host.

'Because his servants told me so,' said Pasqualigo.

'He has got an English general for the principal officer of his
household,' said Barizy, 'which looks like blood royal; a very fine man,
who passes the whole day at the English consulate.'

'They have taken a house in the Via Dolorosa,' said Pasqualigo.

'Of Hassan Nejed?' continued Barizy of the Tower, clutching the words
out of his rival's grasp; 'Hassan asked five thousand piastres per
month, and they gave it. What think you of that?'

'He must indeed be an Englishman,' said Scheriff Effendi, taking his
pipe slowly from his mouth. There was a dead silence when he spoke; he
was much respected.

'He is very young,' said Barizy of the Tower; 'younger than the Queen,
which is one reason why he is not on the throne, for in England the
eldest always succeeds, except in moveables, and those always go to the
youngest.'

Barizy of the Tower, though he gave up to Pasqualigo in theology, partly
from delicacy, being a Jew, would yield to no man in Jerusalem in his
knowledge of law.

'If he goes on at this rate,' said the Armenian, 'he will soon spend all
his money; this place is dearer than Stamboul.'

'There is no fear of his spending all his money,' said their host, 'for
the young man has brought me such a letter that if he were to tell me to
rebuild the temple, I must do it.'

'And who is this young man, Besso?' exclaimed the Invisible, starting
up, and himself exhibiting a youthful countenance; fair, almost
effeminate, no beard, a slight moustache, his features too delicate, but
his brow finely arched, and his blue eye glittering with fire.

'He is an English lord,' said Besso, 'and one of the greatest; that is
all I know.'

'And why does he come here?' inquired the youth. 'The English do not
make pilgrimages.' 'Yet you have heard what he has done.' 'And why
is this silent Frenchman smoking your Latakia,' he continued in a low
voice. 'He comes to Jerusalem at the same time as this Englishman.
There is more in this than meets our eye. You do not know the northern
nations. They exist only in political combinations. You are not a
politician, my Besso. Depend upon it, we shall hear more of this
Englishman, and of his doing something else than praying at the Holy
Sepulchre.'

'It may be so, most noble Emir, but as you say, I am no politician.'

'Would that you were, my Besso! It would be well for you and for all of
us. See now,' he added in a whisper, 'that apparently inanimate mass,
Scheriff Effendi--that man has a political head, he understands a
combination, he is going to smuggle me five thousand English muskets
into the desert, he will deliver them to a Bedouin tribe, who have
engaged to convey them safely to the Mountain. There, what do you think
of that, my Besso? Do you know now what are politics? Tell the Rose of
Sharon of it. She will say it is beautiful. Ask the Rose what she thinks
of it, my Besso.'

'Well, I shall see her to-morrow.'

'I have done well; have I not?'

'You are satisfied; that is well.'

'Not quite, my Besso; but I can be satisfied if you please. You see that
Scheriff Effendi there, sitting like an Afrite; he will not give me the
muskets unless I pay him for them; and the Bedouin chief, he will not
carry the arms unless I give him 10,000 piastres. Now, if you will pay
these people for me, my Besso, and deduct the expenses from my Lebanon
loan when it is negotiated, that would be a great service. Now, now, my
Besso, shall it be done?' he continued with the coaxing voice and with
the wheedling manner of a girl. 'You shall have any terms you like, and
I will always love you so, my Besso. Let it be done, let it be done! I
will go down on my knees and kiss your hand before the Frenchman, which
will spread your fame throughout Europe, and make Louis Philippe take
you for the first man in Syria, if you will do it for me. Dear, dear
Besso, you will pay that old camel Scheriff Ef-fendi for me, will you
not? and please the Rose of Sharon as much as me!'

'My prince,' said Besso, 'have a fresh pipe; I never can transact
business after sunset.'

The reader will remember that Sidonia had given Tancred a letter of
credit on Besso. He is the same Besso who was the friend at Jerusalem of
Contarini Fleming, and this is the same chamber in which Contarini, his
host, and others who were present, inscribed one night, before their
final separation, certain sentences in the panels of the walls. The
original writing remains, but Besso, as we have already seen, has had
the sentences emblazoned in a manner more permanent and more striking
to the eye. They may, however, be both seen by all those who visit
Jerusalem, and who enjoy the flowing hospitality and experience the
boundless benevolence of this prince of Hebrew merchants.




CHAPTER XXV.

_Gethsemane_

THE Christian convents form one of the most remarkable features of
modern Jerusalem. There are three principal ones; the Latin Convent
of Terra Santa, founded, it is believed, during the last crusade, and
richly endowed by the kings of Christendom; the Armenian and the Greek
convents, whose revenues are also considerable, but derived from the
numerous pilgrims of their different churches, who annually visit the
Holy Sepulchre, and generally during their sojourn reside within the
walls of their respective religious houses. To be competent to supply
such accommodation, it will easily be apprehended that they are of
considerable size. They are in truth monastic establishments of the
first class, as large as citadels, and almost as strong. Lofty stone
walls enclose an area of acres, in the centre of which rises an
irregular mass of buildings and enclosures; courts of all shapes,
galleries of cells, roofs, terraces, gardens, corridors, churches,
houses, and even streets. Sometimes as many as five thousand pilgrims
have been lodged, fed, and tended during Easter in one of these
convents.

Not in that of Terra Santa, of which a Protestant traveller, passing for
a pilgrim, is often the only annual guest; as Tancred at present. In a
whitewashed cell, clean, and sufficiently airy and spacious, Tancred was
lying on an iron bedstead, the only permanent furniture of the chamber,
with the exception of a crucifix, but well suited to the fervent and
procreative clime. He was smoking a Turkish pipe, which stretched nearly
across the apartment, and his Italian attendant, Baroni, on one knee,
was arranging the bowl. 'I begin rather to like it,' said Tancred. 'I am
sure you would, my lord. In this country it is like mother's milk,
nor is it possible to make way without it. 'Tis the finest tobacco of
Latakia, the choicest in the world, and I have smoked all. I begged it
myself from Signor Besso, whose divan is renowned, the day I called on
him with your lordship's letter.'

Saying this, Baroni quickly rose (a man from thirty-two to thirty-five);
rather under the middle height, slender, lithe, and pliant; a long black
beard, cleared off his chin when in Europe, and concealed under his
cravat, but always ready for the Orient; whiskers closely shaved but
strongly marked, sallow, an aquiline nose, white teeth, a sparkling
black eye. His costume entirely white, fashion Mamlouk, that is to say,
trousers of a prodigious width, and a light jacket; a white shawl wound
round his waist, enclosing his dagger; another forming his spreading
turban. Temperament, remarkable vivacity modified by extraordinary
experience.

Availing himself of the previous permission of his master, Baroni,
having arranged the pipe, seated himself cross-legged on the floor.

'And what are they doing about the house?' inquired Tancred.

'They will be all stowed to-day,' replied Baroni. 'I shall not quit this
place, 'said Tancred; 'I wish to be quite undisturbed.'

'Be not alarmed, my lord; they are amused. The colonel never quits the
consulate; dines there every day, and tells stories about the Peninsular
war and the Bellamont cavalry, just as he did on board. Mr. Bernard is
always with the English bishop, who is delighted to have an addition to
his congregation, which is not too much, consisting of his own family,
the English and Prussian consuls, and five Jews, whom they have
converted at twenty piastres a-week; but I know they are going to
strike for wages. As for the doctor, he has not a minute to himself. The
governor's wife has already sent for him; he has been admitted to the
harem; has felt all their pulses without seeing any of their faces, and
his medicine chest is in danger of being exhausted before your lordship
requires its aid.'

'Take care that they are comfortable,' said Tancred. 'And what does your
lordship wish to do today?'

'I must go to Gethsemane.'

''Tis the shot of an arrow; go out by the gate of Sion, pass through the
Turkish cemetery, cross the Kedron, which is so dry this weather that
you may do so in your slippers, and you will find the remnant of an
olive grove at the base of the mount.'

'You talk as if you were giving a direction in London.'

'I wish I knew London as well as I know Jerusalem! This is not a very
great place, and I think I have been here twenty times. Why, I made
eight visits here in '40 and '41; twice from England, and six times from
Egypt.'

'Active work!'

'Ah! those were times! If the Pasha had taken M. de Sidonia's advice, in
'41, something would have happened in this city----' And here Baroni
pulled up: 'Your lordship's pipe draws easy?'

'Very well. And when was your first visit here, Baroni?'

'When M. de Sidonia travelled. I came in his suite from Naples, eighteen
years ago, the next Annunciation of our blessed Lady,' and he crossed
himself.

'You must have been very young then?'

'Young enough; but it was thought, I suppose, that I could light a pipe.
We were seven when we left Naples, all picked men; but I was the only
one who was in Paraguay with M. de Sidonia, and that was nearly the end
of our travels, which lasted five years.'

'And what became of the rest?'

'Got ill or got stupid; no mercy in either case with M. de Sidonia,
packed off instantly, wherever you may be; whatever money you like,
but go you must. If you were in the middle of the desert, and the least
grumbling, you would be spliced on a camel, and a Bedouin tribe would
be hired to take you to the nearest city, Damascus or Jerusalem, or
anywhere, with an order on Signor Besso, or some other signor, to pay
them.'

'And you were never invalided?'

'Never; I was young and used to tumble about as long as I can remember
day; but it was sharp practice sometimes; five years of such work as few
men have been through. It educated me and opened my mind amazingly.'

'It seems to have done so,' said Tancred, quietly.

Shortly after this, Tancred, attended by Baroni, passed the gate of
Sion. Not a human being was visible, except the Turkish sentries. It was
midsummer, but no words and no experience of other places can convey an
idea of the canicular heat of Jerusalem. Bengal, Egypt, even Nubia, are
nothing to it; in these countries there are rivers, trees, shade, and
breezes; but Jerusalem at midday in midsummer is a city of stone in a
land of iron with a sky of brass. The wild glare and savage lustre of
the landscape are themselves awful. We have all read of the man who had
lost his shadow; this is a shadowless world. Everything is so flaming
and so clear, that it would remind one of a Chinese painting, but that
the scene is one too bold and wild for the imagination of the Mongol
race.

'There,' said Baroni, pointing to a group of most ancient olive trees
at the base of the opposite hill, and speaking as if he were showing the
way to Kensington, 'there is Gethsemane; the path to the right leads to
Bethany.'

'Leave me now,' said Tancred.

There are moments when we must be alone, and Tancred had fixed upon this
hour for visiting Gethsemane, because he felt assured that no one would
be stirring. Descending Mount Sion, and crossing Kedron, he entered the
sacred grove.




CHAPTER XXVI.

_The Lady of Bethany_

THE sun had been declining for some hours, the glare of the earth had
subsided, the fervour of the air was allayed. A caravan came winding
round the hills, with many camels and persons in rich, bright Syrian
dresses; a congregation that had assembled at the Church of the
Ascension on Mount Olivet had broken up, and the side of the hill was
studded with brilliant and picturesque groups; the standard of the
Crescent floated on the Tower of David; there was the clang of Turkish
music, and the governor of the city, with a numerous cavalcade, might be
discerned on Mount Moriah, caracoling without the walls; a procession
of women bearing classic vases on their heads, who had been fetching
the waters of Siloah from the well of Job, came up the valley of
Jehosha-phat, to wind their way to the gate of Stephen and enter
Jerusalem by the street of Calvary.

Tancred came forth from the garden of Gethsemane, his face was flushed
with the rapt stillness of pious ecstasy; hours had vanished during his
passionate reverie, and he stared upon the declining sun.

'The path to the right leads to Bethany.' The force of association
brought back the last words that he had heard from a human voice.
And can he sleep without seeing Bethany? He mounts the path. What a
landscape surrounds him as he moves! What need for nature to be fair
in a scene like this, where not a spot is visible that is not heroic
or sacred, consecrated or memorable; not a rock that is not the cave of
prophets; not a valley that is not the valley of heaven-anointed kings;
not a mountain that is not the mountain of God!

Before him is a living, a yet breathing and existing city, which
Assyrian monarchs came down to besiege, which the chariots of Pharaohs
encompassed, which Roman Emperors have personally assailed, for which
Saladin and Coeur de Lion, the desert and Christendom, Asia and Europe,
struggled in rival chivalry; a city which Mahomet sighed to rule, and
over which the Creator alike of Assyrian kings and Egyptian Pharaohs and
Roman Caesars, the Framer alike of the desert and of Christendom, poured
forth the full effusion of His divinely human sorrow.

What need of cascade and of cataract, the deep green turf, the foliage
of the fairest trees, the impenetrable forest, the abounding river,
mountains of glaciered crest, the voice of birds, the bounding forms of
beauteous animals; all sights and sounds of material loveliness that
might become the delicate ruins of some archaic theatre, or the
lingering fanes of some forgotten faith? They would not be observed as
the eye seized on Sion and Calvary; the gates of Bethlehem and Damascus;
the hill of Titus; the Mosque of Mahomet and the tomb of Christ. The
view of Jerusalem is the history of the world; it is more, it is the
history of earth and of heaven.

The path winding round the southern side of the Mount of Olives at
length brought Tancred in sight of a secluded village, situate among the
hills on a sunny slope, and shut out from all objects excepting the
wide landscape which immediately faced it; the first glimpse of Arabia
through the ravines of the Judaean hills; the rapid Jordan quitting its
green and happy valley for the bitter waters of Asphaltites, and, in the
extreme distance, the blue mountains of Moab.

Ere he turned his reluctant steps towards the city, he was attracted by
a garden, which issued, as it were, from a gorge in the hills, so that
its limit was not perceptible, and then spread over a considerable
space, comparatively with the inclosures in its vicinity, until it
reached the village. It was surrounded by high stone walls, which
every now and then the dark spiral forms of a cypress or a cedar would
overtop, and in the more distant and elevated part rose a tall palm
tree, bending its graceful and languid head, on which the sunbeam
glittered. It was the first palm that Tancred had ever seen, and his
heart throbbed as he beheld that fair and sacred tree.

As he approached the garden, Tancred observed that its portal was open:
he stopped before it, and gazed upon its walks of lemon trees with
delight and curiosity. Tancred had inherited from his mother a passion
for gardens; and an eastern garden, a garden in the Holy Land, such
as Gethsemane might have been in those days of political justice when
Jerusalem belonged to the Jews; the occasion was irresistible; he could
not withstand the temptation of beholding more nearly a palm tree; and
he entered.

Like a prince in a fairy tale, who has broken the mystic boundary of
some enchanted pleasaunce, Tancred traversed the alleys which were
formed by the lemon and pomegranate tree, and sometimes by the myrtle
and the rose. His ear caught the sound of falling water, bubbling with
a gentle noise; more distinct and more forcible every step that he
advanced. The walk in which he now found himself ended in an open space
covered with roses; beyond them a gentle acclivity, clothed so thickly
with a small bright blue flower that it seemed a bank of turquoise, and
on its top was a kiosk of white marble, gilt and painted; by its side,
rising from a group of rich shrubs, was the palm, whose distant crest
had charmed Tancred without the gate.

In the centre of the kiosk was the fountain, whose alluring voice
had tempted Tancred to proceed further than he had at first dared to
project. He must not retire without visiting the waters which had been
speaking to him so long. Following the path round the area of roses,
he was conducted to the height of the acclivity, and entered the kiosk;
some small beautiful mats were spread upon its floor, and, reposing upon
one of them, Tancred watched the bright clear water as it danced and
sparkled in its marble basin.

The reader has perhaps experienced the effect of falling water. Its
lulling influence is proverbial. In the present instance, we must
remember that Tancred had been exposed to the meridian fervour of a
Syrian sun, that he had been the whole day under the influence of that
excitement which necessarily ends in exhaustion; and that, in addition
to this, he had recently walked some distance; it will not, therefore,
be looked upon as an incident improbable or astonishing, that Lord
Montacute, after pursuing for some time that train of meditation which
was his custom, should have fallen asleep.

His hat had dropped from his head; his rich curls fell on his
outstretched arm that served as a pillow for a countenance which in the
sweet dignity of its blended beauty and stillness might have become an
archangel; and, lying on one of the mats, in an attitude of unconscious
gracefulness, which a painter might have transferred to his portfolio,
Tancred sank into a deep and dreamless repose.

[Illustration: frontis2-p26]

He woke refreshed and renovated, but quite insensible of all that had
recently occurred. He stretched his limbs; something seemed to embarrass
him; he found himself covered with a rich robe. He was about to rise,
resting on his arm, when turning his head he beheld the form of a woman.

She was young, even for the East; her stature rather above the ordinary
height, and clothed in the rich dress usual among the Syrian ladies.
She wore an amber vest of gold-embroidered silk, fitting closely to her
shape, and fastening with buttons of precious stones from the bosom to
the waist, there opening like a tunic, so that her limbs were free to
range in her huge Mamlouk trousers, made of that white Cashmere a shawl
of which can be drawn through a ring. These, fastened round her ankles
with clasps of rubies, fell again over her small slippered feet. Over
her amber vest she had an embroidered pelisse of violet silk, with long
hanging sleeves, which showed occasionally an arm rarer than the costly
jewels which embraced it; a many-coloured Turkish scarf inclosed her
waist; and then, worn loosely over all, was an outer pelisse of amber
Cashmere, lined with the fur of the white fox. At the back of her
head was a cap, quite unlike the Greek and Turkish caps which we are
accustomed to see in England, but somewhat resembling the head-dress of
a Mandarin; round, not flexible, almost flat; and so thickly in-crusted
with pearls, that it was impossible to detect the colour of the velvet
which covered it. Beneath it descended two broad braids of dark brown
hair, which would have swept the ground had they not been turned
half-way up, and there fastened with bunches of precious stones; these,
too, restrained the hair which fell, in rich braids, on each side of her
face.

That face presented the perfection of oriental beauty; such as it
existed in Eden, such as it may yet occasionally be found among the
favoured races in the favoured climes, and such as it might have been
found abundantly and for ever, had not the folly and malignity of man
been equal to the wisdom and beneficence of Jehovah. The countenance was
oval, yet the head was small. The complexion was neither fair nor dark,
yet it possessed the brilliancy of the north without its dryness, and
the softness peculiar to the children of the sun without its moisture.
A rich, subdued and equable tint overspread this visage, though the skin
was so transparent that you occasionally caught the streaky splendour of
some vein like the dappled shades in the fine peel of beautiful fruit.

But it was in the eye and its overspreading arch that all the Orient
spake, and you read at once of the starry vaults of Araby and the
splendour of Chaldean skies. Dark, brilliant, with pupil of great
size and prominent from its socket, its expression and effect,
notwithstanding the long eyelash of the desert, would have been those
of a terrible fascination had not the depth of the curve in which it
reposed softened the spell and modified irresistible power by ineffable
tenderness. This supreme organisation is always accompanied, as in the
present instance, by a noble forehead, and by an eyebrow of perfect
form, spanning its space with undeviating beauty; very narrow, though
its roots are invisible.

The nose was small, slightly elevated, with long oval nostrils fully
developed. The small mouth, the short upper lip, the teeth like the
neighbouring pearls of Ormuz, the round chin, polished as a statue,
were in perfect harmony with the delicate ears, and the hands with nails
shaped like almonds.

Such was the form that caught the eye of Tan-cred. She was on the
opposite side of the fountain, and stood gazing on him with calmness,
and with a kind of benignant curiosity: The garden, the kiosk, the
falling waters, recalled the past, which flashed over his mind almost at
the moment when he beheld the beautiful apparition. Half risen, yet
not willing to remain until he was on his legs to apologise for his
presence, Tancred, still leaning on his arm and looking up at his
unknown companion, said, 'Lady, I am an intruder.'

The lady, seating herself on the brink of the fountain, and motioning at
the same time with her hand to Tancred not to rise, replied, 'We are so
near the desert that you must not doubt our hospitality.'

'I was tempted by the first sight of a palm tree to a step too bold; and
then sitting by this fountain, I know not how it was----'

'You yielded to our Syrian sun,' said the lady.

'It has been the doom of many; but you, I trust, will not find it
fatal. Walking in the garden with my maidens, we observed you, and one
of us covered your head. If you remain in this land you should wear the
turban.'

'This garden seems a paradise,' said Tancred. 'I had not thought that
anything so fair could be found among these awful mountains. It is a
spot that quite becomes Bethany.'

'You Franks love Bethany?'

'Naturally; a place to us most dear and interesting.'

'Pray, are you of those Franks who worship a Jewess; or of those other
who revile her, break her images, and blaspheme her pictures?'

'I venerate, though I do not adore, the mother of God,' said Tancred,
with emotion.

'Ah! the mother of Jesus!' said his companion. 'He is your God. He lived
much in this village. He was a great man, but he was a Jew; and you
worship him.'

'And you do not worship him?' said Tancred, looking up to her with an
inquiring glance, and with a reddening cheek.

'It sometimes seems to me that I ought,' said the lady, 'for I am of his
race, and you should sympathise with your race.'

'You are, then, a Hebrew?'

'I am of the same blood as Mary whom you venerate, but do not adore.'

'You just now observed,' said Tancred, after a momentary pause, 'that it
sometimes almost seems to you that you ought to acknowledge my Lord and
Master. He made many converts at Bethany, and found here some of his
gentlest disciples. I wish that you had read the history of his life.'

'I have read it. The English bishop here has given me the book. It is a
good one, written, I observe, entirely by Jews. I find in it many things
with which I agree; and if there be some from which I dissent, it may be
that I do not comprehend them.'

'You are already half a Christian!' said Tancred, with animation.

'But the Christianity which I draw from your book does not agree with
the Christianity which you practise,' said the lady, 'and I fear,
therefore, it may be heretical.'

'The Christian Church would be your guide.'

'Which?' inquired the lady; 'there are so many in Jerusalem. There is
the good bishop who presented me with this volume, and who is himself a
Hebrew: he is a Church; there is the Latin Church, which was founded
by a Hebrew; there is the Armenian Church, which belongs to an Eastern
nation who, like the Hebrews, have lost their country and are scattered
in every clime; there is the Abyssinian Church, who hold us in great
honour, and practise many of our rites and ceremonies; and there are the
Greek, the Maronite, and the Coptic Churches, who do not favour us,
but who do not treat us as grossly as they treat each other. In this
perplexity it may be wise to remain within the pale of a church older
than all of them, the church in which Jesus was born and which he never
quitted, for he was born a Jew, lived a Jew, and died a Jew; as became
a Prince of the House of David, which you do and must acknowledge him to
have been. Your sacred genealogies prove the fact; and if you could not
establish it, the whole fabric of your faith falls to the ground.'

'If I had no confidence in any Church,' said Tancred, with agitation, 'I
would fall down before God and beseech him to enlighten me; and, in this
land,' he added, in a tone of excitement, 'I cannot believe that the
appeal to the Mercy-seat would be made in vain.'

'But human wit ought to be exhausted before we presume to invoke divine
interposition,' said the lady. 'I observe that Jesus was as fond of
asking questions as of performing miracles; an inquiring spirit will
solve mysteries. Let me ask you: you think that the present state of my
race is penal and miraculous?'

Tancred gently bowed assent.

'Why do you?' asked the lady.

'It is the punishment ordained for their rejection and crucifixion of
the Messiah.'

'Where is it ordained?'

'Upon our heads and upon our children be his blood.'

'The criminals said that, not the judge. Is it a principle of your
jurisprudence to permit the guilty to assign their own punishment?
They might deserve a severer one. Why should they transfer any of the
infliction to their posterity? What evidence have you that Omnipotence
accepted the offer? It is not so announced in your histories. Your
evidence is the reverse. He, whom you acknowledge as omnipotent, prayed
to Jehovah to forgive them on account of their ignorance. But, admit
that the offer was accepted, which in my opinion is blasphemy, is the
cry of a rabble at a public execution to bind a nation? There was
a great party in the country not disinclined to Jesus at the time,
especially in the provinces where he had laboured for three years, and
on the whole with success; are they and their children to suffer? But
you will say they became Christians. Admit it. We were originally a
nation of twelve tribes; ten, long before the advent of Jesus, had been
carried into captivity and scattered over the East and the Mediterranean
world; they are probably the source of the greater portion of the
existing Hebrews; for we know that, even in the time of Jesus, Hebrews
came up to Jerusalem at the Passover from every province of the Roman
Empire. What had they to do with the crucifixion or the rejection?'

'The fate of the Ten Tribes is a deeply interesting question,' said
Tancred; 'but involved in, I fear, inexplicable-obscurity. In England
there are many who hold them to be represented by the Afghans, who state
that their ancestors followed the laws of Moses. But perhaps they ceased
to exist and were blended with their conquerors.'

'The Hebrews have never blended with their conquerors,' said the lady,
proudly. 'They were conquered frequently, like all small states situate
amid rival empires. Syria was the battlefield of the great monarchies.
Jerusalem has not been conquered oftener than Athens, or treated worse;
but its people, unhappily, fought too bravely and rebelled too often, so
at last they were expatriated. I hold that, to believe that the Hebrew
communities are in a principal measure the descendants of the Ten
Tribes, and of the other captivities preceding Christ, is a just,
and fair, and sensible inference, which explains circumstances that
otherwise could not be explicable. But let that pass. We will suppose
all the Jews in all the cities of the world to be the lineal descendants
of the mob who shouted at the crucifixion. Yet another question! My
grandfather is a Bedouin sheikh, chief of one of the most powerful
tribes of the desert. My mother was his daughter. He is a Jew; his whole
tribe are Jews; they read and obey the five books, live in tents, have
thousands of camels, ride horses of the Nedjed breed, and care for
nothing except Jehovah, Moses, and their mares. Were they at Jerusalem
at the crucifixion, and does the shout of the rabble touch them? Yet my
mother marries a Hebrew of the cities, and a man, too, fit to sit on the
throne of King Solomon; and a little Christian Yahoor with a round hat,
who sells figs at Smyrna, will cross the street if he see her, lest he
should be contaminated by the blood of one who crucified his Saviour;
his Saviour being, by his own statement, one of the princes of our royal
house. No; I will never become a Christian, if I am to eat such sand! It
is not to be found in your books. They were written by Jews, men far
too well acquainted with their subject to indite such tales of the
Philistines as these!'

Tancred looked at her with deep interest as her eye flashed fire, and
her beautiful cheek was for a moment suffused with the crimson cloud of
indignant passion; and then he said, 'You speak of things that deeply
interest me, or I should not be in this land. But tell me: it cannot
be denied that, whatever the cause, the miracle exists; and that the
Hebrews, alone of the ancient races, remain, and are found in every
country, a memorial of the mysterious and mighty past.'

'Their state may be miraculous without being penal. But why miraculous?
Is it a miracle that Jehovah should guard his people? And can He guard
them better than by endowing them with faculties superior to those of
the nations among whom they dwell?'

'I cannot believe that merely human agencies could have sustained a
career of such duration and such vicissitudes.'

'As for human agencies, we have a proverb: "The will of man is the
servant of God." But if you wish to make a race endure, rely upon it
you should expatriate them. Conquer them, and they may blend with
their conquerors; exile them, and they will live apart and for ever.
To expatriate is purely oriental, quite unknown to the modern world. We
were speaking of the Armenians, they are Christians, and good ones, I
believe.'

'I have understood very orthodox.' 'Go to Armenia, and you will not find
an Armenian. They, too, are an expatriated nation, like the Hebrews. The
Persians conquered their land, and drove out the people. The Armenian
has a proverb: "In every city of the East I find a home." They are
everywhere; the rivals of my people, for they are one of the great
races, and little degenerated: with all our industry, and much of our
energy; I would say, with all our human virtues, though it cannot be
expected that they should possess our divine qualities; they have not
produced Gods and prophets, and are proud that they can trace up their
faith to one of the obscurest of the Hebrew apostles, and who never knew
his great master.'

'But the Armenians are found only in the East,' said Tancred.

'Ah!' said the lady, with a sarcastic smile; 'it is exile to Europe,
then, that is the curse: well, I think you have some reason. I do not
know much of your quarter of the globe: Europe is to Asia what America
is to Europe. But I have felt the winds of the Exuine blowing up the
Bosphorus; and, when the Sultan was once going to cut off our heads for
helping the Egyptians, I passed some months at Vienna. Oh! how I sighed
for my beautiful Damascus!'

'And for your garden at Bethany?' said Tancred.

'It did not exist then. This is a recent creation,' said the lady. 'I
have built a nest in the chink of the hills, that I might look upon
Arabia; and the palm tree that invited you to honour my domain was the
contribution of my Arab grandfather to the only garden near Jerusalem.
But I want to ask you another question. What, on the whole, is the thing
most valued in Europe?'

Tancred pondered; and, after a slight pause, said, 'I think I know what
ought to be most valued in Europe; it is something very different from
what I fear I must confess is most valued there. My cheek burns while I
say it; but I think, in Europe, what is most valued is money.'

'On the whole,' said the lady, 'he that has most money there is most
honoured?'

'Practically, I apprehend so.'

'Which is the greatest city in Europe?'

'Without doubt, the capital of my country, London.'

'Greater I know it is than Vienna; but is it greater than Paris?'

'Perhaps double the size of Paris.'

'And four times that of Stamboul! What a city! Why 'tis Babylon! How
rich the most honoured man must be there! Tell me, is he a Christian?'

'I believe he is one of your race and faith.' 'And in Paris; who is the
richest man in Paris?' 'The brother, I believe, of the richest man in
London.'

'I know all about Vienna,' said the lady, smiling. 'Caesar makes my
countrymen barons of the empire, and rightly, for it would fall to
pieces in a week without their support. Well, you must admit that the
European part of the curse has not worked very fatally.'

'I do not see,' said Tancred thoughtfully, after a short pause, 'that
the penal dispersion of the Hebrew nation is at all essential to the
great object of the Christian scheme. If a Jew did not exist, that would
equally have been obtained.'

'And what do you hold to be the essential object of the Christian
scheme?' 'The Expiation.'

'Ah!' said the lady, in a tone of much solemnity, 'that is a great idea;
in harmony with our instincts, with our traditions, our customs. It
is deeply impressed upon the convictions of this land. Shaped as you
Christians offer the doctrine, it loses none of its sublimity; or its
associations, full at the same time of mystery, power, and solace. A
sacrificial Mediator with Jehovah, that expiatory intercessor born from
the chosen house of the chosen people, yet blending in his inexplicable
nature the divine essence with the human elements, appointed before all
time, and purifying, by his atoning blood, the myriads that preceded and
the myriads that will follow us, without distinction of creed or clime,
this is what you believe. I acknowledge the vast conception, dimly as my
brain can partially embrace it. I understand thus much: the human race
is saved; and, without the apparent agency of a Hebrew prince, it could
not have been saved. Now tell me: suppose the Jews had not prevailed
upon the Romans to crucify Jesus, what would have become of the
Atonement?'

'I cannot permit myself to contemplate such contingencies,' said
Tancred. 'The subject is too high for me to touch with speculation.
I must not even consider an event that had been pre-ordained by the
Creator of the world for countless ages.'

'Ah!' said the lady; 'pre-ordained by the Creator of the world for
countless ages! Where, then, was the inexpiable crime of those who
fulfilled the beneficent intention? The holy race supplied the victim
and the immolators. What other race could have been entrusted with such
a consummation? Was not Abraham prepared to sacrifice even his son? And
with such a doctrine, that embraces all space and time; nay more, chaos
and eternity; with divine persons for the agents, and the redemption of
the whole family of man for the subject; you can mix up the miserable
persecution of a single race! And this is practical, not doctrinal
Christianity. It is not found in your Christian books, which were all
written by Jews; it must have been made by some of those Churches to
which you have referred me. Persecute us! Why, if you believe what you
profess, you should kneel to us! You raise statues to the hero who saves
a country. We have saved the human race, and you persecute us for doing
it.'

'I am no persecutor,' said Tancred, with emotion; 'and, had I been so,
my visit to Bethany would have cleansed my heart of such dark thoughts.'

'We have some conclusions in common,' said his companion, rising. 'We
agree that half Christendom worships a Jewess, and the other half a
Jew. Now let me ask one more question. Which is the superior race, the
worshipped or the worshippers?'

Tancred looked up to reply, but the lady had disappeared.




CHAPTER XXVII.

_Fakredeen and the Rose of Sharon_

BEFORE Tancred could recover from his surprise, the kiosk was invaded
by a crowd of little grinning negro pages, dressed in white tunics, with
red caps and slippers. They bore a number of diminutive trays of ebony
inlaid with tortoiseshell, and the mother-o'-pearl of Joppa, and covered
with a great variety of dishes. It was in vain that he would have
signified to them that he had no wish to partake of the banquet, and
that he attempted to rise from his mat. They understood nothing that he
said, but always grinning and moving about him with wonderful quickness,
they fastened a napkin of the finest linen, fringed with gold, round his
neck, covered the mats and the border of the fountain with their
dishes and vases of differently-coloured sherbets, and proceeded,
notwithstanding all his attempts at refusal, to hand him their dainties
in due order. Notwithstanding his present tone of mind, which was
ill-adapted to any carnal gratification, Tancred had nevertheless been
an unusual number of hours without food. He had made during the period
no inconsiderable exertion, and was still some distance from the
city. Though he resigned himself perforce to the care of his little
attendants, their solicitude therefore was not inappropriate. He
partook of some of their dishes, and when he had at length succeeded
in conveying to them his resolution to taste no more, they cleared the
kiosk with as marvellous a celerity as they had stored it, and then two
of them advanced with a nargileh and a chibouque, to offer their choice
to their guest. Tan-cred placed the latter for a moment to his mouth,
and then rising, and making signs to the pages that he would now return,
they danced before him in the path till he had reached the other side
of the area of roses, and then, with a hundred bows, bending, they took
their leave of him.

The sun had just sunk as Tancred quitted the garden: a crimson glow,
shifting, as he proceeded, into rich tints of purple and of gold,
suffused the stern Judaean hills, and lent an almost supernatural lustre
to the landscape; lighting up the wild gorges, gilding the distant
glens, and still kindling the superior elevations with its living blaze.
The air, yet fervid, was freshened by a slight breeze that came over the
wilderness from the Jordan, and the big round stars that were already
floating in the skies were the brilliant heralds of the splendour of
a Syrian night. The beauteous hour and the sacred scene were alike in
unison with the heart of Tancred, softened and serious. He mused in
fascinated reverie over the dazzling incident of the day. Who was this
lady of Bethany, who seemed not unworthy to have followed Him who had
made her abiding place so memorable? Her beauty might have baffled the
most ideal painter of the fair Hebrew saints. Raffaelle himself could
not have designed a brow of more delicate supremacy. Her lofty but
gracious bearing, the vigour of her clear, frank mind, her earnestness,
free from all ecstasy and flimsy enthusiasm, but founded in knowledge
and deep thought, and ever sustained by exact expression and ready
argument, her sweet witty voice, the great and all-engaging theme on
which she was so content to discourse, and which seemed by right to
belong to her: all these were circumstances which wonderfully affected
the imagination of Tancred.

He was lost in the empyrean of high abstraction, his gaze apparently
fixed on the purple mountains, and the golden skies, and the glittering
orbs of coming night, which yet in truth he never saw, when a repeated
shout at length roused him. It bade him stand aside on the narrow path
that winds round the Mount of Olives from Jerusalem to Bethany, and let
a coming horseman pass. The horseman was the young Emir who was a guest
the night before in the divan of Besso. Though habited in the Mamlouk
dress, as if only the attendant of some great man, huge trousers and
jacket of crimson cloth, a white turban, a shawl round his waist holding
his pistols and sabre, the horse he rode was a Kochlani of the highest
breed., By him was a running footman, holding his nargileh, to which
the Emir frequently applied his mouth as he rode along. He shot a keen
glance at Tancred as he passed by, and then throwing his tube to his
attendant, he bounded on.

In the meantime, we must not forget the lady of Bethany after she so
suddenly disappeared from the kiosk. Proceeding up her mountain garden,
which narrowed as she advanced, and attended by two female slaves, who
had been in waiting without the kiosk, she was soon in that hilly chink
in which she had built her nest; a long, low pavilion, with a shelving
roof, and surrounded by a Saracenic arcade; the whole painted in fresco;
a golden pattern of flowing fancy on a white ground. If there were door
or window, they were entirely concealed by the blinds which appeared to
cover the whole surface of the building. Stepping into the arcade, the
lady entered the pavilion by a side portal, which opened by a secret
spring, and which conducted her into a small corridor, and this again
through two chambers, in both of which were many females, who mutely
saluted her without rising from their employments.

Then the mistress entered a more capacious and ornate apartment.
Its ceiling, which described the horseshoe arch of the Saracens, was
encrusted with that honeycomb work which is peculiar to them, and which,
in the present instance, was of rose colour and silver. Mirrors were
inserted in the cedar panels of the walls; a divan of rose-coloured silk
surrounded the chamber, and on the thick soft carpet of many colours,
which nearly covered the floor, were several cushions surrounding an
antique marble tripod of wreathed serpents. The lady, disembarrassing
herself of her slippers, seated herself on the divan in the fashion of
her country; one of her attendants brought a large silver lamp, which
diffused a delicious odour as well as a brilliant light, and placed
it on the tripod; the other clapped her hands, and a band of beautiful
girls entered the room, bearing dishes of confectionery, plates of
choice fruits, and vases of delicious sherbets. The lady, partaking of
some of these, directed, after a short time, that they should be offered
to her immediate attendants, who thereupon kissed their hands with a
grave face, and pressed them to their hearts. Then one of the girls,
leaving the apartment for a moment, returned with a nargileh of crystal,
set by the most cunning artists of Damascus in a framework of golden
filigree crusted with precious stones. She presented the flexible silver
tube, tipped with amber, to the lady, who, waving her hand that the room
should be cleared, smoked a confection of roses and rare nuts, while she
listened to a volume read by one of her maidens, who was seated by the
silver lamp.

While they were thus employed, an opposite curtain to that by which they
had entered was drawn aside, and a woman advanced, and whispered some
words to the lady, who seemed to signify her assent. Immediately, a tall
negro of Dongola, richly habited in a flowing crimson vest, and with
a large silver collar round his neck, entered the hall, and, after the
usual salutations of reverence to the lady, spoke earnestly in a low
voice. The lady listened with great attention, and then, taking out her
tablets from her girdle, she wrote a few words and gave a leaf to the
tall negro, who bowed and retired. Then she waved her hand, and the
maiden who was reading closed her book, rose, and, pressing her hand to
her heart, retired.

It seemed that the young Emir had arrived at the pavilion, and prayed
that, without a moment's delay, he might speak with the Lady of Bethany.

The curtain was again withdrawn, a light step was heard, the young man
who had recently passed Tancred on the road to Jerusalem bounded into
the room.

'How is the Rose of Sharon?' he exclaimed. He threw himself at her feet,
and pressed the hem of her garment to his lips with an ecstasy which
it would have been difficult for a bystander to decide whether it were
mockery or enthusiasm, or genuine feeling, which took a sportive air to
veil a devotion which it could not conceal, and which it cared not too
gravely to intimate.

'Ah, Fakredeen!' said the lady, 'and when did you leave the Mountain?'

'I arrived at Jerusalem yesterday by sunset; never did I want to see you
so much. The foreign consuls have stopped my civil war, which cost me a
hundred thousand piastres. We went down to Beiroot and signed articles
of peace; I thought it best to attend to escape suspicion. However,
there is more stirring than you can conceive: never had I such
combinations! First, let me shortly tell you what I have done, then what
I wish you to do. I have made immense hits, but I am also in a scrape.'

'That I think you always are,' said the lady.

'But you will get me out of it, Rose of Sharon! You always do, brightest
and sweetest of friends! What an alliance is ours! My invention, your
judgment; my combinations, your criticism. It must carry everything
before it.'

'I do not see that it has effected much hitherto,' said the lady.'
However, give me your mountain news. What have you done?'

'In the first place,' said Fakredeen, 'until this accursed peace
intrigue of the foreign consuls, which will not last as long as the
carnival, the Mountain was more troubled than ever, and the Porte,
backed up by Sir Canning, is obstinate against any prince of our house
exercising the rule.'

'Do you call that good news?'

'It serves. In the first place it keeps my good uncle, the Emir Bescheer
and his sons, prisoners at the Seven Towers. Now, I will tell you what I
have done. I have sent to my uncle and offered him two hundred thousand
piastres a year for his life and that of his sons, if they will
represent to the Porte that none but a prince of the house of Shehaab
can possibly pacify and administer Lebanon, and that, to obtain this
necessary end, they are ready to resign their rights in favour of any
other member of the family.'

'What then?' said the Lady of Bethany, taking her nargileh from her
mouth.

'Why, then,' said Fakredeen, 'I am by another agent working upon Riza
Pasha to this effect, that of all the princes of the great house of
Shehaab, there is none so well adapted to support the interests of the
Porte as the Emir Fakredeen, and for these three principal reasons: in
the first place, because he is a prince of great qualities----'

'Your proof of them to the vizir would be better than your assertion.'

'Exactly,' said Fakredeen. 'I prove them by my second reason, which is a
guaranty to his excellency of the whole revenue of the first year of my
princedom, provided I receive the berat.'

'I can tell you something,' said the lady, 'Riza shakes a little. He is
too fond of first-fruits. His nomination will not be popular.'

'Yes it will, when the divan takes into consideration the third reason
for my appointment,' said the prince. 'Namely, that the Emir Fakredeen
is the only prince of the great house of Shehaab who is a good
Mussulman.'

'You a good Mussulman! Why, I thought you had sent two months ago
Archbishop Murad to Paris, urging King Louis to support you, because,
amongst other reasons, being a Christian prince, you would defend the
faith and privileges of the Maronites.'

'And devote myself to France,' said Fakredeen. 'It is very true, and an
excellent combination it is, if we could only bring it to bear, which I
do not despair of, though affairs, which looked promising at Paris, have
taken an unfortunate turn of late.'

'I am sorry for that,' said the lady, 'for really, Fakredeen, of all
your innumerable combinations, that did seem to me to be the most
practical. I think it might have been worked. The Maronites are
powerful; the French nation is interested in them; they are the link
between France and Syria; and you, being a Christian prince as well as
an emir of the most illustrious house, with your intelligence and such
aid as we might give you, I think your prospects were, to say the least,
fair.'

'Why, as to being a Christian prince, Eva, you must remember I aspire to
a dominion where I have to govern the Maronites who are Christians,
the Metoualis who are Mahometans, the Ansareys who are Pagans, and the
Druses who are nothing. As for-myself, my house, as you well know, is
more ancient even than that of Othman. We are literally descended from
the standard-bearer of the Prophet, and my own estates, as well as those
of the Emir Bes-cheer, have been in our registered possession for nearly
eight hundred years. Our ancestors became Christians to conciliate the
Maronites. Now tell me: in Europe, an English or French prince who wants
a throne never hesitates to change his religion, why should I be more
nice? I am of that religion which gives me a sceptre; and if a Frank
prince adopts a new creed when he quits London or Paris, I cannot
understand why mine may not change according to the part of the mountain
through which I am passing. What is the use of belonging to an old
family unless to have the authority of an ancestor ready for any
prejudice, religious or political, which your combinations may require?'

'Ah! Fakredeen,' said the lady, shaking her head, 'you have no
self-respect.'

'No Syrian has; it won't do for us. You are an Arabian; it will do for
the desert. Self-respect, too, is a superstition of past centuries, an
affair of the Crusades. It is not suited to these times; it is much
too arrogant, too self-conceited, too egotistical. No one is important
enough to have self-respect. Don't you see?'

'You boast of being a prince inferior to none in the antiquity of your
lineage, and, as far as the mere fact is concerned, you are justified
in your boast. I cannot comprehend how one who feels this pride should
deign to do anything that is not princely.'

'A prince!' exclaimed Fakredeen. 'Princes go for nothing now, without
a loan. Get me a loan, and then you turn the prince into a government.
That's the thing.'

'You will never get a loan till you are Emir of Lebanon,' said the lady.
'And you have shown me to-day that the only chance you have is failing
you, for, after all, Paris was your hope. What has crossed you?'

'In the first place,' said Fakredeen, 'what can the French do? After
having let the Egyptians be driven out, fortunately for me, for their
expulsion ruined my uncle, the French will never take the initiative in
Syria. All that I wanted of them was, that they should not oppose Riza
Pasha in his nomination of me. But to secure his success a finer move
was necessary. So I instructed Archbishop Murad, whom they received very
well at Paris, to open secret communications over the water with the
English. He did so, and offered to cross and explain in detail to their
ministers. I wished to assure them in London that I was devoted to
their interests; and I meant to offer to let the Protestant missionaries
establish themselves in the mountain, so that Sir Canning should have
received instructions to support my nomination by Riza. Then you see,
I should have had the Porte, England, and France. The game was won. Can
you believe it? Lord Aberdeen enclosed my agent's letter to Guizot. I
was crushed.'

'And disgraced. You deserved it. You never will succeed. Intrigue will
be your ruin, Fakredeen.'

'Intrigue!' exclaimed the prince, starting from the cushion near the
tripod, on which he sat, speaking with great animation and using, as
was his custom, a superfluity of expression, both of voice and hands
and eyes, 'intrigue! It is life! It is the only thing! How do you think
Guizot and Aberdeen got to be ministers without intrigue? Or Riza Pasha
himself? How do you think Mehemet Ali got on? Do you believe Sir Canning
never intrigues? He would be recalled in a week if he did not. Why, I
have got one of his spies in my castle at this moment, and I make
him write home for the English all that I wish them not to believe.
Intrigue! Why, England won India by intrigue. Do you think they are not
intriguing in the Punjaub at this moment? Intrigue has gained half the
thrones of Europe: Greece, France, Belgium, Portugal, Spain, Russia. If
you wish to produce a result, you must make combinations; and you call
combinations, Eva, intrigue!'

'And this is the scrape that you are in,' said the lady. 'I do not see
how I can help you out of it.'

'Pardon; this is not the scrape: and here comes the point on which I
need your aid, daughter of a thousand sheikhs! I can extricate myself
from the Paris disaster, even turn it to account. I have made an
alliance with the patriarch of the Lebanon, who manages affairs for the
Emir Bescheer. The patriarch hates Murad, whom you see I was to have
made patriarch. I am to declare the Archbishop an unauthorised agent,
an adventurer, and my letter to be a forgery. The patriarch is to go
to Stamboul, with his long white beard, and put me right with France,
through De Bourqueney, with whom he has relations in favour of the Emir
Bescheer; my uncle is to be thrown over; all the Maronite chiefs are
to sign a declaration supplicating the Porte to institute me; nay, the
declaration is signed----'

'And the Druses? Will not this Maronite manifestation put you wrong with
the Druses?'

'I live among the Druses, you see,' said Fakredeen, shaking his head,
and looking with his glittering eye a thousand meanings. 'The Druses
love me. They know that I am one of themselves. They will only think
that I have made the Maronites eat sand.'

'And what have you really done for the Maronites to gain all this?'
asked the lady, quietly.

'There it is,' said Fakredeen, speaking in an affected whisper, 'the
greatest stroke of state that ever entered the mind of a king without
a kingdom, for I am resolved that the mountain shall be a royalty I You
remember when Ibrahim Pasha laid his plans for disarming the Lebanon,
the Maronites, urged by their priests, fell into the snare, while the
Druses wisely went with their muskets and scimitars, and lived awhile
with the eagle and the antelope. This has been sand to the Maronites
ever since. The Druses put their tongues in their cheek whenever they
meet, and treat them as so many women. The Porte, of course, will do
nothing for the Maronites; they even take back the muskets which they
lent them for the insurrection. Well, as the Porte will not arm them, I
have agreed to do it.'

'You!'

''Tis done; at least the caravan is laden; we only want a guide.
And this is why I am at Jerusalem. Scheriff Effendi, who met me here
yesterday, has got me five thousand English muskets, and I have arranged
with the Bedouin of Zoalia to carry them to the mountain.'

'You have indeed Solomon's signet, my dear Fakredeen.'

'Would that I had; for then I could pay two hundred thousand piastres
to that Egyptian camel, Scheriff Effendi, and he would give me up my
muskets, which now, like a true son of Eblis, he obstinately retains.'

'And this is your scrape, Fakredeen. And how much have you towards the
sum?'

'Not a piastre; nor do I suppose I shall ever see, until I make a great
financial stroke, so much of the sultan's gold as is on one of the gilt
balls of roses in your nargileh. My crops are sold for next year, my
jewels are gone, my studs are to be broken up. There is not a cur in the
streets of Beiroot of whom I have not borrowed money. Riza Pasha is a
sponge that would dry the sea of Galilee.'

'It is a great thing to have gained the Patriarch of Lebanon,' said
the lady; 'I always felt that, as long as that man was against you, the
Maronites never could be depended on. And yet these arms; after all,
they are of no use, for you would not think of insurrection!'

'No; but they can quarrel with the Druses, and cut each other's throats,
and this will make the mountain more unmanageable than ever, and the
English will have no customers for their calicoes, don't you see? Lord
Palmerston will arraign the minister in the council. I shall pay off
Aberdeen for enclosing the Archbishop's letter to Guizot. Combination
upon combination! The calico merchants will call out for a prince of the
house of Shehaab! Riza will propose me; Bourqueney will not murmur, and
Sir Canning, finding he is in a mess, will sign a fine note of words
about the peace of Europe and the prosperity of Lebanon, and 'tis
finished.'

'And my father, you have seen him?'

'I have seen him,' said the young Emir, and he cast his eyes on the
ground.

'He has done so much,' said Eva.

'Ask him to do more, Rose of Sharon,' said Fakredeen, like a child about
to cry for a toy, and he threw himself on his knees before Eva, and kept
kissing her robe. 'Ask him to do more,' he repeated, in a suppressed
tone of heart-rending cajolery; 'he can refuse you nothing. Ask him, ask
him, Eva! I have no friend in the world but you; I am so desolate.
You have always been my friend, my counsellor, my darling, my ruby, my
pearl, my rose of Rocnabad! Ask him, Eva; never mind my faults; you
know me by heart; only ask him!'

She shook her head.

'Tell him that you are my sister, that I am his son, that I love you
so, that I love him so; tell him anything. Say that he ought to do it
because I am a Hebrew.'

'A what?' said Eva.

'A Hebrew; yes, a Hebrew. I am a Hebrew by blood, and we all are by
faith.'

'Thou son of a slave!' exclaimed the lady, 'thou masquerade of humanity!
Christian or Mussulman, Pagan or Druse, thou mayest figure as; but spare
my race, Fakredeen, they are fallen----'

'But not so base as I am. It may be true, but I love you, Eva, and you
love me; and if I had as many virtues as yourself, you could not love
me more; perhaps less. Women like to feel their superiority; you are
as clever as I am, and have more judgment; you are generous, and I am
selfish; honourable, and I am a villain; brave, and I am a coward; rich,
and I am poor. Let that satisfy you, and do not trample on the fallen;'
and Fakredeen took her hand and bedewed it with his tears.

'Dear Fakredeen,' said Eva, 'I thought you spoke in jest, as I did.'

'How can a man jest, who has to go through what I endure!' said the
young Emir, in a desponding tone, and still lying at her feet. 'O, my
more than sister, 'tis hell! The object I propose to myself would, with
the greatest resources, be difficult; and now I have none.'

'Relinquish it.'

'When I am young and ruined! When I have the two greatest stimulants in
the world to action, Youth and Debt! No; such a combination is never to
be thrown away. Any young prince ought to win the Lebanon, but a young
prince in debt ought to conquer the world!' and the Emir sprang from the
floor, and began walking about the apartment.

'I think, Eva,' he said, after a moment's pause, and speaking in his
usual tone, 'I think you really might do something with your father; I
look upon myself as his son; he saved my life. And I am a Hebrew; I
was nourished by your mother's breast, her being flows in my veins;
and independent of all that, my ancestor was the standard-bearer of the
Prophet, and the Prophet was the descendant of Ishmael, and Ishmael
and Israel were brothers. I really think, between my undoubted Arabian
origin and being your foster-brother, that I may be looked upon as a
Jew, and that your father might do something for me.'

'Whatever my father will do, you and he must decide together,' said Eva;
'after the result of my last interference, I promised my father that I
never would speak to him on your affairs again; and you know, therefore,
that I cannot. You ought not to urge me, Fakredeen.'

'Ah! you are angry with me,' he exclaimed, and again seated himself
at her feet. 'You were saying in your heart, he is the most selfish of
beings. It is true, I am. But I have glorious aspirations at least. I am
not content to live like my fathers in a beautiful palace, amid my woods
and mountains, with Kochlani steeds, falcons that would pull down an
eagle, and nargilehs of rubies and emeralds. I want something more than
troops of beautiful slaves, music and dances. I want Europe to talk of
me. I am wearied of hearing nothing but Ibrahim Pasha, Louis Philippe,
and Palmerston. I, too, can make combinations; and I am of a better
family than all three, for Ibrahim is a child of mud, a Bourbon is not
equal to a Shehaab, and Lord Palmerston only sits in the Queen's
second chamber of council, as I well know from an Englishman who was at
Beiroot, and with whom I have formed some political relations, of which
perhaps some day you will hear.'

'Well, we have arrived at a stage of your career, Fakredeen, in which no
combination presents itself; I am powerless to assist you; my resources,
never very great, are quite exhausted.'

'No,' said the Emir, 'the game is yet to be won. Listen, Rose of Sharon,
for this is really the point on which I came to hold counsel. A young
English lord has arrived at Jerusalem this week or ten days past; he
is of the highest dignity, and rich enough to buy the grand bazaar of
Damascus; he has letters of credit on your father's house without
any limit. No one can discover the object of his mission. I have some
suspicions; there is also a French officer here who never speaks; I
watch them both. The Englishman, I learnt this morning, is going to
Mount Sinai. It is not a pilgrimage, because the English are really
neither Jews nor Christians, but follow a sort of religion of their own,
which is made every year by their bishops, one of whom they have sent
to Jerusalem, in what they call a parliament, a college of muftis; you
understand. Now lend me that ear that is like an almond of Aleppo! I
propose that one of the tribes that obey your grandfather shall make
this Englishman prisoner as he traverses the desert. You see? Ah! Rose
of Sharon, I am not yet beat; your Fakredeen is not the baffled boy
that, a few minutes ago, you looked as if you thought him. I defy
Ibrahim, or the King of France, or Palmerston himself, to make a
combination superior to this. What a ransom! The English lord will pay
Scheriff Effendi for his five thousand muskets, and for their conveyance
to the mountain besides.'




CHAPTER XXVIII.

_Besso, the Banker_

IN ONE of those civil broils at Damascus which preceded the fall of the
Janissaries, an Emir of the house of Shehaab, who lost his life in the
fray, had, in the midst of the convulsion, placed his infant son in the
charge of the merchant Besso, a child most dear to him, not only because
the babe was his heir, but because his wife, whom he passionately
loved, a beautiful lady of Antioch and of one of the old families of the
country, had just sacrificed her life in giving birth to their son.

The wife of Besso placed the orphan infant at her own breast, and the
young Fakredeen was brought up in every respect as a child of the house;
so that, for some time, he looked upon the little Eva, who was three
years younger than himself, as his sister. When Fakredeen had
attained an age of sufficient intelligence for the occasion and the
circumstances, his real position was explained to him; but he was still
too young for the communication to effect any change in his feelings,
and the idea that Eva was not his sister only occasioned him sorrow,
until his grief was forgotten when he found that the change made no
difference in their lives or their love.

Soon after the violent death of the father of Fakredeen, affairs had
become more tranquil, and Besso had not neglected the interests of his
charge. The infant was heir to a large estate in the Lebanon; a fine
castle, an illimitable forest, and cultivated lands, whose produce,
chiefly silk, afforded a revenue sufficient to maintain the not
inconsiderable state of a mountain prince.

When Fakredeen was about ten years of age, his relative the Emir
Bescheer, who then exercised a sovereign and acknowledged sway over all
the tribes of the Lebanon, whatever their religion or race, signified
his pleasure that his kinsman should be educated at his court, in the
company of his sons. So Fakredeen, with many tears, quitted his happy
home at Damascus, and proceeded to Beteddeen, the beautiful palace of
his uncle, situate among the mountains in the neighbourhood of Beiroot.
This was about the time that the Egyptians were effecting the conquest
of Syria, and both the Emir Bescheer, the head of the house of
Shehaab as well as Prince of the Mountain, and the great commercial
confederation of the brothers Besso, had declared in favour of the
invader, and were mainly instrumental to the success of Mehemet Ali.
Political sympathy, and the feelings of mutual dependence which
united the Emir Bescheer and the merchant of Damascus, rendered
the communications between the families so frequent that it was not
difficult for the family of Besso to cherish those sentiments of
affection which were strong and lively in the heart of the young
Fakredeen, but which, under any circumstances, depend so much on
sustained personal intercourse. Eva saw a great deal of her former
brother, and there subsisted between them a romantic friendship. He
was their frequent guest at Damascus and was proud to show her how he
excelled in his martial exercises, how skilful he was with his falcon,
and what horses of pure race he proudly rode.

In the year '39, Fakredeen being then fifteen years of age, the country
entirely tranquil, even if discontented, occupied by a disciplined
army of 80,000 men, commanded by captains equal it was supposed to any
conjuncture, the Egyptians openly encouraged by the greatest military
nation of Europe, the Turks powerless, and only secretly sustained by
the countenance of the ambassador of the weakest government that ever
tottered in England, a government that had publicly acknowledged that
it had forfeited the confidence of the Parliament which yet it did
not dissolve; everything being thus in a state of flush and affluent
prosperity, and both the house of Shehaab and the house of Besso
feeling, each day more strongly, how discreet and how lucky they had
been in the course which they had adopted, came the great Syrian crash!

Whatever difference of opinion may exist as to the policy pursued by
the foreign minister of England, with respect to the settlement of the
Turkish Empire in 1840-41, none can be permitted, by those, at least,
competent to decide upon such questions, as to the ability with which
that policy was accomplished. When we consider the position of the
minister at home, not only deserted by Parliament, but abandoned by his
party and even forsaken by his colleagues; the military occupation
of Syria by the Egyptians; the rabid demonstration of France; that an
accident of time or space, the delay of a month or the gathering of a
storm, might alone have baffled all his combinations, it is difficult to
fix upon a page in the history of this country which records a superior
instance of moral intrepidity. The bold conception and the brilliant
performance were worthy of Chatham; but the domestic difficulties with
which Lord Palmerston had to struggle place the exploit beyond the
happiest achievement of the elder Pitt. Throughout the memorable
conjuncture, Lord Palmerston, however, had one great advantage, which
was invisible to the millions; he was served by a most vigilant and able
diplomacy. The superiority of his information concerning the state of
Syria to that furnished to the French minister was the real means
by which he baffled the menaced legions of our neighbours. A timid
Secretary of State in the position of Lord Palmerston, even with such
advantages, might have faltered; but the weapon was placed in the hands
of one who did not shrink from its exercise, and the expulsion of
the Egyptians from Turkey remains a great historic monument alike of
diplomatic skill and administrative energy.

The rout of the Egyptians was fatal to the Emir Bescheer, and it seemed
also, for a time, to the Damascus branch of the family of Besso. But in
these days a great capitalist has deeper roots than a sovereign prince,
unless he is very legitimate. The Prince of the Mountain and his
sons were summoned from their luxurious and splendid Beteddeen to
Constantinople, where they have ever since remained prisoners. Young
Fakredeen, the moment he heard of the fall of Acre, rode out with his
falcon, as if for the pastime of a morning, and the moment he was out of
sight made for the desert, and never rested until he reached the tents
of the children of Rechab, where he placed himself under the protection
of the grandfather of Eva.

As for the merchant himself, having ships at his command, he contrived
to escape with his wife and his young daughter to Trieste, and he
remained in the Austrian dominions between three and four years.
At length the influence of Prince Metternich, animated by Sidonia,
propitiated the Porte. Adarfi Besso, after making his submission at
Stamboul, and satisfactorily explaining his conduct to Riza Pasha,
returned to his country, not substantially injured in fortune, though
the northern clime had robbed him of his Arabian wife; for his brothers,
who, as far as politics were concerned, had ever kept in the shade, had
managed affairs in the absence of the more prominent member of their
house, and, in truth, the family of Besso were too rich to be long under
a cloud. The Pasha of Damascus found his revenue fall very short without
their interference; and as for the Divan, the Bessoes could always find
a friend there if they chose. The awkwardness of the Syrian catastrophe
was, that it was so sudden and so unexpected that there was then no time
for those satisfactory explanations which afterwards took place between
Adam Besso and Riza.

Though the situation of Besso remained, therefore, unchanged after the
subsidence of the Syrian agitation, the same circumstance could not be
predicated of the position of his foster-child. Fakredeen possessed
all the qualities of the genuine Syrian character in excess; vain,
susceptible, endowed with a brilliant though frothy imagination, and a
love of action so unrestrained that restlessness deprived it of energy,
with so fine a taste that he was always capricious, and so ingenious
that he seemed ever inconsistent. His ambition was as high as his
apprehension was quick. He saw everything and understood everybody in
a flash; and believed that everything that was said or done ought to
be made to contribute to his fortunes. Educated in the sweet order, and
amid the decorous virtues of the roof of Besso, Fakredeen, who, from his
susceptibility, took the colour of his companions, even when he thought
they were his tools, had figured for ten years as a soft-hearted and
somewhat timid child, dependent on kind words, and returning kindness
with a passionate affection.

His change to the palace of his uncle developed his native qualities,
which, under any accidents, could not perhaps have been long restrained,
but which the circumstances of the times brought to light, and matured
with a celerity peculiar to the East. The character of Fakredeen was
formed amid the excitement of the Syrian invasion and its stirring
consequences. At ten years of age he was initiated in all the mysteries
of political intrigue. His startling vivacity and the keen relish of his
infant intelligence for all the passionate interests of men amused and
sometimes delighted his uncle. Everything was spoken before him; he
lived in the centre of intrigues which were to shake thrones, and
perhaps to form them. He became habituated to the idea that everything
could be achieved by dexterity, and that there was no test of conduct
except success. To dissemble and to simulate; to conduct confidential
negotiations with contending powers and parties at the same time; to be
ready to adopt any opinion and to possess none; to fall into the public
humour of the moment, and to evade the impending catastrophe; to look
upon every man as a tool, and never do anything which had not a definite
though circuitous purpose; these were his political accomplishments;
and, while he recognised them as the best means of success, he found
in their exercise excitement and delight. To be the centre of a maze of
manoeuvres was his empyrean. He was never without a resource.

Stratagems came to him as naturally as fruit comes to a tree. He lived
in a labyrinth of plans, and he rejoiced to involve some one in the
perplexities which his magic touch could alone unravel. Fakredeen had
no principle of any kind; he had not a prejudice; a little superstition,
perhaps, like his postponing his journey because a hare crossed his
path. But, as for life and conduct in general, forming his opinions
from the great men of whom he had experience, princes, pashas, and some
others, and from the great transactions with which he was connected,
he was convinced that all was a matter of force or fraud. Fakredeen
preferred the latter, because it was more ingenious, and because he was
of a kind and passionate temperament, loving beauty and the beautiful,
apt to idealise everything, and of too exquisite a taste not to shrink
with horror from an unnecessary massacre.

Though it was his profession and his pride to simulate and to dissemble,
he had a native ingenuousness which was extremely awkward and very
surprising, for, the moment he was intimate with you, he told you
everything. Though he intended to make a person his tool, and often
succeeded, such was his susceptibility, and so strong were his
sympathetic qualities, that he was perpetually, without being aware of
it, showing his cards. The victim thought himself safe, but the teeming
resources of Fakredeen were never wanting, and some fresh and brilliant
combination, as he styled it, often secured the prey which so heedlessly
he had nearly forfeited. Recklessness with him was a principle of
action. He trusted always to his fertile expedients if he failed, and
ran the risk in the meanwhile of paramount success, the fortune of those
who are entitled to be rash. With all his audacity, which was nearly
equal to his craft, he had no moral courage; and, if affairs went wrong,
and, from some accident, exhaustion of the nervous system, the weather,
or some of those slight causes which occasionally paralyse the creative
mind, he felt without a combination, he would begin to cry like a
child, and was capable of any action, however base and humiliating, to
extricate himself from the impending disaster.

Fakredeen had been too young to have fatally committed himself during
the Egyptian occupation. The moment he found that the Emir Bescheer and
his sons were prisoners at Constantinople, he returned to Syria, lived
quietly at his own castle, affected popularity among the neighbouring
chieftains, who were pleased to see a Shehaab among them, and showed
himself on every occasion a most loyal subject of the Porte. At
seventeen years of age, Fakredeen was at the head of a powerful party,
and had opened relations with the Divan. The Porte looked upon him with
confidence, and although they intended, if possible, to govern Lebanon
in future themselves, a young prince of a great house, and a young
prince so perfectly free from all disagreeable antecedents, was not to
be treated lightly. All the leaders of all the parties of the mountain
frequented the castle of Fakredeen, and each secretly believed that the
prince was his pupil and his tool. There was not one of these men,
grey though some of them were in years and craft, whom the innocent and
ingenuous Fakredeen did not bend as a nose of wax, and, when Adam Besso
returned to Syria in '43, he found his foster-child by far the most
considerable person in the country, and all parties amid their doubts
and distractions looking up to him with hope and confidence. He was then
nineteen years of age, and Eva was sixteen. Fakredeen came instantly
to Damascus to welcome them, hugged Besso, wept like a child over his
sister, sat up the whole night on the terrace of their house smoking
his nargileh, and telling them all his secrets without the slightest
reserve: the most shameful actions of his career as well as the most
brilliant; and finally proposed to Besso to raise a loan for the
Lebanon, ostensibly to promote the cultivation of mulberries, really to
supply arms to the discontented population who were to make Fakredeen
and Eva sovereigns of the mountain. It will have been observed, that to
supply the partially disarmed tribes of the mountain with weapons was
still, though at intervals, the great project of Fakredeen, and to
obtain the result in his present destitution of resources involved
him in endless stratagems. His success would at the same time bind the
tribes, already well affected to him, with unalterable devotion to a
chief capable of such an undeniable act of sovereignty, and of course
render them proportionately more efficient instruments in accomplishing
his purpose. It was the interest of Fakredeen that the Lebanon should be
powerful and disturbed.

Besso, who had often befriended him, and who had frequently rescued
him from the usurers of Beiroot and Sidon, lent a cold ear to these
suggestions. The great merchant was not inclined again to embark in
a political career, or pass another three or four years away from his
Syrian palaces and gardens. He had seen the most powerful head that the
East had produced for a century, backed by vast means, and after having
apparently accomplished his purpose, ultimately recoil before the
superstitious fears of Christendom, lest any change in Syria should
precipitate the solution of the great Eastern problem. He could not
believe that it was reserved for Fakredeen to succeed in that which had
baffled Mehemet Ali.

Eva took the more sanguine view that becomes youth and woman. She had
faith in Fakredeen. Though his position was not as powerful as that of
the great viceroy, it was, in her opinion, more legitimate. He seemed
indicated as the natural ruler of the mountain. She had faith, too,
in his Arabian origin. With Eva, what is called society assumed the
character of a continual struggle between Asia and the North. She
dreaded the idea that, after having escaped the crusaders, Syria should
fall first under the protection, and then the colonisation of some
European power. A link was wanted in the chain of resistance which
connected the ranges of Caucasus with the Atlas. She idealised her
foster-brother into a hero, and saw his standard on Mount Lebanon, the
beacon of the oriental races, like the spear of Shami, or the pavilion
of Abd-el-Kader. Eva had often influenced her father for the advantage
of Fakredeen, but at last even Eva felt that she should sue in vain.

A year before, involved in difficulties which it seemed no combination
could control, and having nearly occasioned the occupation of Syria by
a united French and English force, Fakredeen burst out a-cry-ing like
a little boy, and came whimpering to Eva, as if somebody had broken his
toy or given him a beating. Then it was that Eva had obtained for him
a final assistance from her father, the condition being, that this
application should be the last.

Eva had given him jewels, had interested other members of her family
in his behalf, and effected for him a thousand services, which only
a kind-hearted and quick-witted woman could devise. While Fakredeen
plundered her without scruple and used her without remorse, he doted on
her; he held her intellect in absolute reverence; a word from her guided
him; a look of displeasure, and his heart ached. As long as he was under
the influence of her presence, he really had no will, scarcely an idea
of his own. He spoke only to elicit her feelings and opinions. He had a
superstition that she was born under a fortunate star, and that it
was fatal to go counter to her. But the moment he was away, he would
disobey, deceive, and, if necessary, betray her, loving her the same all
the time. But what was to be expected from one whose impressions were
equally quick and vivid, who felt so much for himself, and so much
for others, that his life seemed a perpetual re-action between intense
selfishness and morbid sensibility?

Had Fakredeen married Eva, the union might have given him some
steadiness of character, or at least its semblance. The young Emir had
greatly desired this alliance, not for the moral purpose that we have
intimated, not even from love of Eva, for he was totally insensible
to domestic joys, but because he wished to connect himself with great
capitalists, and hoped to gain the Lebanon loan for a dower. But this
alliance was quite out of the question. The hand of Eva was destined,
according to the custom of the family, for her cousin, the eldest son of
Besso of Aleppo. The engagement had been entered into while she was at
Vienna, and it was then agreed that the marriage should take place soon
after she had completed her eighteenth year. The ceremony was therefore
at hand; it was to occur within a few months.

Accustomed from an early period of life to the contemplation of this
union, it assumed in the eyes of Eva a character as natural as that of
birth or death. It never entered her head to ask herself whether she
liked or disliked it. It was one of those inevitable things of which we
are always conscious, yet of which we never think, like the years of our
life or the colour of our hair. Had her destiny been in her own hands,
it is probable that she would not have shared it with Fakredeen, for she
had never for an instant entertained the wish that there should be any
change in the relations which subsisted between them. According to the
custom of the country, it was to Besso that Fakredeen had expressed his
wishes and his hopes. The young Emir made liberal offers: his wife and
children might follow any religion they pleased; nay, he was even ready
to conform himself to any which they fixed upon. He attempted to
dazzle Besso with the prospect of a Hebrew Prince of the Mountains. 'My
daughter,' said the merchant, 'would certainly, under any circumstances,
marry one of her own faith; but we need not say another word about it;
she is betrothed, and has been engaged for some years, to her cousin.'

When Fakredeen, during his recent visit to Bethany, found that Eva,
notwithstanding her Bedouin blood, received his proposition for
kidnapping a young English nobleman with the utmost alarm and even
horror, he immediately relinquished it, diverted her mind from the
contemplation of a project on her disapproval of which, notwithstanding
his efforts at distraction, she seemed strangely to dwell, and finally
presented her with a new and more innocent scheme in which he required
her assistance. According to Fakredeen, his new English acquaintance
at Beiroot, whom he had before quoted, was ready to assist him in the
fulfilment of his contract, provided he could obtain sufficient time
from Scheriff Effendi; and what he wished Eva to do was personally to
request the Egyptian merchant to grant time for this indulgence. This
did not seem to Eva an unreasonable favour for her foster-brother
to obtain, though she could easily comprehend why his previous
irregularities might render him an unsuccessful suitor to his creditor.
Glad that it was still in her power in some degree to assist him, and
that his present project was at least a harmless one, Eva offered the
next day to repair to the city and see Scheriff Effendi on his business.
Pressing her hand to his heart, and saluting her with a thousand
endearing names, the Emir quitted the Rose of Sharon with the tears in
his grateful eyes.

Now the exact position of Fakredeen was this: he had induced the
Egyptian merchant to execute the contract for him by an assurance that
Besso would be his security for the venture, although the peculiar
nature of the transaction rendered it impossible for Besso, in his
present delicate position, personally to interfere in it. To keep up
appearances, Fakredeen, with his usual audacious craft, had appointed
Scheriff Effendi to meet him at Jerusalem, at the house of Besso, for
the completion of the contract; and accordingly, on the afternoon of the
day preceding his visit to Bethany, Fakredeen had arrived at Jerusalem
without money, and without credit, in order to purchase arms for a
province.

The greatness of the conjuncture, the delightful climate, his sanguine
temperament, combined, however, to sustain him. As he traversed his
delicious mountains, with their terraces of mulberries, and olives, and
vines, lounged occasionally for a short time at the towns on the coast,
and looked in at some of his creditors to chatter charming delusions,
or feel his way for a new combination most necessary at this moment,
his blood was quick and his brain creative; and although he had ridden
nearly two hundred miles when he arrived at the 'Holy City,' he was
fresh and full of faith that 'something would turn up.' His Egyptian
friend, awfully punctual, was the first figure that welcomed him as
he entered the divan of Besso, where the young Emir remained in the
position which we have described, smoking interminable nargilehs while
he revolved his affairs, until the conversation respecting the arrival
of Tancred roused him from his brooding meditation.

It was not difficult to avoid Scheriff Effendi for a while. The
following morning, Fakredeen passed half a dozen hours at the bath, and
then made his visit to Eva with the plot which had occurred to him the
night before at the divan, and which had been matured this day while
they were shampooing him. The moment that, baffled, he again arrived at
Jerusalem, he sought his Egyptian merchant, and thus addressed him: 'You
see, Effendi, that you must not talk on this business to Besso, nor can
Besso talk to you about it.'

'Good!' said the Effendi.

'But, if it be managed by another person to your satisfaction, it will
be as well.'

'One grain is like another.'

'It will be managed by another person to your satisfaction.'

'Good!'

'The Rose of Sharon is the same in this business as her father?'

'He is a ruby and she is a pearl.'

'The Rose of Sharon will see you to-morrow about this business.'

'Good!'

'The Rose of Sharon may ask you for time to settle everything; she
has to communicate with other places. You have heard of such a city as
Aleppo?'

'If Damascus be an eye, Aleppo is an ear.'

'Don't trouble the Rose of Sharon, Effendi, with any details if she
speaks to you; but be content with all she proposes. She will ask,
perhaps, for three months; women are nervous; they think robbers may
seize the money on its way, or the key of the chest may not be found
when it is wanted; you understand? Agree to what she proposes; but,
between ourselves, I will meet you at Gaza on the day of the new moon,
and it is finished.'

'Good.'

Faithful to her promise, at an early hour of the morrow, Eva, wrapped
in a huge and hooded Arab cloak, so that her form could not in the
slightest degree be traced, her face covered with a black Arab mask,
mounted her horse; her two female attendants, habited in the same
manner, followed their mistress; before whom marched her janissary
armed to the teeth, while four Arab grooms walked on each side of the
cavalcade. In this way, they entered Jerusalem by the gate of Sion, and
proceeded to the house of Besso. Fakredeen watched her arrival. He was
in due time summoned to her presence, where he learned the success of
her mission.

'Scheriff Effendi,' she said, 'has agreed to keep the arms for three
months, you paying the usual rate of interest on the money. This is but
just. May your new friend at Beiroot be more powerful than I am, and as
faithful!'

'Beautiful Rose of Sharon! who can be like you! You inspire me; you
always do. I feel persuaded that I shall get the money long before the
time has elapsed.' And, so saying, he bade her farewell, to return, as
he said, without loss of time to Beiroot.




CHAPTER XXIX.

_Capture of the New Crusader_

THE dawn was about to break in a cloudless sky, when Tancred,
accompanied by Baroni and two servants, all well armed and well mounted,
and by Hassan, a sheikh of the Jellaheen Bedouins, tall and grave, with
a long spear tufted with ostrich feathers in his hand, his musket slung
at his back, and a scimitar at his side, quitted Jerusalem by the gate
of Bethlehem.

If it were only to see the sun rise, or to become acquainted with nature
at hours excluded from the experience of civilisation, it were worth
while to be a traveller. There is something especially in the hour that
precedes a Syrian dawn, which invigorates the frame and elevates the
spirit. One cannot help fancying that angels may have been resting on
the mountain tops during the night, the air is so sweet and the earth
so still. Nor, when it wakes, does it wake to the maddening cares of
Europe. The beauty of a patriarchal repose still lingers about its
existence in spite of its degradation. Notwithstanding all they have
suffered during the European development, the manners of the Asiatic
races generally are more in harmony with nature than the complicated
conventionalisms which harass their fatal rival, and which have
increased in exact proportion as the Europeans have seceded from those
Arabian and Syrian creeds that redeemed them from their primitive
barbarism.

But the light breaks, the rising beam falls on the gazelles still
bounding on the hills of Judah, and gladdens the partridge which still
calls among the ravines, as it did in the days of the prophets. About
half-way between Jerusalem and Bethlehem, Tancred and his companions
halted at the tomb of Rachel: here awaited them a chosen band of twenty
stout Jellaheens, the subjects of Sheikh Hassan, their escort through
the wildernesses of Arabia Petraea. The fringed and ribbed kerchief of
the desert, which must be distinguished from the turban, and is woven
by their own women from the hair of the camel, covered the heads of the
Bedouins; a short white gown, also of home manufacture, and very rude,
with a belt of cords, completed, with slippers, their costume.

Each man bore a musket and a dagger.

It was Baroni who had made the arrangement with Sheikh Hassan. Baroni
had long known him as a brave and faithful Arab. In general, these
contracts with the Bedouins for convoy through the desert are made by
Franks through their respective consuls, but Tancred was not sorry to
be saved from the necessity of such an application, as it would have
excited the attention of Colonel Brace, who passed his life at the
British Consulate, and who probably would have thought it necessary to
put on the uniform of the Bellamont yeomanry cavalry, and have attended
the heir of Montacute to Mount Sinai. Tancred shuddered at the idea of
the presence of such a being at such a place, with his large ruddy face,
his swaggering, sweltering figure, his flourishing whiskers, and his fat
hands.

It was the fifth morn after the visit of Tancred to Bethany, of which
he had said nothing to Baroni, the only person at his command who could
afford or obtain any information as to the name and quality of her
with whom he had there so singularly become acquainted. He was far from
incurious on the subject; all that he had seen and all that he had heard
at Bethany greatly interested him. But the reserve which ever controlled
him, unless under the influence of great excitement, a reserve which was
the result of pride and not of caution, would probably have checked any
expression of his wishes on this head, even had he not been under the
influence of those feelings which now absorbed him. A human being,
animated by the hope, almost by the conviction, that a celestial
communication is impending over his destiny, moves in a supernal sphere,
which no earthly consideration can enter. The long musings of his voyage
had been succeeded on the part of Tancred, since his arrival in the
Holy Land, by one unbroken and impassioned reverie, heightened, not
disturbed, by frequent and solitary prayer, by habitual fasts, and by
those exciting conferences with Alonza Lara, in which he had struggled
to penetrate the great Asian mystery, reserved however, if indeed ever
expounded, for a longer initiation than had yet been proved by the son
of the English noble.

After a week of solitary preparation, during which he had interchanged
no word, and maintained an abstinence which might have rivalled an old
eremite of Engedi, Tancred had kneeled before that empty sepulchre of
the divine Prince of the house of David, for which his ancestor,
Tancred de Montacute, six hundred years before, had struggled with
those followers of Mahound, who, to the consternation and perplexity of
Christendom, continued to retain it. Christendom cares nothing for
that tomb now, has indeed forgotten its own name, and calls itself
enlightened Europe. But enlightened Europe is not happy. Its existence
is a fever, which it calls progress. Progress to what?

The youthful votary, during his vigils at the sacred tomb, had received
solace but not inspiration. No voice from heaven had yet sounded, but
his spirit was filled with the sanctity of the place, and he returned to
his cell to prepare for fresh pilgrimages.

One day, in conference with Lara, the Spanish Prior had let drop these
words: 'Sinai led to Calvary; it may be wise to trace your steps from
Calvary to Sinai.'

At this moment, Tancred and his escort are in sight of Bethlehem, with
the population of a village but the walls of a town, situate on an
eminence overlooking a valley, which seems fertile after passing the
stony plain of Rephaim. The first beams of the sun, too, were rising
from the mountains of Arabia and resting on the noble convent of the
Nativity.

From Bethlehem to Hebron, Canaan is still a land of milk and honey,
though not so rich and picturesque as in the great expanse of Palestine
to the north of the Holy City. The beauty and the abundance of the
promised land may still be found in Samaria and Galilee; in the
magnificent plains of Esdraelon, Zabulon, and Gennesareth; and ever by
the gushing waters of the bowery Jordan.

About an hour after leaving Bethlehem, in a secluded valley, is one of
the few remaining public works of the great Hebrew Kings, It is in every
respect worthy of them. I speak of those colossal reservoirs cut out
of the native rock and fed by a single spring, discharging their waters
into an aqueduct of perforated stone, which, until a comparatively
recent period, still conveyed them to Jerusalem. They are three in
number, of varying lengths from five to six hundred feet, and almost
as broad; their depth, still undiscovered. They communicate with each
other, so that the water of the uppermost reservoir, flowing through the
intermediate one, reached the third, which fed the aqueduct. They are
lined with a hard cement like that which coats the pyramids, and which
remains uninjured; and it appears that hanging gardens once surrounded
them. The Arabs still call these reservoirs the pools of Solomon, nor is
there any reason to doubt the tradition. Tradition, perhaps often more
faithful than written documents, is a sure and almost infallible guide
in the minds of the people where there has been no complicated variety
of historic incidents to confuse and break the chain of memory; where
their rare revolutions have consisted of an eruption once in a thousand
years into the cultivated world; where society has never been broken
up, but their domestic manners have remained the same; where, too, they
revere truth, and are rigid in its oral delivery, since that is their
only means of disseminating knowledge.

There is no reason to doubt that these reservoirs were the works
of Solomon. This secluded valley, then, was once the scene of his
imaginative and delicious life. Here were his pleasure gardens; these
slopes were covered with his fantastic terraces, and the high places
glittered with his pavilions. The fountain that supplied these treasured
waters was perhaps the 'sealed fountain,' to which he compared his
bride; and here was the garden palace where the charming Queen of Sheba
vainly expected to pose the wisdom of Israel, as she held at a distance
before the most dexterous of men the two garlands of flowers, alike in
form and colour, and asked the great king, before his trembling court,
to decide which of the wreaths was the real one.

They are gone, they are vanished, these deeds of beauty and these words
of wit! The bright and glorious gardens of the tiaraed poet and the
royal sage, that once echoed with his lyric voice, or with the startling
truths of his pregnant aphorisms, end in this wild and solitary valley,
in which with folded arms and musing eye of long abstraction, Tancred
halts in his ardent pilgrimage, nor can refrain from asking himself,
'Can it, then, be true that all is vanity?'

Why, what, is this desolation? Why are there no more kings whose words
are the treasured wisdom of countless ages, and the mention of whose
name to this moment thrills the heart of the Oriental, from the waves of
the midland ocean to the broad rivers of the farthest Ind? Why are there
no longer bright-witted queens to step out of their Arabian palaces
and pay visits to the gorgeous 'house of the forest of Lebanon,' or
to where Baalbec, or Tadmor in the wilderness, rose on those plains now
strewn with the superb relics of their inimitable magnificence?

And yet some flat-nosed Frank, full of bustle and puffed up with
self-conceit (a race spawned perhaps in the morasses of some Northern
forest hardly yet cleared), talks of Progress! Progress to what, and
from whence? Amid empires shrivelled into deserts, amid the wrecks of
great cities, a single column or obelisk of which nations import for
the prime ornament of their mud-built capitals, amid arts forgotten,
commerce annihilated, fragmentary literatures and populations destroyed,
the European talks of progress, because, by an ingenious application
of some scientific acquirements, he has established a society which has
mistaken comfort for civilisation.

The soft beam of the declining sun fell upon a serene landscape; gentle
undulations covered with rich shrubs or highly cultivated corn-fields
and olive groves; sometimes numerous flocks; and then vineyards
fortified with walls and with watch-towers, as in the time of David,
whose city Tancred was approaching. Hebron, too, was the home of the
great Sheikh Abraham; and the Arabs here possess his tomb, which no
Christian is permitted to visit. It is strange and touching, that the
children of Ishmael should have treated the name and memory of
the Sheikh Abraham with so much reverence and affection. But the
circumstance that he was the friend of Allah appears with them entirely
to have outweighed the recollection of his harsh treatment of their
great progenitor. Hebron has even lost with them its ancient Judaean
name, and they always call it, in honour of the tomb of the Sheikh, the
'City of a Friend.'

About an hour after Hebron, in a fair pasture, and near an olive grove,
Tancred pitched his tent, prepared on the morrow to quit the land of
promise, and approach that 'great and terrible wilderness where there
was no water.'

'The children of Israel,' as they were called according to the custom
then and now universally prevalent among the Arabian tribes (as, for
example, the Beni Kahtan, Beni Kelb, Beni Salem, Beni Sobh, Beni Ghamed,
Beni Seydan, Beni Ali, Beni Hateym, all adopting for their description
the name of their founder), the 'children of Israel' were originally a
tribe of Arabia Petrasa. Under the guidance of sheikhs of great ability,
they emerged from their stony wilderness and settled on the Syrian
border.

But they could not maintain themselves against the disciplined nations
of Palestine, and they fell back to their desert, which they found
intolerable. Like some of the Bedouin tribes of modern times in the
rocky wastes contiguous to the Red Sea, they were unable to resist the
temptations of the Egyptian cities; they left their free but distressful
wilderness, and became Fellaheen. The Pharaohs, however, made them pay
for their ready means of sustenance, as Mehemet Ali has made the Arabs
of our days who have quitted the desert to eat the harvests of the Nile.
They enslaved them, and worked them as beasts of burden. But this was
not to be long borne by a race whose chiefs in the early ages had
been favoured by Jehovah; the patriarch Emirs, who, issuing from
the Caucasian cradle of the great races, spread over the plains of
Mesopotamia, and disseminated their illustrious seed throughout the
Arabian wilderness. Their fiery imaginations brooded over the great
traditions of their tribe, and at length there arose among them one of
those men whose existence is an epoch in the history of human nature:
a great creative spirit and organising mind, in whom the faculties
of conception and of action are equally balanced and possessed in the
highest degree; in every respect a man of the complete Caucasian model,
and almost as perfect as Adam when he was just finished and placed in
Eden.

But Jehovah recognised in Moses a human instrument too rare merely to
be entrusted with the redemption of an Arabian tribe from a state of
Fellaheen to Bedouin existence. And, therefore, he was summoned to be
the organ of an eternal revelation of the Divine will, and his tribe
were appointed to be the hereditary ministers of that mighty and
mysterious dispensation.

It is to be noted, although the Omnipotent Creator might have found, had
it pleased him, in the humblest of his creations, an efficient agent
for his purpose, however difficult and sublime, that Divine Majesty has
never thought fit to communicate except with human beings of the very
highest powers. They are always men who have manifested an extraordinary
aptitude for great affairs, and the possession of a fervent and
commanding genius. They are great legislators, or great warriors, or
great poets, or orators of the most vehement and impassioned spirit.
Such were Moses, Joshua, the heroic youth of Hebron, and his magnificent
son; such, too, was Isaiah, a man, humanly speaking, not inferior to
Demosthenes, and struggling for a similar and as beautiful a cause,
the independence of a small state, eminent for its intellectual power,
against the barbarian grandeur of a military empire. All the great
things have been done by the little nations. It is the Jordan and the
Ilyssus that have civilised the modern races. An Arabian tribe, a clan
of the AEgean, have been the promulgators of all our knowledge; and
we should never have heard of the Pharaohs, of Babylon the great and
Nineveh the superb, of Cyrus and of Xerxes, had not it been for Athens
and Jerusalem.

Tancred rose with the sun from his encampment at Hebron, to traverse,
probably, the same route pursued by the spies when they entered the
Land of Promise. The transition from Canaan to the stony Arabia is
not abrupt. A range of hills separates Palestine from a high but level
country similar to the Syrian desert, sandy in some places, but covered
in all with grass and shrubs; a vast expanse of downs. Gradually the
herbage disappears, and the shrubs are only found tufting the ridgy tops
of low undulating sandhills. Soon the sand becomes stony, and no trace
of vegetation is ever visible excepting occasionally some thorny plant.
Then comes a land which alternates between plains of sand and dull
ranges of monotonous hills covered with loose flints; sometimes the
pilgrim winds his way through their dull ravines, sometimes he mounts
the heights and beholds a prospect of interminable desolation.

For three nights had Tancred encamped in this wilderness, halting at
some spot where they could find some desert shrubs that might serve as
food for the camels and fuel for themselves. His tent was soon pitched,
the night fires soon crackling, and himself seated at one with the
Sheikh and Baroni, he beheld with interest and amusement the picturesque
and flashing groups around him. Their fare was scant and simple: bread
baked upon the spot, the dried tongue of a gazelle, the coffee of the
neighbouring Mocha, and the pipe that ever consoles, if indeed the
traveller, whatever his hardships, could need any sustenance but his own
high thoughts in such a scene, canopied, too, by the most beautiful sky
and the most delicious climate in the world.

They were in the vicinity of Mount Seir; on the morrow they were to
commence the passage of the lofty range which stretches on to Sinai. The
Sheikh, who had a feud with a neighbouring tribe, and had been anxious
and vigilant while they crossed the open country, riding on with
an advanced guard before his charge, reconnoitring from sandhill to
sandhill, often creeping up and lying on his breast, so as not to be
visible to the enemy, congratulated Tancred that all imminent danger was
past.

'Not that I am afraid of them,' said Hassan, proudly; 'but we must kill
them or they will kill us.' Hassan, though Sheikh of his own immediate
family and followers, was dependent on the great Sheikh of the Jellaheen
tribe, and was bound to obey his commands in case the complete clan were
summoned to congregate in any particular part of the desert.

[Illustration: page2-083]

On the morrow they commenced their passage of the mountains, and, after
clearing several ranges found themselves two hours after noon in a
defile so strangely beautiful that to behold it would alone have
repaid all the exertions and perils of the expedition. It was formed
by precipitous rocks of a picturesque shape and of great height, and of
colours so brilliant and so blended that to imagine them you must fancy
the richest sunset you have ever witnessed, and that would be inferior,
from the inevitable defect of its fleeting character. Here the tints,
sometimes vivid, sometimes shadowed down, were always equally fair:
light blue heights, streaked, perhaps, with scarlet and shaded off
to lilac or purple; a cleft of bright orange; a broad peach-coloured
expanse, veined in delicate circles and wavy lines of exquisite grace;
sometimes yellow and purple stripes; sometimes an isolated steep of
every hue flaming in the sun, and then, like a young queen on a gorgeous
throne, from a vast rock of crimson, and gold rose a milk-white summit.
The frequent fissures of this defile were filled with rich woods of
oleander and shrubs of every shade of green, from which rose acacia, and
other trees unknown to Tancred. Over all this was a deep and cloudless
sky, and through it a path winding amid a natural shrubbery, which
princes would have built colossal conservatories to preserve.

''Tis a scene of enchantment that has risen to mock us in the middle of
the desert,' exclaimed the enraptured pilgrim; 'surely it must vanish
even as we gaze!'

About half-way up the defile, when they had traversed it for about a
quarter of an hour, Sheikh Hassan suddenly galloped forward and hurled
his spear with great force at an isolated crag, the base of which
was covered with oleanders, and then looking back he shouted to his
companions. Tancred and the foremost hurried up to him.

'Here are tracks of horses and camels that have entered the valley thus
far and not passed through it. They are fresh; let all be prepared.'

'We are twenty-five men well armed,' said Baroni. 'It is not the Tyahas
that will attack such a band.'

'Nor are they the Gherashi or the Mezeines,' said the Sheikh, 'for we
know what they are after, and we are brothers.'

'They must be Alouins,' said an Arab.

At this moment the little caravan was apparently land-locked, the
defile again winding; but presently it became quite straight, and its
termination was visible, though at a considerable distance.

'I see horsemen,' said the Sheikh; 'several of them advance; they are
not Alouins.'

He rode forward to meet them, accompanied by Tancred and Baroni.

'Salaam,' said the Sheikh, 'how is it?' and then he added, aside to
Baroni, 'They are strangers; why are they here?'

'Aleikoum! We know where you come from,' was the reply of one of the
horsemen. 'Is that the brother of the Queen of the English? Let him
ride with us, and you may go on in peace.'

'He is my brother,' said Sheikh Hassan, 'and the brother of all here.
There is no feud between us. Who are you?'

'We are children of Jethro, and the great Sheikh has sent us a long way
to give you salaam. Your desert here is not fit for the camel that your
Prophet cursed. Come, let us finish our business, for we wish to see a
place where there are palm trees.'

'Are these children of Eblis?' said Sheikh Hassan to Baroni.

'It is the day of judgment,' said Baroni, looking pale; 'such a thing
has not happened in my time. I am lost.'

'What do these people say?' inquired Tancred.

'There is but one God,' said Sheikh Hassan, whose men had now reached
him, 'and Mahomet is his Prophet. Stand aside, sons of Eblis, or you
shall bite the earth which curses you!'

A wild shout from every height of the defile was the answer. They looked
up, they looked round; the crest of every steep was covered with armed
Arabs, each man with his musket levelled.

'My lord,' said Baroni, 'there is something hidden in all this. This is
not an ordinary desert foray. You are known, and this tribe comes from a
distance to plunder you;' and then he rapidly detailed what had already
passed.

'What is your force, sons of Eblis?' said the Sheikh to the horsemen.

'Count your men, and your muskets, and your swords, and your horses, and
your camels; and if they were all double, they would not be our force.
Our great Sheikh would have come in person with ten thousand men, were
not your wilderness here fit only for Giaours.'

'Tell the young chief,' said the Sheikh to Baroni, 'that I am his
brother, and will shed the last drop of my blood in his service, as I am
bound to do, as much as he is bound to give me ten thousand piastres for
the journey, and ask him what he wishes.'

'Demand to know distinctly what these men want,' said Tancred to Baroni,
who then conferred with them.

'They want your lordship,' said Baroni, 'whom they call the brother
of the Queen of the English; their business is clearly to carry you to
their great Sheikh, who will release you for a large ransom.'

'And they have no feud with the Jellaheens?'

'None; they are strangers; they come from a distance for this purpose;
nor can it be doubted that this plan has been concocted at Jerusalem.'

'Our position, I fear, is fatal in this defile,' said Tancred; 'it
is bitter to be the cause of exposing so many brave men to almost
inevitable slaughter. Tell them, Baroni, that I am not the brother of
the Queen of the English; that they are ridiculously misled, and that
their aim is hopeless, for all that will be ransomed will be my corpse.'

Sheikh Hassan sat on his horse like a statue, with his spear in his hand
and his eye on his enemy; Baroni, advancing to the strange horsemen, who
were in position about ten yards from Tancred and his guardian, was soon
engaged in animated conversation. He did all that an able diplomatist
could effect; told lies with admirable grace, and made a hundred
propositions that did not commit his principal. He assured them very
heartily that Tancred was not the brother of the Queen of the English;
that he was only a young Sheikh, whose father was alive, and in
possession of all the flocks and herds, camels and horses; that he had
quarrelled with his father; that his father, perhaps, would not be sorry
if he were got rid of, and would not give a hundred piastres to save his
life. Then he offered, if he would let Tancred pass, himself to go with
them as prisoner to their great Sheikh, and even proposed Hassan and
half his men for additional hostages, whilst some just and equitable
arrangement could be effected. All, however, was in vain. The enemy had
no discretion; dead or alive, the young Englishman must be carried to
their chief.

'I can do nothing,' said Baroni, returning; 'there is something in all
this which I do not understand. It has never happened in my time.'

'There is, then, but one course to be taken,' said Tancred; 'we must
charge through the defile. At any rate we shall have the satisfaction of
dying like men. Let us each fix on our opponent. That audacious-looking
Arab in a red kefia shall be my victim, or my destroyer. Speak to the
Sheikh, and tell him to prepare his men. Freeman and Trueman,' said
Tancred, looking round to his English servants, 'we are in extreme
peril; I took you from your homes; if we outlive this day, and return to
Montacute, you shall live on your own land.'

'Never mind us, my lord: if it wern't for those rocks we would beat
these niggers.'

'Are you all ready?' said Tancred to Baroni.

'We are all ready.'

'Then I commend my soul to Jesus Christ, and to the God of Sinai, in
whose cause I perish.' So saying, Tancred shot the Arab in the red kefia
through the head, and with his remaining pistol disabled another of the
enemy. This he did, while he and his band were charging, so suddenly and
so boldly, that those immediately opposed to them were scattered. There
was a continuous volley, however, from every part of the defile, and the
scene was so involved in smoke that it was impossible for Tancred to see
a yard around him; still he galloped on and felt conscious that he had
companions, though the shouting was so great that it was impossible to
communicate. The smoke suddenly drifting, Tancred caught a glimpse of
his position; he was at the mouth of the defile, followed by several of
his men, whom he had not time to distinguish, and awaited by innumerable
foes.

'Let us sell our lives dearly!' was all that he could exclaim. His sword
fell from his wounded arm; his horse, stabbed underneath, sank with him
to the ground. He was overpowered and bound. 'Every drop of his blood,'
exclaimed the leader of the strange Arabs, 'is worth ten thousand
piastres.'




CHAPTER XXX.

_Plans for Rescue_

THERE is Besso?' said Barizy of the Tower, as the Consul Pasqualigo
entered the divan of the merchant, about ten days after the departure of
Tancred from Jerusalem for Mount Sinai.

'Where is Besso? I have already smoked two chibouques, and no one has
entered except yourself. I suppose you have heard the news?'

'Who has not? It is in every one's mouth.' 'What have you heard?' asked
Barizy of the Tower, with an air of malicious curiosity.

'Some things that everybody knows,' replied Pasqualigo, 'and some things
that nobody knows.'

'Hah, hah!' said Barizy of the Tower, pricking up his ears, and
preparing for one of those diplomatic encounters of mutual pumping,
in which he and his rival were practised. 'I suppose you have seen
somebody, eh?'

'Somebody has been seen,' replied Pasqualigo, and then he busied himself
with his pipe just arrived.

'But nobody has seen somebody who was on the spot?' said Barizy.

'It depends upon what you mean by the spot,' replied Pasqualigo.

'Your information is second-hand,' observed Barizy.

'But you acknowledge it is correct?' said Pasqualigo, more eagerly.

'It depends upon whether your friend was present----' and here Barizy
hesitated.

'It does,' said Pasqualigo.

'Then he was present?' said Barizy.

'He was.'

'Then he knows,' said Barizy, eagerly, 'whether the young English prince
was murdered intentionally or by hazard.'

'A--h,' said Pasqualigo, whom not the slightest rumour of the affair had
yet reached, 'that is a great question.'

'But everything depends upon it,' said Barizy. 'If he was killed
accidentally, there will be negotiations, but the business will
be compromised; the English want Cyprus, and they will take it as
compensation. If it is an affair of malice prepense, there will be war,
for the laws of England require war if blood royal be spilt.'

The Consul Pasqualigo looked very grave; then, withdrawing his lips for
a moment from his amber mouthpiece, he observed, 'It is a crisis.'

'It will be a crisis,' said Barizy of the Tower, excited by finding
his rival a listener, 'but not for a long time. The crisis has not
commenced. The first question is: to whom does the desert belong; to the
Porte, or to the Viceroy?'

'It depends upon what part of the desert is in question,' said
Pasqualigo.

'Of course the part where it took place. I say the Arabian desert
belongs to the Viceroy; my cousin, Barizy of the Gate, says "No, it
belongs to the Porte." Raphael Tafna says it belongs to neither. The
Bedouins are independent.'

'But they are not recognised,' said the Consul Pasqualigo. 'Without
a diplomatic existence, they are nullities. England will hold all the
recognise powers in the vicinity responsible. You will see! The murder
of an English prince, under such circumstances too, will not pass
unavenged. The whole of the Turkish garrison of the city will march out
directly into the desert.'

'The Arabs care shroff for your Turkish garrison of the city,' said
Barizy, with great derision.

'They are eight hundred strong,' said Pasqualigo.

'Eight hundred weak, you mean. No, as Raphael Tafna was saying, when
Mehemet. Ali was master, the tribes were quiet enough. But the Turks
could never manage the Arabs, even in their best days. If the Pasha of
Damascus were to go himself, the Bedouins would unveil his harem while
he was smoking his nargileh.'

'Then England will call upon the Egyptians,' said the Consul.

'Hah!' said Barizy of the Tower, 'have I got you at last? Now comes
your crisis, I grant you. The English will send a ship of war with a
protocol, and one of their lords who is a sailor: that is the way. They
will call upon the pasha to exterminate the tribe who have murdered the
brother of their queen; the pasha will reply, that when he was in Syria
the brothers of queens were never murdered, and put the protocol in his
turban. This will never satisfy Palmerston; he will order----'

'Palmerston has nothing to do with it,' screamed out Pasqualigo; 'he is
no longer Reis Effendi; he is in exile; he is governor of the Isle of
Wight.'

'Do you think I do not know that?' said Barizy of the Tower; 'but he
will be recalled for this purpose. The English will not go to war in
Syria without Palmerston. Palmerston will have the command of the fleet
as well as of the army, that no one shall say "No" when he says "Yes."
The English will not do the business of the Turks again for nothing.
They will take this city; they will keep it. They want a new market for
their cottons. Mark me: England will never be satisfied till the people
of Jerusalem wear calico turbans.'

Let us inquire also with Barizy of the Tower, where was Besso? Alone in
his private chamber, agitated and troubled, awaiting the return of
his daughter from the bath; and even now, the arrival may be heard of
herself and her attendants in the inner court.

'You want me, my father?' said Eva, as she entered. 'Ah! you ar